


The Lion and the Light

by mrsrockatansky



Series: The Flower of Ferelden [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Archdemons (Dragon Age), Darkspawn, Dragons, F/M, Fish out of Water, Friends to Lovers, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Mabari, Original Character(s), Rags to Riches, Slow Burn, Unlikely Hero, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2018-12-01 16:03:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 319
Words: 854,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11489856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsrockatansky/pseuds/mrsrockatansky
Summary: Florence Cousland, raised in obscurity ignorant of her heritage, was never meant to lead armies. As a healer with an unnaturally close relationship with the spirits; her sole desire was to escape the Circle and return to her beloved home, Herring. Fate, however, had other plans: a millennium after Andraste, another girl from a fishing village must unite an army and defend a nation.Featuring a hybrid of the Cousland-Amell backstories, and an extremely slow burn best-friends-to-lovers Alistair romance. Commissioned art on chapters marked with * !





	1. Origins*

Chapter One: Origins

The Mages' Circle tower stood on a remote island in the centre of Lake Calanhad. Accessible only by boat, it served the dual purpose of discouraging both visitors and potential fugitives alike. Vast and forbidding, six floors of Free Marches stone dominated the horizon, visible as far as Redcliffe Castle. Its architecture was neither skilful nor beautiful, but solid and imposing. There was no doubt to any onlookers that it was a prison as well as a fortress.

Grand Enchanter Irving had been in charge of this particular Mages' Circle for the past seventeen years. Wisely, he had cultivated a relationship of guarded civility with the resident Templar commander, Greagoir. By mutual understanding, the Templars guarding the tower allowed the mages within unprecedented freedom of activity and movement, and likewise the mages did nothing to jeopardise this extended trust. The Chantry military arm, despite remaining uneasy in the presence of the magic users, at least did not mistreat them.

One cool, crisp morning Irving and Greagoir were seated together in the First Enchanter's study; a surprisingly sparse office on the fifth floor of the tower. Although it lacked fine furnishings or rich fabrics, the study was crammed full of curiosities and oddities from every corner of Thedas. Despite having been in there most mornings for the past decade, it still made Greagoir a little uneasy.

"First day of Parvulis," commented Irving, pouring a silver vessel of tea into a hovering cup. Greagoir sniffed, his own cup remaining stubbornly on its saucer.

"What is it the Common folk call it?" continued Irving, glancing out of the leaded window at the watery sunlight reflecting off the lake water.

"Kingsway," replied Greagoir, shifting slightly on his seat, wanting to get the social part of the daily meeting out of the way. "So, what is the schedule for today?"

Irving smiled behind his grey beard, sensing the Templar's discomfort.

"What is disconcerting you this time, Greagoir? It can't be the skull, for I've turned it to face away. Is it the sight of so many books, all at once?"

Greagoir refused to rise to the subtle jibe, drawing his thick eyebrows together. His armour made a soft, metallic chink as he sat up straight in his seat.

"Evidence of blood magic was found over in Kirkwall," the soldier continued, fixing the Mage with an inscrutable stare. "Three men dead, and the Malificarum fled into the Marches."

Irving let out an imperceptible sigh. Every time there was an incident of this sort anywhere in Thedas, accusatory glances turned to the other Circles. He knew better than to try and protest, however.

"I'll ask Wynne to form an inquiry," he said, placating. "She's busy with research, but she can make time."

Greagoir gave a stiff nod. "I'll send the new lieutenant to accompany her. Cullen. Keep him from mooning around the apprentice quarters after that gluttonous girl."

Irving tapped his nails against the wooden table, thoughtfully. "And as for other business, what do we have? A delegation from the Chantry, no doubt asking for our help in translating some old scroll. Deliveries from Denerim, though of course you will know about that." Seeing as you search every package that comes through the iron gates.

"Ah, and another Harrowing," he finished, as it occurred to him. "Speaking of your lieutenant. It's the turn of that girl he has a fancy for. Let's see..."

He turned around, reached for a wooden box of record cards on a shelf behind him. Flicking through the neatly inscribed parchment, he paused, and nodded.

"Here we go: Flora Chastity Cove."

Greagoir nodded, vaguely recognising the name. Young Cullen had mentioned her over-casually in passing once or twice. She had an abundance of dark red hair and solemn grey eyes, often found sneaking out of the kitchens with food smuggled in her clothing. For a slender girl, she had the reputation of being a notorious glutton.

"Do you think she'll succeed?" he asked, recalling the unfortunate apprentice who had fallen prey to a demon the previous week, whom he'd had to slay on the spot. Irving shrugged, raising his eyebrows ruefully.

"Her parents, simple village folk, tried to hide her; she's only been a student here for four years. Maker knows if she's had enough training."

Greagoir shrugged, setting his cup back in the saucer with a clatter.

"We'll see tonight, at any rate."

* * *

 

 

Meanwhile, Flora Cove herself was blissfully unaware of the discussion taking place two stories beneath her. She was sitting on the Circle tower roof, shielded from the wind by a stone buttress, facing north across the Lake. Her legs dangled over the edge precipitously but she didn't appear to mind. Instead, she was drumming her feet absentmindedly against the stone as she squinted towards the shore, and further still to the dull grey ridge known as Glorfin's Spine.

The roof was the one place in the Circle Tower which was not under constant scrutiny by the Templar, and so far no one had caught her using the old maintenance stairway to access its lofty seclusion.

When she had arrived at Kinloch Hold four years earlier at the age of fifteen, Flora had been disconcerted by the constant, glowering presence of the Templars. Their unrelenting presence accompanied everything the apprentices did; daily chores or specialised training. At first Flora had felt their accusatory stares heavily; but they did not interfere with her in any way and so as the months slipped past they faded into the background of her life.

It was more the senior mages who had the capability to make the apprentices' lives a misery. Whether it was ordering them to perform mundane tasks or insisting that unnecessary chores be repeated; if a mage took a grudge against a particular apprentice it could cause far greater misery than a Templar's accusing stare.

Fortunately, Flora had managed to avoid the ire of any of the senior mages in her four years at the circle. Uninterested and thoroughly incapable of the more aggressive forms of magic, she had a rare gift for creation. Her remarkable skills as a healer were much in demand by the older students, although her instructors often grew frustrated at her apathy for the other schools.

"Do you think you can heal a demon to death?" a teacher had demanded angrily during the previous afternoon's tutoring. In response, Flora had shrugged apologetically, aware of the fact that that she was unable to conjure even a simple match-flame. The teacher had growled in frustration and sent her away; Flora had returned to her bunk eating a sandwich.

She recalled the teacher's scathing words once more and scowled. In an attempt to banish the memory, she dug in her pocket and retrieved a crumpled paper bag. Inside was an Orlesian sugar mouse, only slightly dented from the journey. This had been a payment for a senior student using her shielding services while experimenting with some new spell.

A nearby crow eyed her with interest as she held up the mouse, and she scowled at it.

"Go away!" she muttered, her words snatched by the wind. "This rodent isn't for _you."_

 

* * *

 

Below the unsuspecting Flora, preparations for her Harrowing ceremony were taking place. First Enchanter Irving and his senior aide Wynne were conferring beside the font, waiting for the alchemical reaction to take place.

"Maleficarum again," Wynne was saying irritably as she gave the mixture an anti-clockwise stir with a long-handled spoon. "Surely the Chantry have learnt by now that we despise blood magic as much as they do?"

Irving gave an eloquent shrug of his shoulders, watching the cloudy grey liquid simmer and broil in the stone vessel.

"I can understand their concern. Blood magic is a great threat to Thedas, and they must remain vigilant, whether we think it fair or not. Is it just the Cove girl tonight? I thought there was another apprentice of age."

Wynne nodded, adding two drops of Deathroot essence to the mixture. It hissed, then began to coalesce into a translucent silver.

"Just the girl. I am not confident in Jowan's ability to pass the Harrowing."

The master enchanter and his senior aide shared a mutual glance of understanding.

If he is not ready soon, the Templars will have to be told. The Ceremony of Tranquilisation is kinder than being thrown from the top of the tower.

"Will the girl pass?" asked Irving, watching the now clear liquid bubble in the stone font, despite lacking any clear source of heat. Wynne let out a sigh, placing a hand on the small of her aching back.

"I'm not sure, Irving. Her creation skills are quite astounding for an apprentice, but she has no affinity for offensive spells. It's remarkable how resistant she is to leaning anything from that field."

Irving sighed, conscious of the silent Templar standing six feet behind them, arms crossed, never permitting himself to lean back against the stone. An early seasonal rain drummed gently against the leaded windows, the sky a pallid grey.

"The Fade offers unique challenges," he said at last, fingering the heavy gold coin he always wore around his neck. "Perhaps it will test her differently."

"Maybe," replied Wynne, clearly unconvinced. "Or she'll heal herself to exhaustion, then the demons will take her."

Irving frowned, idly inspecting the contents of a pale blue vial of liquid.

"Don't damn her so quickly," he murmured, replacing the vial in the rack. He felt Wynne sigh, then pause. He could hear the hesitation hanging in the air between them, like a thick grey cloud.

Irving closed his eyes for a moment, then lowered himself into one of the comfortable armchairs that stood at the edge of the Harrowing circle.

"I know what you're going to ask me, Wynne," he said evenly, his eyes wandering to the vaulted ceiling. "Greagoir tells you all the details of my private correspondence."

The old woman stopped pacing the outer ring of the circle and peered at him, her gaze sceptical.

"What do you think?"

Irving made no reply, allowing apprehension to constrict his heart for a moment. The griffon seal on the Grey Warden's letter materialised at the forefront of his mind.

_By the old treaties, you are obligated to provide assistance when requested. There is a Blight coming. The darkspawn already seethe on the surface. It is only a matter of time before they swarm._

_Duncan, Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens._

"I hope he is being over cautious," the First Enchanter said after a few moments, leaning back in the armchair. His eyes drifted over the pedestal and chalice set up for that evening's Harrowing.

"The signs indicate that he is not," countered Wynne evenly, folding her arms across her scarlet robes of leadership. Irving sighed, mentally laid the letter to one side.

"He is coming tomorrow, so let us not brood on it now. There is nothing that can be done tonight."

Wynne shot him a glance that told him exactly what she thought of procrastination, but bowed her head obediently and headed for the stairwell. The Templar guarding the doorway stepped back with guarded respect to let her pass.

 

* * *

 

 

_"Blessed are those, fair lady, who feel the touch of your lips!"_

_The soldier looked up beseechingly, clinging to the ivy trellis beneath her balcony. Flora laughed, plucking an apple from a nearby bowl and holding it up._

_"Is this apple blessed then, because it has felt the touch of my lips? I am far more interested in this apple than you, anyway."_

 

"Stop lying around! _Get up!"_

Flora, somewhat confused, glanced over the balcony at the soldier, only to find out that her bulky mercenary's adoring expression had been replaced by Skaldia's scowl. The older apprentice was glowering up at her.

"Hurry up! We don't have all night."

Flora woke abruptly, sitting bolt upright in the narrow bottom bunk assigned to her in one of the apprentice dormitories. Skaldia was bending over her, clutching a flickering candle in a brass holster, looking disapproving as per usual.

"It's time, Cove," she hissed in an undertone, making a half-hearted attempt not to disturb the three other students currently snoring in the bunks. Flora stared up at the slender girl in shock for a moment, not fully comprehending the significance of her words.

"Time for what?" she asked stupidly, her words punctuated by a yawn. Skaldia raised her eyes to the stone ceiling, just as two Templar arrived in the doorway.

"Your Harrowing, idiot," she hissed, yanking off the blankets and pinching at the girl's arm to hasten her movements. Flora, clad in the simple linen nightwear assigned to all initiates regardless of gender, stumbled to her feet.

"It _can't_ be tonight!" she hissed at Skaldia as the older apprentice chivvied her towards the spiral staircase that wound between the different floors of the Tower.

"I still haven't learnt how to use primal magic!" Flora continued, panting slightly as she pleaded with Skaldia's unsympathetic back.

She could hear the metallic footsteps of the Templar escort behind them, falling into a conjoined rhythm. She realised with a small lurch of alarm that if she failed to complete her trial, one of these two men would execute her.

"You'd better hope you learn fast, then." Skaldia threw over her shoulder as they began to climb. For several moments the stairway was devoid of sound, save for the heavy metallic chink of boots against stone, and Skaldia's laboured breathing.

Flora, who was still in a state of mild shock, followed her numbly. The Harrowing trials were an unavoidable element of life at the Tower- apprentices were summoned to the top floor at least once a week. Some would return in exhausted triumph for a last night's rest with their former peers, before ascending to the initiate's floor the next morning.

Others did not return at all, and those who had cared for them needed to persuade the Templars who had been on duty that night to provide them with the full details. Inevitably, they had failed in their task and had been struck down as an abomination; or they had taken the unenviable but far safer route of agreeing to become a Tranquil. Those who underwent the Tranquillisation process were usually assigned drudge roles, in stock rooms or kitchens.

_"I'm not ready,"_ she bleated again at Skaldia's back, stumbling on one of the uneven stone steps. Skaldia cast a pitying look over her shoulder as she came to a halt before a pair of high wooden doors, the stone stairs ending abruptly.

"Good luck," she said, finally showing a glimmer of compassion and flashing the girl a wry smile. "Hopefully I'll see you in the morning."

She proceeded to knock smartly on the wooden door; before nudging Flora forward.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Artwork: By Slayers Angel on tumblr.


	2. A Harrowing

Chapter Two: A Harrowing

 

Flora almost fell through the doorway, stumbling over the threshold with a grunt. The room was brighter than the dim stairway, lit by several standing candelabras, and she took a moment to blink and regain her vision.

The Harrowing Chamber, the subject of much speculation by the apprentices, was smaller than they had envisioned. Circular and windowless, with a vaulted glass ceiling that displayed the heavens like a glorious mural, it was almost devoid of furniture. Only a pedestal stood in the centre of the stone flagstones, with several armchairs placed discreetly to one side. There had once been several paintings of legendary magisters on the walls, but these had been removed by the Templars to avoid inadvertently inspiring too much ambition.

The First Enchanter stood behind the pedestal, his fingers absentmindedly stroking his salt and pepper beard. He was clad in full regalia, despite the late hour. Beside him stood an older woman with white hair pulled back in a severe bun, whom Flora vaguely recognised from the third floor library. She felt the silent, immobile presence of the Templars behind her and stepped forward, bowing her head. Her heart thudded against her ribcage, fluttering like a trapped bird. She was worried that she might be sick.

Irving looked her over, curious. With two dozen apprentices currently residing in the Tower, this one had never caught his attention. She had typical Ferelden colouring; pale skinned with dark-red hair, hastily tied back in a thick, mid-length braid. She bore herself humbly, keeping her eyes lowered to the flagstones, shoulders hunched.

"Look at me, child," he said, curiosity getting the better of him. She raised her face to his and he inhaled, curiosity piqued. Her face was finely hewn, good breeding written across the high cheekbones, long nose and delicate jawline. It was not unusual to have children of noble birth sent to the Circle – it mattered not what class a mage was born into; they all had to submit themselves to a tower. But usually their families sent gifts, boons and patronage to ensure that life was made as comfortable as possible, within reason. Flora had received nothing, save for the occasional package of dried mackerel.

"I haven't heard of your family," he said after a moment, feeling a brief moment of pity for the girl; she was clearly terrified. "Are they originally from Ferelden?"

"My parents are from Herring," Flora whispered, her eyes drawn to the chalice of clear liquid sat on the cusp of the pedestal. "My dad's a fisherman."

Irving raised his eyebrows, but did not allow his response to go further than his mind.  _Probably some noble's bastard._

"Herring? It's unfamiliar to me."

"It's a small fishing village on the north coast, near Highever," interjected Wynne, helpfully. Flora nodded, mutely.

"Do you know what a Harrowing entails?" the First Enchanter asked suddenly, a note of steel running through his questioning. New initiates were officially forbidden from discussing the details of their Harrowing with apprentices; yet inevitably rumours and half-truths swirled among the bunks and study carrels of the lower floors.

Flora blinked, unsure whether she was being asked to implicate herself.

"I think- it's to do with the Fade," she said after a moment, feeling the keen stare of the white-haired woman on her. Irving nodded, gesturing for her to come closer. Flora edged towards him.

"I'm not your executioner, child." This was said with surprising patience. "Your success depends on you alone."

_That's what I'm worried about,_ thought Flora darkly, feeling her heart beating against her ribcage.  _It depends on me being able to do something which, up to this point, I haven't been able to do at all._

"Yes," replied Irving, lifting the chalice and dipping it into the pedestal basin, scooping up a half-measure of translucent silvery liquid. "When you sip from this, you will enter the Fade. A demon will try to claim you. You must defeat it."

The rumours and gossip had suggested as much, and this came as no surprise to Flora. She swallowed, reached forward and took the chalice. Cradling the silver stem reluctantly between her fingers, her eyes moved from Irving to the older woman behind him.

"Just a single sip," Wynne reminded her gently. "Any more and you might never wake up."

Flora glanced over her shoulder at the two Templar, standing either side of the doorway. She did not recognise them, and they kept their eyes angled away from her. Her own gaze was drawn to the steel shortswords that hung from their belts.

"There is always the option to undergo Tranquilisation, if you do not wish to undergo the Harrowing," continued Wynne, following Flora's glance. "Though it would be a shame, I have heard you are a skilled healer."

Flora, gaping at the prospect of not being able to savour food ever again, shook her head rapidly.

"Then don't keep an old woman up all night," the senior mage snapped irritably, narrowing pale blue eyes.

Flora raised the chalice and gulped down a sizeable amount of the pale liquid. It tasted very cold and slightly sour, and left a tingling aftertaste in her mouth.

A moment later she coughed, dropping the silver chalice on the floor. The waking world began to constrict, the candles flared brighter and the features of the First Enchanter elongated before her.

Less than ten seconds after she began to look unsteady on her feet, she fell to the flagstones with a thud, her hand flung out towards the feet of the Grand Enchanter.

Irving sighed, stooping to pick up the dropped chalice and replace it on the pedestal.

"She took rather a large gulp, did you not notice?" Wynne commented, retreating to one of the armchairs and lowering herself into it with a sigh. Irving followed her after a moment, watching the Templars move into position.

The two armed men flanked the slumped girl, hands on the hilts of their shortswords. If she awoke under the possession of a demon, they would kill her without hesitation. It was the reason why there was no carpeting to soften the inevitable slump into unconsciousness; flagstones could be washed clean of blood and gore. Only last week, Irving had watched a promising young apprentice die under the sword of Greagoir himself. Initiate Firthing had fallen victim to a Pride demon in the Fade, and had never awoken. Irving bore no resentment towards the Templar commander; it was a necessary danger inherent in their very existence – and no demon could be allowed to live in the waking world, even limited in the vessel of a mage.

* * *

 

_Flora awoke to the sound of an unnatural wind, hollow and thin. She opened her eyes, immediately recognising the ethereal world of the Fade. All mages were familiar with the alien landscape of craggy rocks and greenish sky; their dreams were spent probing the edges of the Veil, squinting through to see what lay behind. Far above her head an arcane storm raged, dark floating islands hovered miles away. On one of these the Maker himself was said to have once dwelled._

_Flora clambered to her feet, exhaling. It felt different to be here and conscious, her vision was almost lucid, the edges of her eyes only slightly blurred. She had no weapon or runic robes, but stood there barefoot in her baggy linen nightwear._

" _I could have at least dreamed up a staff," she said to herself, the sound echoing slightly._

" _Would a weapon be any help?" came a small voice from somewhere beside her left foot. Flora jumped, peered down at the ground. A small brown bird looked back up at her, dark-eyed and implacable._

_**Careful.** _

" _Hello," said Flora, suspiciously. The bird canted its head to one side._

" _You've just arrived, haven't you? Are you going to kill the rage demon?"_

" _A rage demon?" Flora paled slightly, glancing over her shoulder. "Is that what's here?"_

_The bird nodded. "I know where it is."_

_Flora crouched down, peered into the shiny dark eyes of the creature._

" _And who are you?" she asked, raising her voice as an arcane storm moved overhead._

" _I'm Sparrow," replied the creature._

" _Have you always been here?" Flora glanced over her shoulder anxiously as she spoke, half-expecting the rage demon to emerge from the rubble behind her._

" _I've lost count of the days," replied the bird, wistfully. "I've been trapped here since my own Harrowing."_

_Flora grimaced sympathetically._

" _Well, I have to kill the demon," she said, her brow furrowed. "Do you have any advice?"_

_The bird trembled. "It's very powerful," it replied, solemnly. "That's why I'm so small. It doesn't notice me."_

_Flora sighed, clambered to her feet. "You're not very helpful," she replied, glancing around._

_There were several branching pathways, each curling away out of sight through the craggy terrain. As a mage, she was not unfamiliar with the landscape of the Fade- but it had always been experienced through an unseen veil, and she had moved through it as an ethereal presence. The feeling of it solid and real, audible and sulphurous was not pleasant._

" _My trial is to kill the rage demon," Flora repeated, picking one of the paths at random and setting off with purpose. The bird fluttered behind her, barely able to keep up._

" _Which might be difficult because I didn't dream myself a weapon and I can't cast primal magic," she continued, grimly._

_The path shelved steeply down the side of a gravelly slope and she edged her way down, wishing that she had also dreamt herself some shoes._

" _I know some spirits who could help you," said the mouse, catching up as she edged down the uneven surface. Flora glanced down at him and shook her head._

" _I don't want help from the spirits," she said, carefully. "I need to do it alone."_

" _How do you expect to kill the demon_ alone?" _demanded the mouse, following her as she came to a rotten wooden bridge that traversed a precipitous chasm. Flora shrugged, edging over the precarious walkway, clutching the rope handles. She was reasonably confident that if she was going to die in the Fade, it would not be from plummeting to her death._

" _Let me help you," demanded the bird, it's voice deepening. Flora, having crossed the bridge, turned around to eye it._

_**Don't trust it.** _

" _I don't need your help," she repeated patiently, glancing around at the craggy rocks to determine where the path lay._

" _Why?"_

" _Because I don't want it," she said after a moment, raising her voice over the crackling of the arcane storm overhead. A note of suspicion entered her voice. "Why are you so insistent?"_

_The bird flickered for a moment, for a mere blink of an eye; but it was enough. Flora backed away, her own eyes widening._

" _You're not a bird," she breathed, feeling the rocky wall against her back. The bird flickered once more, then seemed to fade out of existence. Flora exhaled unsteadily, feeling her heart thudding against her ribcage._

_A moment later the demon materialised in its true form, as a monstrous wolf with prominent spikes protruding over its body. When it spoke, the words came out half-snarled, with an unnatural echo._

" _Why didn't you want my help? You might have survived this."_

_Flora felt beads of sweat forming on her forehead, her palms dampening as she clenched her fingers._

 

* * *

 

It had been barely three minutes since the young Cove girl had taken the draught. The stars edged across the sky as the deepest part of the night drew in. Irving sat in the armchair opposite Wynne, picking up an old tome on complex potion making. The white-haired woman was continuing to make notes on a slip of parchment, listing supplies that needed to be purchased in her small, careful handwriting. Irving had lost count of the nights they had spent sitting opposite each other, while a young mage lay on the flagstones between them.

"She's moving," said sharp-eyed Wynne suddenly, lowering her quill, her brow furrowing.

"It's too fast," muttered Irving, glancing at the hourglass on the stand beside him. "Three minutes. Stand ready."

The two Templar visibly tensed, unsheathing their swords. Standing only a few feet away, their job would be to strike the girl down if she had indeed become an abomination. Irving placed the book on a nearby table and watched Wynne as she rose to her feet.

The girl was definitely nearing consciousness now, her fingers twitching and her mouth moving silently. The junior Templar glanced at his commanding officer, who gave a slight nod. The younger man would be the one to perform the task.

Wynne, who had approached Flora carefully, lowered herself to her knees. She knew better than to get too close. Although demons who had recently passed through the Veil were initially weak, she had a pale scar on one cheek reminding her to be cautious.

"What's your name, child?" she asked, quiet and calm. The girl grimaced, then opened one eye tentatively. Wynne felt herself relax a fraction-  _no pale white stare_. The iris was a clear grey.

"Your name, mage!" demanded the younger Templar, and the older woman glowered at him.

_Inexperienced. Nervous. Watch him; make sure he doesn't get too overexcited, or quick with his blade._

Flora opened both eyes and squinted at Wynne. Although she was well aware of the procedure, it took her a moment to respond.

"Flora Chastity Cove," she whispered, her vision swimming. Wynne exhaled in relief, nodded at Irving. The Templars stepped back, sliding their shortswords back into their hilts. Irving smiled through his beard and rose to his feet.

"Congratulations, young one. You have successfully passed your Harrowing. In the morning, your possessions will be taken upstairs to your new quarters. Welcome, sister of the Circle."

Flora barely heard him, her body overcome by sudden and intense fatigue. The ceiling seemed to lurch above her and she squeezed her eyes shut, the voices fading in and out.

"She's exhausted."

"Take her back to the student bunks. Let her sleep it off."

The last memory that Flora had of the Harrowing chamber was of the junior Templar scowling down at her, fingers hovering on the hilt of his sword.

Moments later, Irving turned his attention from the lieutenant slinging the unconscious student over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

"If this Grey Warden does indeed come tomorrow, he may invoke the old treaties," he mused, leaning against the stuffed back of the armchair. Wynne, throwing one last glance towards the Templars, approached and sank down in the armchair opposite him. Although the cup of tea on the side table was stagnant, she downed it in several gulps.

"The Circle is obligated to offer assistance," she said after a moment, raising her eyes to the glass domed ceiling.

There was silence for several minutes, interrupted only by Irving's thoughtful tapping of fingers against the leather binding of his book.

"A Fifth Blight," he mused, following Wynne's stare up to the deceptively calm night. "Maker, have we not suffered enough?"

"Maker or no," replied Wynne dryly, stifling a yawn as a silent Tranquil began to clear away the Harrowing apparatus. "They shut us up in towers but they're quick enough to request our assistance in war."

From outside, distant and free in a way that a Circle Mage could never be, an owl hooted. The night seemed deceptively calm, the waters of Lake Calanhad lapping at the rocky shore. It was hard to imagine a seething horde surging up from the Deep Roads, hell bent on the destruction and domination of the surface world.

"I wonder how she overcame the demon," Wynne said suddenly, breaking the finely spun silence between them. Irving glanced at her, feeling a deep tiredness seeping through his brain.

"Eh?"

"The girl. She's a healer."

Irving shrugged as he pushed himself up from the armchair, fatigue gnawing at his bones.

"Many mages are."

"No, she  _only_ heals. I remember where I heard her name from, now. Her tutor told me: she's never successfully channelled primal magic."

Irving frowned, but his mind was occupied by thoughts of rest and recuperation.

"Perhaps under the circumstances she found that she was…capable," he replied, retrieving the staff that doubled as a walking stick.

"Hm." Wynne looked unconvinced.

"Get some sleep," he chided her over his shoulder, heading for his private quarters. "We have to do battle with the Grey Wardens tomorrow."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Poor Flora - I feel guilty unleashing her on the world as a one-trick pony, but there have to be mages out there who are only proficient at a certain school of magic. I enjoyed writing this chapter a lot as it reminded me of when I used to do music exams - I was always pretty lazy and didn't really prepare as much as I should have done. Then when it came to the morning of the exam, I used to get hit with major regret...
> 
> I also thought I would describe how I envision Flora here as otherwise it would make pretty clunky exposition in the story itself. Despite her greed, she has a slight frame, with little discernible curvature. She's a little less than average height, but not enough to be called 'short'. Her hair is long and unruly, very thick and a dark shade of brownish red. She often wears it bundled up at the side of her neck, or in an untidy braid. Her eyes are large, grey and solemn. She has a sweet, slightly bemused smile and pale skin. Freckles are dotted over her nose.


	3. The Maleficar

Chapter Three: The Maleficar

There were no windows in the apprentice bunkrooms; for the sole reason that new initiates to the tower often sought to escape. Although they were several metres up from the rocky terrain, it had been known in the past for desperate captives to leap from whatever orifices they could find, in last-ditch bids for freedom.

Finally, the First Enchanter had called in stonemasons from the shore and had the windows filled in, then covered with hanging tapestries. Apprentices were awoken either by the internal workings of their bodies, or by the irritated shouts of tutors and senior initiates.

The morning after her Harrowing, Flora however was roused by being jostled roughly. A hand was gripping her shoulder, a voice speaking urgently in her ear. She groaned, her body leaden and her mind clouded, then attempted to roll over and ignore the unwanted presence.

" _Flora! Flora, wake up!"_

Finally, she gave up the pretence of sleep and sat up in her lower bunk, dishevelled and yawning. Blinking to restore her blurred vision, she saw a dark-haired, moon-faced initiate hovering anxiously at her side. As usual, he was fiddling with the gold chain that hung around his neck, fingers rubbing compulsively over his family crest.

"Morning," Flora mumbled, the inside of her mouth and throat raw.

Jowan and Flora had been admitted to the Kinloch Hold at the same time, he a few years older than she. His parents, wealthy Orlesians distantly related to Empress Celene, had managed to evade the Templars for longer than most. An alliance of convenience had sprung up between the young aristocrat and the fisherman's daughter, both unused to confinement and the rigour of academic study.

Despite this, Flora was still somewhat surprised to see him at her bedside. For the past sixth months, Jowan had been increasingly distant, avoiding tutorials and ducking out of meals early. She had barely seen him for the past few weeks, only catching glimpses of a maroon-robed figure- he had plainly refused to wear the plain khaki initiate uniform- hurrying past her in corridors and passageways with a quick raised hand of greeting. He spent most of his time lurking around the small Tower Chantry – most believed that some divine vision had inspired this new piety.

Crueller whispers suggested that, as he approached his twenty third birthday with no sign of being ready for the Harrowing; he instead was preparing an escape route into the Chantry to avoid Tranquillisation.

"Flora," Jowan hissed, his pale face close to hers. "Did it happen last night?"

Flora pressed her thumbs into her eyes, the blankets tangled over her lap. She felt grubby and her fingertips were pink and tender to the touch.

_That only happens after I've cast too much,_ she thought to herself, wishing she could remember the events of the previous night.

"Yes," she replied, surprised at the hoarseness of her voice. "I passed."

Jowan's pupils constricted; he recoiled from her as if struck. Pacing the narrow space between the bunks, he shot her an incredulous glance.

"But you weren't  _ready!"_  he said after a moment, his voice high and outraged. "I'm far more proficient than you at primal magic!"

Flora swung her legs out of the bunk and rose somewhat unsteadily to her feet. Her limbs felt sore and stiff, as if she had run the length of the Kingsway.

"I don't know," she yawned, wandering over to the armoire and grimacing at her dishevelled reflection.

"And you're four years younger than me," he added, his upper class drawl tinged with alarm. Flora shrugged, dragging her fingers through the heavy strands of dark red hair in a vain effort to flatten them.

"Flora, stop staring at yourself and look at me!" Jowan demanded, a note of imperiousness creeping into his increasingly desperate voice. Flora turned around and stared at him, wide-eyed.

"I'm sure they'll call you soon," she replied soothingly. "Maybe they're going alphabetically. Cove before De Foix."

Jowan strode across the flagstones and gripped her by the shoulders. His face, pale and padded from years of over-indulgence, hovered inches from hers.

"Flora, don't you  _understand?_  I'm to be made Tranquil, I know it!"

She fell silent, brows drawing together as her grey eyes met his anxious dark ones. The sounds of other initiates talking in the passage filtered in distantly through the stone walls.

" _I'm_ to be made Tranquil," he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "After everything my family has done for this Tower. Paid for the new library. Sent those runestones. Maker, the First Enchanter attended my father's conciliar ceremony!"

Flora stared up at him, not knowing the right words to say. No Mage initiate was unaware of the Tranquil. They were an ubiquitous presence within the Tower, quiet and obedient, serving without question. Initiates too scared, or too incapable, to undergo their Harrowing had their connection to the Fade severed, at the cost of their own emotions. It was yet another cost of being unwittingly born a practitioner of magic, and a penalty all initiates were familiar with.

"I'm sorry, Jowan," Flora mumbled, wrestling ropes of hair into a loose braid. "I'm sure it'll happen soon."

"You don't understand!" Jowan retorted, his fingers digging into her shoulders. "You don't..."

He broke off, glanced over his shoulder at the ajar door behind him. Withdrawing, he strode to close it, then approached her. His eyes were wide and scared, like a rabbit who had just caught wind of a distant wolf, aware of danger but not yet able to see it.

"I've met a girl."

Flora gazed at him, edging out from where he had cornered her by the armoire. Romances between initiates were not uncommon, seeing as the majority were in late adolescence or their early twenties.

"Is it Letta? Methel?" she asked curiously, sitting on the edge of the bunk and peering up at him. He grimaced, running thick fingers through his oiled dark hair.

"It's a girl from the Chantry," he said at last, a hint of desperation in his voice. "Lily. We're…we're in love."

Flora gaped at him, understanding enough of Chantry politics to know that this was forbidden.

"Jowan!" she hissed at him, her eyes wide. "You know it's not allowed."

He glared down at her, angry and uncertain. The air was taut between them.

"I am  _aware_ , Flora! Yet it's happened."

Flora fell silent for a moment, twisting her fingers in her lap.

"What are you going to do?"

"We're going to run away," he replied, his eyes steely. Flora stared up at him, shaking her head.

"Jowan, you can't," she breathed, feeling her heartbeat thudding against her ribcage. "They'll hunt you down."

She was referring to the Templars, who maintained order in Feralden under the authority of King Caelan himself. Any Mages who fled the protective prison of a Circle were known as  _apostates,_ and were at risk of being killed on sight.

"I have no choice, Flora," Jowan said, his tone softening slightly. "I love Lily. She's going to flee the Chantry."

"Why are you telling me?" Flora gazed up at him, helplessly. He shook his head, glanced towards the door. Soon, senior students would be arriving to bring Flora's few possessions up to the apprentice quarters.

"I'm going tonight," he said, stiffly. "I just wanted to- let you know. In case I don't see you again."

Flora stared at him, twisting the end of her braid around her finger. They had formed an unlikely friendship, having spent a week travelling to the Calenhad tower in each other's company, escorted by unsmiling Templars.

The nineteen year old Jowan, whose parents had bribed the commander, was seated up front in the carriage. Flora, four years his junior and the unkempt child of villagers with no coin to spare, had been handcuffed in the wagon. The young noble had taken pity on her and bribed the Templars to bring her into the carriage.

Since then, they had maintained a strange but persistent connection – despite being assigned to different classes and bunkrooms. Their friendship became somewhat strained after two years, when Jowan confessed that he had fallen in love with her- which of course was untrue. It was a hasty and lust-fuelled declaration prompted by a pretty face; and their shared status as latecomers.

After she had gaped at him in bewilderment, he soon regretted his impulsive declaration and quickly assured her that a noble of his class could never be with the daughter of a fisherman.

Even with this oddness between them, Flora was still sorry to see him go. With his natural disinclination to do any work and her preference for eating rather than consuming occult texts, they had formed an unlikely alliance.

"You won't say anything, will you?" he asked her, his eyes searching her face as he silently reminded her of their shared history. Flora stared at him, her brow furrowed.

"I don't-," she began after a moment, then startled as someone approached in the passageway. Jowan drew back as a young woman clad in the plain brown garb of a Tranquil entered.

"Flora Cove," stated the girl, flatly. They both immediately recognised her as an initiate who had been deemed too weak to undergo the Harrowing, and had been taken for Tranquillisation several weeks prior.

"I am to bring your possessions to the upper floor. Please follow me."

As with all Tranquil, her tone was calm and even, her face devoid of any expression. Jowan shot Flora a significant look, nudging the woman roughly to one side as he left. The Tranquil showed no reaction, despite stumbling. Flora grimaced, rising to her feet.

"Thank you," she mumbled, scooping her carry bag from beneath the bunk. "I don't have much."

Flora dropped to her knees and reached beneath the bunk, retrieving several items of smuggled food and a hairbrush.

A tangle of clothing joined the pile, along with a small cameo painting set in a round frame. Flora scrambled upright and hastily shoved everything into the leather bag. The Tranquil reached for it, and Flora held up her hands to stop her.

"I don't mind carrying it!"

The Tranquil fixed her with a blank stare.

"I was instructed to bring up your possessions."

Flora stared for a moment, then smiled placatingly.

"Sorry," she breathed, her mind inadvertently resting on Jowan and the fate he was so sure was ordained for him. She hadn't yet decided whether she was impressed by his determination to live and love as he chose, or horrified at his defiance of the Circle and the Templars.

Despite it being her room since she had arrived, it had only taken a few minutes to pack away all signs of her four year occupation. The last thing she picked up was her staff, the conduit through which she channelled energy. It was a standard initiate staff, plain beechwood, and with the magic dampener welded on one end. This theoretically prevented any over-ambitious and under-trained initiate from blowing themselves up, although it was rather useless in Flora's case, as she was unable to conjure even a single spark.

As she followed the Tranquil's brisk, purposeful stride down the corridor, Flora glanced into the practise rooms and study carrels that branched off the main circular corridor. Several other apprentices came to wave her goodbye, mixed stares of envy and regret at her departure. Flora had been much valued for her preternatural healing ability, even if they derided her non-existent offensive talent and lack of interest in developing it.

Furthermore, although Circle society was ostensibly casteless, there was an unofficial but widely understood hierarchy. Those who had come from noble families retained their sense of entitlement and desire to dominate. Flora Cove, coming from a nondescript peasantry, was at the bottom of the pecking order. Out of the noble initiates, only Jowan had deigned to speak civilly to her.

Now these same young nobles eyed her with jealousy as they watched her being escorted to the hallowed halls of the Harrowed. She could hear them whispering, incredulous and glowering, as they lurked at doorways.

"How could  _she_  have passed? She couldn't light a  _candle_."

"She obviously made some sort of deal with the demon. They should keep an eye on her. She could be an abomination in secret."

"Well, that's ended the afternoon's plans. How can we practise duelling now without our barrier mage?"

"We could get Mirenne. She's not as good, but with no Cove…"

Flora ignored the muffled whispers, used to being the target of veiled insults and snide comments. She followed the Tranquil to the main staircase, guarded as always by two Templar. One of them was the young blond one who always blushed in her presence. She smiled at him politely, and as if on cue, he reddened and glanced down at the flagstones.

The elder Templar rolled his eyes and stood to one side, granting them access to the upper section of the Tower.

Flora, who had bypassed the fourth and fifth floors of the tower on her way to the Harrowing chamber, gazed around in awe. The mage floors were far more finely decorated than the initiate quarters; the flagstones covered with woven rugs, the individual rooms containing two beds rather than four. The libraries, from what she could see as they passed, were far larger and well-stocked.

The mages they encountered in the corridor looked straight through the Tranquil, but shot Flora curious looks. News of one initiate's unusual gift at creation had filtered upwards to their floor; they recalled that the girl that they had heard rumours about had dark red hair. They gazed at Flora, with her thick, burgundy hair caught untidily in a braid at the side of her head, and wondered.

"Your room," announced the Tranquil without ceremony, pushing open a wooden door at the end of an identical row. Flora followed her with some trepidation, into a small, stone-walled room with two parallel beds. A desk overflowing with parchment and writing supplies stood to one side.

"Who am I sharing with?" asked Flora, watching the woman carefully deposit the battered leather bag onto one of the beds. The Tranquil paused for a moment before responding.

"Arnette Amell."

"Is she nice?" asked Flora plaintively, sitting down on the edge of the bed, subconsciously registering how comfortable it was compared to the apprentice bunks. The Tranquil made a note on a roll of parchment, then blinked at her.

"I do not know."

Flora nodded, gazing around the room. She saw the woman turning to leave and called after her.

"Thank you!"

Naturally, the woman made no indication that she had heard. Flora watched her go, leaving the door slightly ajar.

The upper floors had a different feel to them, she thought, lying back on the bed and listening. There was a heavy, studious feel to them, a sense of ambition and intellectual elitism.

_These floors are filled with people who have all defeated demons,_ Flora thought to herself, somewhat apprehensively.  _And speaking of that, have you remembered yet exactly how you defeated the demon? Are you so sure you aren't an abomination?_

Flora lay there for a few moments more, brooding over this ominous possibility. Then she heard movement in the corridor, muffled voices and some consternation.

"Grey Wardens,  _here!"_

"What do they want?"

Flora had vaguely heard of the term Grey Warden before, but not for a long time. Her parents had always lived in the tiny fishing village of Herring, and their view of the world was very small. Until Flora had been taken to the Circle Tower on Lake Calanhad, she had never been far enough from the sea to lose sight of it.

She sat upright and crept over to the doorway, peering around the edge of the wooden door. Two mages stood there, both in their early thirties, one clad in the scarlet garb of an instructor. They were talking hurriedly, heads bent close beneath a painting of the Divine Beatrix III. Flora sidled closer, straining to hear.

"What if they invoke the old treaties?" asked the woman, her dark eyebrows furrowing together. "They could conscript whoever they wanted!"

"The First Enchanter would not permit them to take the unwilling," replied the man, in a tone he clearly intended to be soothing. However, this only served to aggravate her more. She paced the width of the corridor, smacked her hand impatiently against the side of a stone pedestal.

"Irving is under the thumb of Greagoir, Niall" she hissed back, her dark eyes flashing. "And he is a Templar, therefore he does not care for our wellbeing. He would willingly sacrifice a mage to the darkspawn!"

She turned and saw Flora hovering in the doorway.

"Who are you?" she demanded, while Flora froze as if struck by paralysis.

"Flora," Flora breathed, horrified at being caught blatantly eavesdropping. The woman narrowed her eyes.

"Flora  _who_?"

"Flora Cove."

Having established that Flora was not part of any esteemed family, the woman was now able to deride her freely.

"Well, little Flora, are you a trespasser from below? Do we need to throw you from the window to return you there?"

Flora gaped, her eyes widening as she shook her head.

"Um" she whispered, feeling a hot flush creeping over her cheeks. "I passed my Harrowing last night."

"Then why are you still in the clothes of an initiate?"

"Oh," said Flora stupidly, looking down at her brown tunic. "I don't know."

"Go and change," commanded Niall, in a slightly kinder tone. "The idiotic Templar may not be able to comprehend your excuses and drag you back down."

Hoping that the woman wasn't Arnette, Flora retreated back inside the room and shut the door, grimly. As her eyes settled on a discrete armoire tucked away in one corner, she found herself missing the familiarity and bustle of the apprentice dormitory. She had not been much liked by the other initiates – they scorned her lack of ambition and referred to her as  _the Vase_ : nice to look at, but vacuous inside. However they had valued her natural talent at creation magic, and treated her with a grudging respect.

_Is this to be my home for the rest of my life?_

The thought filled her with gloom and she gritted her teeth, pulling open the drawer of the armoire. Navy linen garments lay folded within, freshly laundered and utilitarian.

Still brooding, Flora changed into the tunic coat, pulling her boots back on over the leggings. The fabric felt stiff and unfamiliar; she gazed at her discarded cotton initiate garb with some regret. The midday sun filtered weakly through the blanket of cloud that always hung over Lake Calanhad like a bridal veil.

Not wanting to tarnish her reputation any further, Flora hid her smuggled food underneath the bed and made an attempt to smooth down the stray strands of hair. Normally at this time she would be in the library or the practise chambers, sitting on the edge of a prominent table or leaning against the doorway, silently advertising that her creation talents for hire.

_It wasn't as if she took coin for her skill,_ she thought somewhat defensively, peering out into the corridor to ensure that the two mages had gone.

They'd had an understanding on the lower floors. She would provide her unrivalled skills at creation magic, shielding them as they flung half-baked spells at one another; and at the end of the month, there would always be a parcel for her- containing Orlesian sugared fruit, spiced biscuits from Antiva, or some other exotic foodstuff.

The Templars naturally knew all about it since they searched every incoming package; yet they said nothing – clearly, illicit sugar mice were viewed as preferable to magical codexes. It was a system refined over her four years of residency at the Tower.

However, the mage quarters were an unknown quantity, and she did not feel as though she had made the best first impression. Feeling another wave of exhaustion roll over her, she decided to rest for a while. Lying down on the bed, tucking the brown cotton tunic beneath her head, she fell to dreaming.

 

* * *

 

There were few guests whom the First Enchanter would personally greet at the door, but a Grey Warden was one of them. First Enchanter Irving, arthritis gnawing at his knees as he followed shortly after Wynne, felt trepidation rising with every step descended. The Templars guarding each floor eyed him warily, unused to seeing the First Enchanter out of the upper quarters.

Finally, he reached the entrance hall, with its crude iron cage and spell-guarded double doors. He could see two men standing beside the fireplace, the only one in the Tower which burnt natural wood rather than primal magic. It was a concession to those guests who were uncomfortable with the whole business of the arcane.

Irving cast an appraising eye over the Wardens. Both were clad in the distinctive grey tunics of their ancient order, but the elder was more decorated, his armour covered in filigree. Appearing midway through his fifties, with the tanned colouring of a Rivaini, his eyes were deep set and lined. Dark hair was caught back into a short ponytail, and he carried himself with solemnity and purpose.

"Ser Duncan." The First Enchanter made an educated guess, and was rewarded by the elder's tight nod. "We at Kinloch Hold are honoured to welcome the Warden-Commander of Ferelden."

Duncan bowed his head in greeting. "Pleased to meet you, First Enchanter."

"Can we offer you anything to eat or drink? Some tea?" offered Wynne from beside him, with the distracted tone she used when her mind was working like lightning.

"Damn, if I'd known this was a  _social_  visit, I would have brought my less dirty uniform!"

Irving felt Wynne bristle beside him, and turned his gaze on the junior Warden. He appeared to be in his early twenties, with an arrogant, handsome face, clear hazel eyes and short, dirty blond hair.

"Alistair." The Warden-Commander shot a warning stare over his shoulder. "No need for the lip."

Irving returned his gaze to the senior Warden. "Shall we discuss this further in my office? It is a little more…discreet."

Duncan nodded his assent, and the strange party – two mages, and a pair of Grey Wardens- slowly made the climb back up the winding staircase. They were mostly silent, except for Alistair, who was bringing up the rear.

"Ah, how I'd missed climbing hundreds of Tower steps every day," he remarked, sarcastically. "Really, I don't know why I left the Templars."

"Because I conscripted you," shot back Duncan, who was climbing the stairs with ease despite his beard being shot through with grey.

"Ah yes, there  _was_  that," replied the younger Warden without missing a beat. "Those at the Jainen Circle still send me fan mail."

After they reached Irving's office, they were seated in armchairs and served tea by a silent Tranquil. Several minutes later they were joined by a red-faced Greagoir, who had hurried up all six flights of steps in full armour.

"Take some tea, Greagoir," urged Irving, offering him a small cup. "And a moment to rest."

"I'm fine," glowered back the grey-haired man, clearly ill at ease. There was an ancient enmity between the Templars and the Grey Wardens. The Templars were resentful that the Wardens had the legal right to pluck the best candidates from their ranks; while the Wardens resented the Templars' reluctance to offer assistance in times of crisis.

"I don't know how much you know," began Duncan, placing his barely-touched tea to one side and leaning forward. "But there  _is_  a Blight. The Darkspawn are surging from the tunnels once more."

"They've always come out from the Deep Roads," interrupted Greagoir irritably, scratching the side of his head and eyeing the phylactery shelf with mistrust. "Why's this time any different?"

"Well, possibly because this time there's an  _Archdemon_ commanding them," interjected Alistair, wryly. Wynne let out a half-gasp of surprise and dismay, her gaze flickering to Irving.

Duncan nodded, his ink-black Rivaini eyes boring into the First Enchanter's own.

"It is true, though I wish it were not so," he said, quietly. "Our forces are with King Cailan at Ostagar. We have already repelled two offensives this month, and I fear we will not be able to hold the fortress if they make a third. Not without help."

"The King is there?" asked Greagoir, his bristled eyebrows rising in surprise. "Is that wise?"

"The King is more of a fool than me, and that's saying something," remarked Alistair with a shrug. Duncan sighed and nodded in confirmation.

"It is true. The King…wishes for personal glory, in addition to defending his realm."

"He  _is_ a fool," commented Wynne with a small frown, nudging the embers with her staff to coax the arcane flames higher.

Greagoir watched her do this with a small grimace.

"He has not yet got an heir upon Anora and he wishes to throw his life away? He will leave the kingdom in chaos before the Darkspawn even get the chance!"

Alistair grimaced, glancing into the artificial flames and shifting slightly in his chair. Duncan shook his head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

"Regardless, we need to recruit. And a good mage is worth thirty men."

Irving sighed heavily, glancing at Wynne. The Grey Wardens had the legal right to conscript, recognised over Thedas; they could not resist the Commander's request.

"Let us discuss our possibilities," he said, spreading his gnarled fingers over the walnut tabletop.

When Flora woke up, her stomach was rumbling. It was fortunate that her body burnt up food rapidly while using magic, since she loved to eat and engaged in active consumption more than she probably should. Clambering to her feet, she headed to the door, wondering at the whereabouts of the still absent Arnette.

Wandering down the passage, which was far quieter than its lower counterpart, she decided to try and find some dinner. Occasionally young mages, clustering around their instructors, moved past but paid her no heed.

The libraries here seemed far larger, the shelving taller and the books older. Even the passageway itself seemed longer, even though logic dictated it should follow the same geometric circle as the floor below.

Finally arriving at the central circular chamber, she almost collided with a tall, balding man in his middle years.

"Oh!" she squawked, stepping back hastily. "I'm sorry."

"It is fine." The man spoke with the placid neutrality that indicated he was also Tranquil. He was standing in front of a partitioned off section of the chamber, guarded by an iron grille. Through the bars, floor-to-ceiling shelving strained under the weight of boxes and phials.

"What's here?" asked Flora, somewhat plaintively, peering past the tall man into the guarded room. "Is this the kitchen?"

The man shook his head, neutral smile persisting.

"This is the stockroom, where you may obtain supplies and make orders. I am Owain."

"I'm Flora," Flora replied, her shoulders slumping. "I've just moved up here."

"I see," commented Owain, polite and incapable of interest. Flora glanced up at him, guardedly.

"Do you have  _any_  food?"

"The pantry is that way." He raised a finger, face blank.

"Oh!"

In the First Enchanter's office, negotiations had stalled. Irving had suggested three candidates, Wynne had argued against two of them and Duncan had not wanted an untrained apprentice. Greagoir, unable to contribute but not willing to leave the discussion, sat glowering in one corner.

Duncan and Irving were bent over the thick ledger that contained details of all current mages, along with meticulous notes on their skills and aptitude. Alistair was inspecting the contents of a shelf, his eyebrows occasionally rising to his hairline.

"First Enchanter!" A young woman dressed in the robes of a Chantry sister flung herself over the threshold of the office. Greagoir rose to his feet, drawing his sword reflexively. Irving also stood, alongside Wynne and Duncan.

"What's wrong, Sister Marguerite?" Wynne stared at the woman, feeling cold fingers of alarm creep around her throat. The woman was wild-eyed, her face pallid.

"One of our Chantry priestesses is with a mage initiate! They're trying to escape the Tower together."

Greagoir shot a glance at Irving, who groaned and raised a hand to his head.

"Excuse me, Knight-Commander," he said, reaching for his staff as he made his way towards the exit. "One does have to handle this type of thing occasionally."

"Ah, young love," commented Alistair, folding his arms and glancing over at Duncan. The Knight-Commander frowned, then gestured for them to follow the old mage out of the office.

The First Enchanter, urgency lending him haste, led the group down the winding staircase. As misfortune would have it, many of the Templar guards were in the external courtyard overseeing a gaggle of new recruits. Greagoir was close at the older man's heels, adrenaline coursing through his veins at the thought of a possible fugitive.  _Another apostate to be hunted down._

There was shouting from the floor below, the noise drifted up to them even as they hurried down the winding stone staircase. It was the voice of a young man, noble born, angry and desperate. A woman was crying, nearly hysterical with fear.

The Templar standing on guard at the fourth floor- Irving recognised him as Greagoir's young lieutenant- shoved open the door for them, his own sword drawn. The scene in the circular lobby could have been drawn straight from an Orlesian play.

A young apprentice, maroon robes stretched over a well-fed stomach, was panting hard beside the stockroom entrance. Beside him, a Chantry sister dressed in a long travel cape was sobbing, her hands over her face. The man's face was reddened and furious, although he wielded no staff. Hovering in the entrance to the stockroom was the Tranquil quartermaster, his face impassive.

" _I will not become Tranquil! I love her!"_  the young man shouted, spittle flying from his lips, in Irving's direction. Wynne held out her hands placatingly.

"Let's all calm down and discuss this civilly," she called across the circular hall, aware of Greagoir's eager fingers twitching on his pommel beside her.

"Jowan, it's too late! We have to give up," called the girl, sinking to her knees in supplication. "I'm so sorry!"

" _No, Lily!_ " hissed the mage apprentice, an ugly snarl transforming his face into pure malevolence. "They can't keep me here anymore!"

Duncan glanced at Alistair; the two Wardens stepped forward to flank Irving. The mage's head spun back and forth between them, his pupils dilating in panic. He reached inside his robes and Greagoir let out a shout of warning.

Time seemed to stop still for a moment. Then events jumbled together, cascading into one another so that afterwards, no one could say if anything could have been done to prevent it.

The mage initiate withdrew a dagger from his robes, the metal flashing like sunlight off the lake water. He brought it down, fast as a sweeping bird, and sliced off the ear of the Chantry priestess. She shrieked and clapped a hand to the side of her head, blood surging from between her fingers.

" _MALEFICAR!"_ roared Greagoir, drawing his sword.

"What have you done?" breathed Wynne in shock and horror, raising her own staff alongside Irving.

The young mage made a desperate gesture. Immediately, all organic compounds in the room fractured into splinters. Both Enchanters felt their staves disintegrate beneath their fingers, the two wooden doors shattered like ice. The shelves in the stockroom split in two, their contents crashing to the stone floor. Irving let out a cry of pain; Greagoir found himself rooted to the stone floor. He roared in futile rage, straining against the magical paralysis. Wynne had hurried to the injured priestess, helping the wailing woman away.

Simultaneously, someone who had clearly been eavesdropping against the now-non-existent door fell into the room. It was a slender girl with dark red hair, sprawling onto her back with a half-eaten loaf of bread in her hand and a confused expression on her face.

Alistair started forwards but Duncan thrust an arm forward, stopping him.

"Hold," he muttered, dark eyes focused on the desperate mage. "He may not have exhausted the supply."

Flora looked up, then scrambled to her feet, still clutching the loaf of bread. Her grey eyes widened in confusion.

" _Jowan?"_

She gaped at him as he turned desperate eyes on her, the whites a blazing scarlet. She inhaled in shock; her mouth dropping open.

"What are you  _doing_?!" she breathed in horror, taking in the destruction and the impotent rage of the Templar commander. She barely registered the two other men in the room, focused wholly on her panting friend.

"Apprentice, paralyse him!" gasped Irving, who was doubled over in pain.

"She's only a junior!" retorted his senior enchanter, using a wad of parchment to stem the blood flow from Lily's severed ear. Irving glanced around frantically, his eyes focusing on the Tranquil.

"Owain! Stop him!"

"Irving, he's  _defenceless!_ " began Wynne, but it was too late. Bound to obey without question, Owain moved to intercept the mage's desperate flight. Jowan raised the dagger, the Tranquil stepped forward with arms raised; the blade plunged into the Tranquil's chest. Owain collapsed back, wide-eyed, grimacing in silent pain.

The blood mage raised the dagger once more, and then the girl with unruly dark red hair had somehow interjected herself between them, holding up her hands, wide-eyed.

"Stooop!"

Abruptly Jowan withdrew the dagger, staring at her.

"Fiona,  _get back!_!" hissed Wynne, noticing that the girl had no staff or means to defend herself. Irving groaned and shook his head.

"Foolish girl!"

Flora gaped at Jowan, who was panting before her, almost unrecognisable. The soft curves of his face had sharpened, his eyes were a tainted scarlet. His fingers tightened on the hilt of the dagger.

"You're making a mistake, Jowan," she hissed, her eyes pleading with him.

"Step aside, Flora," Jowan murmured, a strange tone to his voice. "I need blood sacrifice to escape here. It's the only way."

Flora shook her head desperately, still clutching the loaf of bread.

"Can't we just talk about this?"

"He's just a Tranquil," Jowan replied, his lip curling. "Now get out of my way or I swear by the Maker, Flora, I will take it from you instead."

He raised the dagger once more, raised the pointed tip towards her breast.

Duncan glanced sideways at the impatiently shifting Alistair and nodded; the two men made ready to move forward.

" _Get back, Fiona!"_  hissed Wynne, as Flora held out her hands pleadingly.

"Jowan, don't..!"

Before she could finish, the desperate man, gritting his teeth, thrust the dagger forwards. Wynne inhaled in horror, the two Wardens drew their swords as they crossed the room-

A glittering golden web emerged from Flora's fingertips, streams of light refracting from the floor and ceiling, forming a barrier between her and the mage's dagger. The tip of the blade pressed against the glowing filigreed cage, which bent inwards but did not break. Behind her, Owain huddled on the floor of the stockroom, making a guttural cough. Flora braced herself against a stone pillar, both hands trembling with effort, a scowl on her face.

Wynne and Irving shared a single glance of astonishment; while Duncan, losing his patience, let out a great roar and drew his sword.

"Step away, Mage!" he ordered, in the resounding tone that commanded armies. Jowan made a last desperate attempt to penetrate the barrier, thrusting his weight against it with a snarl. Flora cringed but kept her hands up, straining to maintain the energy channelling from her fingertips.

Jowan gave a cry of despair, recoiled from her and raised the dagger once more. Seeing Duncan charging towards him, he sunk the dagger straight through his own hand with a howl of pain. There was a surge of blackened blood and then he had vanished, leaving only the metallic dagger behind on the flagstones. Immediately the enchantments he had cast broke; as soon as Greagoir was able to move, he burst from the room, yelling for a Maleficarum hunt.

Flora lowered her hands, exhaling unsteadily. The barrier immediately collapsed into a shower of golden sparks, which faded from existence before they reached the flagstones.

Irving, cursing under his breath, went to Lily's side and began to hiss questions at her. Wynne attempted to deflect them, still staunching the blood flow with what had been the supply order for that week.

Flora meanwhile turned to kneel beside Owain, who was clutching at his chest, pale and expressionless. The upper part of his robe was soaked with blood. Wynne glanced around briefly from Lily, frantically called for a staff. More apprentices were gathering in the shattered doorways, huddled together in whispering groups. The meaning of the puddles of blood was not lost on anyone.

"I've got some poultices," started Alistair, his tone uncharacteristically sombre, reaching for the pouch on his belt. He approached the injured Tranquil, avoiding the blackened blood puddle on the floor. Duncan once again held him back, his eyes focused on the kneeling girl. Alistair frowned at his commander, the poultice already in his hand.

"May I...?" Flora breathed, catching Owain's eyes with her own pale grey ones. He nodded, teeth gritted in pain. She carefully peeled away the torn shoulder of his robe, her fingers quickly becoming bloodied. The wound was ragged and deep, pulsing out blood in great gouts. She probed it with her fingertips, then lowered her face to it. It smelt of metal and meat, yet she did not recoil from the ugly rawness.

Instead, she closed her eyes and exhaled, parted lips hovering over the bloody tear. Near invisible particles, shimmering gold when they caught the light, tangled together and formed a gleaming mesh over the torn flesh. Moments later, the skin seemed to knit itself together, sealing over as it cauterised. Owain let out a hiss and she murmured, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I know, I know, it hurts," Flora whispered, her eyes gleaming. A moment later she withdrew and sat back on her heels, surveying her work with pleasure. The ragged wound had knotted itself together, leaving a pink mass of scar tissue.

"There you go," she muttered, wiping her hands on her navy leggings. "Sorry, it's not very neat. But I needed to stop the bleeding."

Feeling dampness on her lip, she reached up to wipe away a smear of Owain's blood. Several steps away, Duncan and Alistair shared a look. Alistair knew his commander well enough to decipher the nuances of his gaze.

"She's very  _young_ ," warned the junior Warden, sheathing his sword.

Duncan shrugged, returning his gaze to the kneeling girl.

"Only a few summers younger than you, Alistair, from the looks of her."

More mages were arriving now, along with sisters from the Chantry. They took away Lily to the infirmary; but Owain was released after a quick check established that his wound was fully healed. Irving and Wynne were deep in urgent conservation.

Glancing around, Flora spotted her discarded bread on the flagstones, mercifully untouched by the blood pooling around it. Grabbing it, she scrambled to her feet and was halfway across the chamber when a stern voice stopped her in her tracks.

"Wait."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I didn't realise how long this chapter was going to be! I did think about breaking it up into two parts, but it all seemed to belong together. My Jowan is a padded, spoilt aristocratic who always got his way even in the Tower - but didn't count on meeting someone he actually cared about. It's actually quite tragic when you think about it... I tried to make him as sympathetic as possible, even when he ended up turning on Flora. Speaking of Flora, that's probably the least graceful way to introduce yourself to the Warden-Commander of Ferelden ever - literally falling into the room at his feet. I think we see her best and worst qualities in this chapter - her greed and impulsiveness, contrasting with her willingness to put herself in harm's way for the sake of others.


	4. Conscripted

Chapter 4: Conscripted

Flora turned around, wide-eyed, the bread partway to her mouth. She had barely noticed the two uniformed men at first, assuming that they were upper floor guards. Now that she was looking at them properly, she could see that they lacked the standard Chantry garb and their weapons were not the standard shortswords issued to the Templar.

"What's your name, child?" asked the older man with the dark complexion quietly, his hair shot through with grey.

"Flor- Flora," she replied warily, lowering the bread.

"Flora…?"

"Flora Cove, ser," she replied, deference ingrained after four years of residing at the bottom of a strictly enforced hierarchy.

"It's good to meet you, Flora Cove," murmured Duncan, glancing over at Irving. "We need to talk. First Enchanter?"

Irving nodded wearily, suddenly feeling each one of his sixty five years weighing heavily upon him. "Of course, Knight-Commander. We'll return to my office."

Twenty minutes later they had returned to Irving's vestibule. From outside they could hear shouts and horses' hooves against stone, as the Templars continued their hunt for the escaped blood mage. Irving was sitting opposite Duncan, massaging his fingers into his temples. Alistair leaned against the fireplace, his sardonic gaze moving thoughtfully over the scene.

Flora was peering out of the window at the Templars, watching the bright pinpricks of their torches moving against the growing twilight. She swallowed, knowing that they were on the hunt for Jowan, and that they would not be merciful when they found him.

_He was an idiot,_ she thought to herself sternly. Despite the fact that the conversation going on over the desk was about her, Flora was only half-listening. She was brooding over Jowan's fate, miserably going over the events of that morning to see if she could have said anything differently to dissuade him from his purpose.

"She's only just passed her Harrowing," protested Irving weakly, fiddling with the First Enchanter's signet he wore around his neck "She lacks adequate training."

"Then if she can cast like that already, with no staff to channel through," Duncan said bluntly, his dark gaze boring into Irving's. "Her talent requires no further training."

"She cannot cast offensively," warned Irving, already knowing that he had lost. "She has no aptitude for it. She is purely defensive."

Alistair shrugged, interjecting cheerfully from beside the fireplace.

"When you have twenty Darkspawn charging at you, I wouldn't say no to a giant, golden shield."

Wynne turned to Flora, who still had her face pressed up to the window. She was absentmindedly turning a gold ring around her little finger.

"Child, what have you to say about this?"

Flora turned around, somewhat startled.

"About what?"

"Warden-Commander Duncan wishes to recruit you into the Grey Wardens," said Irving carefully, raising his eyebrows. Duncan watched Flora's face closely, with his dark and inscrutable gaze. She looked confused, her cloud-grey eyes narrowing as she returned his stare.

"Do you even know what the Grey Wardens  _are?"_ interrupted Alistair, grimacing. Flora furrowed her brow, lost in thought for a moment.

"They used to ride griffons into battle," she said, suddenly recalling a story that her mother had told her years ago. "They fought monsters."

"Why is that always the thing that people remember?" complained Alistair, as Duncan shot him a distinct  _shut up_ look.

"We fight the darkspawn during a Blight," the older man explained to Flora, who peered at him anxiously through the gloom of the office. "And there's another Blight coming. We need those who can heal."

Flora, feeling as though she should have spent more time listening to her tutors rather than snacking, nodded slowly.

"You want me to join you? Leave the Tower?"

Duncan nodded, and there was silence for a moment, punctuated only by the crackling of arcane flames.

"But I've never been in a battle before," Flora said, the enormity of what Duncan was asking finally settling on her. "Why do you think _I_  could be a Grey Warden?"

"Because you embody the two inherent principles of a Warden: skill and sacrifice." Duncan stared at her, his gaze fierce. "You could offer a great deal to our cause, which is the cause of all Ferelden. We must not stand by while the taint overruns the land."

Flora glanced over at Irving, who looked down at his desk.

_Maybe I'll get to visit my parents and go back to Herring._

Finally she nodded, feeling her stomach churn.

"I'll go with you," she said, and Irving let out an imperceptible sigh. Duncan exhaled and offered her a tight smile, inclining his head.

"Wonderful. Well, I see no point in waiting around. We'll leave now. Get your things."

Flora stared at him, then nodded hastily and scuttled out of the room. Irving leaned back in his chair with a groan.

"I hope you know what you're doing," he said irritably, reaching into a lower drawer of his desk for a sheet of parchment. "She's powerful, but raw power untrained is a dangerous thing. Set a guard on her when she sleeps."

Dipping a quill in an inkpot, he began to fill out the papers of dismissal that would formally release Flora from Kinloch Hold's keeping. Duncan nodded, glancing over at Alistair.

"Can you procure an extra horse from the village? We'll meet you at the Tower stables."

"Ah, good, I'd missed the smell of manure," commented the junior Templar sardonically, sauntering out of the First Enchanter's office.

Halfway down the circular staircase, Alistair nearly bumped into Flora on the fourth floor landing. She was pink-faced from having run down the steps, a leather holdall and a long wooden staff gathered in her arms.

"What shade of horse do you prefer?" he asked her dryly, raising an eyebrow. She gaped at him, eyes widening. He noticed that her irises were the colour of Dalish ale, a rain-filled cloud tone of grey.

"I have to ride a  _horse_? I can't ride a horse! Can't I walk?"

Alistair snorted. "I'm afraid the darkspawn won't have patience for that. Don't worry, I'll try and find one that's not too high off the ground."

He gave her a mock-salute, feeling rather sorry for her as he continued down the stairs.  _Pretty girl,_ he thought to himself, off-handedly.  _Unusual eyes._

 

* * *

Flora arrived back in Irving's office, out of breath. The First Enchanter rose to his feet, suddenly looking very tired. Duncan was already prepared to leave, his greatsword slung over his back.

"Here are your dismissal papers."

Irving handed her a rolled up parchment as Flora approached the desk, nervously. She tucked the scroll inside the pocket of her tunic coat, clutching the plain, standard issue staff that she'd had since she arrived at the Tower. It bore no runes nor enchantments, and had been the subject of much derision at first from the other students. When they realised how potent a creationist she was, the jibes had stopped.

Duncan tapped his foot impatiently, glancing out of the darkened window. Circle protocol dictated that a senior Templar must sign and verify all dismissal papers; with Greagoir leading the hunt for the escaped blood mage, his second was being located.

It took twenty minutes for the lieutenant to arrive, during which time Duncan had begun to stalk the study like a caged lion. Flora sat mutely in an armchair, wearing a travelling cape, with her staff across her lap.

Finally, the transaction was authorised and Flora was officially released into the custody of the Grey Wardens.

"Be careful, child," Irving warned as Duncan gestured for her to follow him. "Take care when you cast. The strength of your spells may surprise you."

Flora nodded, raising an impotent hand in farewell as Duncan pointedly herded her out of the office.

"Do you have any more goodbyes to make?" the Knight-Commander threw over his shoulder briskly as he led the way towards the stone steps. Flora shook her head, slinging the leather bag over her shoulder and the staff across it as she hurried to catch up.

"No," she panted, barely able to keep pace as he hurried down the circular stairway. "People here never liked me very much."

"Jealous of your talent?" enquired Duncan as they continued down. Flora snorted, shaking her head despite the fact that he was in front of her and unable to see.

"No! Because my father was only a fisherman," she replied, cheerfully. Duncan glanced at her over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

"Hm. Is that so?"

_There's something familiar about this girl. I can't place my finger on it. Is it her colouring? Dark red hair, grey eyes- those cheekbones remind me of someone. Ah, well, it matters not._

The Templars guarding the front entrance to the tower, on high alert after Jowan's escape, double and triple checked Flora's papers. When one of them suggested that they should verify the dismissal with the First Enchanter, Duncan lost his temper and bellowed at them. They were released quickly after that, the Templars glowering in their wake as they shut the vast wooden doors behind them.

As they stepped out onto the rocky outcrop, Flora paused and inhaled the cool evening air, closing her eyes for a moment. She could feel the wind on her skin, lifting her hair and rustling her clothing, the stones of the rocky beach pressed through the soles of her boots. It was the first time that she had been on solid ground in four years. Although the growing dark obscured any precise detail on the shore, she could just about see the glowing lights of a village and the shadowed outline of a Chantry.

"We'll need to take the ferry," said Duncan after a moment, watching her closely. "Ready to go, Flora?"

Flora turned and stared up at the Circle tower, rising up vast and formidable from the rock. For a moment she felt a twinge of regret; then she caught sight of the ugly iron bars welded over the windows, which had obscured her view for four years.

She nodded and turned to Duncan.

"I'm ready."

Duncan led the way down the craggy path, haphazardly lit by standing torches. Despite his advanced years, he traversed the uneven terrain with fluid ease. Flora stumbled after him, more used to polished wood and flagstones worn smooth by decades of feet. Every so often he glanced over his silver pauldron to ensure that she was keeping up.

Eventually they reached a small dock, consisting only of a wooden jetty extending into the dark waters of the Lake. A single boat was tethered there, the ferryman snoring inside. Duncan nudged the man's shoulder with the toe of his boot.

"We wish to return," he said sharply, as the man awoke with a grunt, looking around blearily.

"Ah! Only just returned from takin' your friend across," he grumbled. One rheumy eye appraised Duncan for a moment, before his gaze shifted to Flora.

"Nice souvenir," he grunted, lifting the oars. "Come on then, in you get."

Duncan stepped into the boat and lowered himself onto the bench. Flora clambered in expertly behind him, as comfortable as any fisherman's daughter should be. For the first time, Duncan felt a twinge of misgiving as he helped her, shifting over so she could sit beside him on the bench.

_She is very young. Am I doing the right thing?_

Then he recalled the golden shield springing from her fingertips, impenetrable even by blood magic. He remembered the way her lips brushed the Tranquil's mortal injury, exhaling energy over the wound in a way he had never seen before.

_That man should have died, and yet he didn't. We need that talent._

The journey to the mainland took less than fifteen minutes. Duncan sat lost in thought for the majority; his mind returning to Ostagar and the preparations being made there to resist the inevitable third assault.

_If we travel tonight until we reach the south eastern pass and make camp there, we can reach the fortress within a week. Then Alistair can take out the new recruits into the Wilds to prepare for their Joining._

Flora spent the entire journey leaning over the wooden hull, trailing a hand in the water, a rather stupid smile plastered over her face. When they finally reached the dock, Alistair was standing there, arms crossed. As soon as the boat was tethered, Duncan stepped out, carrying her leather bag and staff over one shoulder.

"Pleasant trip?" Alistair enquired, eyeing a beaming Flora. "I've procured a horse for our new recruit."

He gestured behind him to where three horses were tied to a tree. Duncan nodded, placing a hand on Flora's shoulder.

"Let's go, child."

"So, Flora, are you any good at riding horses?" Alistair immediately asked and she blinked at him, as if awakening from a dream.

"Eh? Oh." With some difficulty she dragged her eyes from the boat and eyed the horses with trepidation. "No."

Duncan shot Alistair a warning look as he untethered his own horse. The younger Warden shrugged, shooting his commander a wry grin.

"Sorry, boss."

Flora watched Duncan hoist himself effortlessly onto his steed, a large grey charger which sat placidly beneath him on the grassy slope. She swallowed nervously, staring at her own horse, which eyed her back malevolently. Alistair, who had been midway through mounting, took pity on her and lowered himself back to the ground.

"Here, you'll get the hang of it," he said kindly, clasping his hands together. "Put your foot in here, then climb up."

Flora slung her bag over the back of the horse, tucked the staff awkwardly beneath her arm and clambered up the side of the saddle.

"Feels like climbing the Frostbacks," she hissed, then yelped as Alistair boosted her up the rest of the way. She rested precariously on top of the saddle for a few moments, and then began to slide. Helplessly, she fell off the other side and landed with a thud on the grass. Duncan surveyed her in mild distress. Alistair tried, and failed, not to laugh.

"Ouch," Flora said from the ground, wincing as she felt her sore tailbone. Alistair let go of his horse's reins with a stern instruction to  _stay,_ and moved around to haul her up.

"Alright," he said kindly, clasping his hands together. "Let's try again. On my count."

This time when he boosted her, he grabbed her leg and held her in place on the saddle.

"Here, take the reins- no, the  _reins_ \- and hold them. Your horse should just follow ours, so don't worry about steering it. Just focus on…not falling off."

Flora nodded tightly, gripping onto the reins so fiercely that her fingers turned white. Alistair patted her comfortingly on the thigh, then slung her pack over the rear of the saddle and arranged her staff on her back.

"There we go, Flo," he said, grinning at her. She frowned back at him, her eyes wide and alarmed. "You never rode a horse before?"

"No!" she hissed back, hunched over in the saddle. "My ma and pa couldn't afford a  _goat_ , let alone a horse!"

With an air of showmanship, he vaulted onto his own steed. Flora muttered darkly under her breath as she side-eyed him, her head still rigidly fixed in place. Duncan glanced over his shoulder, expression shadowed.

"Ready?"

Without waiting for a response, he nudged the ribs of his mount with his boots and the horse moved forwards, breaking into a canter. Clinging on with one hand, Flora twisted in the saddle to gape at Alistair.

"Is that how fast he expects us to-  _ah!"_

Her horse, seeing its stable-mate disappear up the gloomy path, did not want to be left behind. It set off abruptly, ignoring the squeal of terror from its rider. Flora toppled forward helplessly, hearing Alistair yell behind her.

" _The REINS! Grab them!"_

Flora clasped her arms around the horse's mottled neck and clung on for dear life, moaning quietly into its mane. Alistair clicked his tongue and his own horse moved forward, bringing up the rear.

 

* * *

 

They rode at a consistent pace for several hours through the twisting hills and valleys of the Bannorn. Duncan was unwilling to spend the darkest part of the night camped in territory notorious for roaming bandits and outlaws. The Kingsway had never been constructed through this rough and hilly terrain, instead skirting the mountains to the west. Luckily, the arl of Redcliffe kept the roadways in relatively good condition, and the horses had no trouble with them.

In the early hours of the morning, they stopped at the Crossroads trading post to water the horses. Alistair disappeared among the ramshackle dwellings to find feed for their mounts; Duncan eased himself down from the saddle with a slight groan, feeling the muscles of his legs ache.

_You are no longer a young man,_ his conscience reminded him sternly.  _You cannot ride that hard without cost._

Returning, Alistair slung a bag of grain from his shoulder, expertly filling and fitting the feedbags to each horse's muzzle. He joined Duncan at the water pump, gazing out over the pastoral landscape of fields and farmsteads.

A full moon hung overhead, low and veiled in cloud. The night seemed deceptively calm; it seemed as if nothing could disturb the peace. For several minutes, the only sound was the quiet munching of the horses.

"I left coin for the feed," Alistair commented eventually, staring out at the rolling slopes of the Hinterlands. Before them lay the hilly lowlands, inhabited only by farmers and bandits. And in the far distance, silhouetted against the twilight, the mountains were just visible.

Flora was hovering beside the horses, uncertain whether or not to join them. The Knight-Commander stepped aside, gestured for her to approach.

"See the mountains to the south, child?" He raised a gauntleted hand. Flora stepped forward and leaned against the wall, staring off in the direction of his pointed finger.

"Yes," she whispered, her eyes moving over the craggy peaks curiously.

"Look on the southernmost peak, where the pass is. Can you see a stone bridge?"

Flora squinted, leaning forward on the wall and peering where he was pointing.

"Mm. Is that Ostagar?"

"No, but it's the start of the road that leads there," commented Alistair drily, glancing sideways at her.  _For a girl who professes to be the child of peasants, she has a highborn profile. Prominent cheekbones, long nose, clear complexion. I wonder if her mother had a dalliance with a local teyrn._

_There's something in common you've got with her, Mage and Templar differences aside._

"How long will it take to get there?" asked Flora, staring at the shadowed outline of the bridge. Duncan glanced up at the moon, noting its position.

"We'll ride an hour more, make camp by the southern falls until morning. We should reach the pass by midday. Then it's four days ride to Ostagar."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: The distances really threw me off at first writing this - because in game, you literally go straight from the Circle Tower to Ostagar. My first draft of this chapter had them take literally a single night to travel there; then I had to go back and edit in a longer journey. Oh well, all part of the creative writing learning experience :) Poor Flora, I think she was half-expecting being taken to Ostagar in a cage like when the Templars had dragged her away from her beloved Herring. You'd better learn to ride the damn horse, Flo, you've got a lot of journeying coming up...


	5. The Journey To Ostagar

Chapter 5: The Journey to Ostagar

They rode on through the quiet stillness of the night. Alistair commented that the Darkspawn must not yet have breached the fortress defences; or the hills would have been swarming with them. Duncan grunted, brow furrowing as he envisioned the quiet farmlands and trading posts overwhelmed by the worst denizens of the Deep Roads. Flora, who had never seen a Darkspawn, had nothing to contribute to the discussion. She focused on keeping astride the horse, her fingers gradually loosening on the reins as she grew accustomed to its rolling gait.

As they meandered down an isolated woodland path, Duncan saw brief pinpricks of light in the trees ahead, quickly extinguished. He reached behind him for his shield, having just enough time to mutter a warning.

"Eyes up front."

"Ah, and I was just thinking this journey was  _too_  calm and peaceful," muttered Alistair, drawing his own shield as the shadows of half a dozen men melded on the road ahead. "Stay alert, Flora. Ah!"

He ducked as an arrow whistled past him, lodging in a nearby tree. The near miss spooked the horses, who reared up with whinnies of panic. Duncan had already dismounted, unsheathing his sword with a roar. Alistair retained enough control of his horse to stay mounted, but Flora slid off the rear of the saddle, clutching at her staff as she fell to the ground with a thud.

" _Kill them! Take the horses!"_

Several bandits converged on them, a motley crew of humans and elves, dressed in cheap leathers and wielding daggers. Duncan brandished his sword, swinging his shield full force into a lunging bandit's face. Alistair leapt forward to cover his commander's back, slicing his sword delicately through the air to sever the jugular of an elven would-be assassin. Blood sprung out in an arterial spray, decorating the front of his silverite breastplate.

Three more bandits moved in, one wielding two cruel looking long blades, the other two with nocked bows. Duncan clashed his sword against the dualist, who crossed his blades and attempted to wrench the sword from the older man's grasp. Duncan's strength was far superior, and the man soon fell to his knees with a grunt. Alistair thrust his shield upwards, smashing a bow out of one bandit's hands, before turning and headbutting the second archer away with a grunt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another bandit draw a dagger and edge along the tree line to where Flora was cringing.

"Flo, get back!" he yelled over his shoulder, recalling that she had no means of attack.

Flora, who had had the foresight to grab the staff before her horse bolted, had clambered to her feet. She had seen the bandit approach and raised the staff just in time to deflect the dagger blow. The next moment she had brought the wooden length down with force rather than finesse on the bandit's skull. He slumped to the ground, insensible.

"Huh," Alistair said, momentarily distracted, then let out a yell of pain as an arrow sunk itself in his upper arm, a lucky shot that embedded itself in a chink in his armour. He grunted in pain, the sword slipping from his fingers. The bandit leapt forward, discarding his bow to raise a wicked pointed dagger.

Flora raised her staff and a bolt of golden light surged forward, creating a shimmering barrier in front of the faltering Warden. The dagger plunged into the golden mesh, which distorted as it had done with Jowan, but did not break. At the same moment, Duncan's sword swept in a gleaming arc from behind and cleaved the bandit's head from his shoulders. The dagger dropped from the dead man's hand, Flora lowered the staff and the barrier collapsed into golden sparks.

"Ah, nice synchrony," Alistair managed to comment, swaying slightly on his feet. Flora slung the staff back on her back, eyes wide, as Duncan reached forward and gripped the younger Warden by the arm to keep him upright.

"Alright, lad," the Warden-Commander muttered, nodding at Flora. "Let's get him off the road."

Between them they supported a staggering and pale Alistair, who was cursing beneath his breath, over to the grassy bank. Lowering him there, Duncan glanced at Flora. She was already kneeling, but the chest plate had confounded her. She was used to peeling away torn robes, not removing heavy armour.

After a quick glance at the road to ensure that the bandits were either dead or fled, Duncan knelt beside her. He carefully removed Alistair's chest plate, then the thin linen shirt beneath it. The arrow was still lodged in the flesh of his upper arm, but fortunately it was ill-made and had not pierced the bone. Duncan removed it with a careful pull, while Alistair let out a particularly colourful string of curses involving the Maker.

Flora lowered her face to his arm and closed her eyes, fiddling with the gold ring on her small finger to help maintain her focus.

"Never had a girl's mouth so near my half-naked body before," quipped Alistair, unable to resist. Flora opened her eyes and scowled at him. Duncan let out a small sigh.

"Alistair, there is a time and place for humour. This is not it."

"It was  _because_ of her that I got hit in the first place," Alistair whined. "Twirling that staff around like a Tevinter pole dancer. Made me lose concentration!"

Flora's eyes widened in indignation.

"You're  _blaming_  me?"

"Flora, heal him. Alistair, be quiet or we'll leave you here to make your own way back to Ostagar," interjected Duncan through gritted teeth.

Flora shot Alistair a dark look, before placing her hand on his shoulder to brace herself as she leaned down.

"Like what you feel?" murmured Alistair, snidely. Flora ignored him, feeling her blood boil as she lowered her mouth to his wound. Parting her lips and closing her eyes, she breathed out slowly. The simple act of exhalation calmed her and focused her on the act; near invisible golden mist drifted from her mouth to his wound. Alistair could feel the gentle warmth of her breath easing the dull throb of pain. The torn flesh began to knit together, red fibrous strands of muscle weaving around each other as the flesh reformed.

As one who had once been in training to become a Templar, designed to hunt down and kill mages in the wild; Alistair should have felt nervous at the proximity of one who wielded such potent arcane ability.

Yet as he looked down at the top of her head, her dark red hair gathered in a hasty braid, he felt no discomfort. Save for the pain of the healing itself but he was prepared for that; it was not the first time he had required mending in the field.

Flora opened her eyes, surveying her handiwork. The wound had knitted over neatly, a pale pink disc of new skin the only remaining sign of the injury. She sat back on her heels as both Duncan and Alistair bent their heads to inspect the younger Warden's upper arm.

"Maker's Breath," exhaled Alistair, eyebrows rising into his hairline as he probed the skin tentatively with his fingertips. "That's a clean heal."

"Cleanest I've ever seen," agreed Duncan, a half-smile hidden in his greying beard. "We struck silverite finding you, Flora Cove."

Not knowing what silverite was, Flora smiled vacantly, although exhaustion was quickly edging up on her. Duncan noticed her yawning as Alistair pulled his mail shirt back over his head.

"Is it tiring?"

"The healing wears me out more than the shield," she replied, her fingers hiding another yawn.

"Magic is a muscle; the more you use it, the stronger and less worn out it gets," Duncan replied, casting his gaze on their surroundings. "We're almost at the waterfall. We'll make camp there."

Alistair managed to find his and Duncan's horses, but Flora's had bolted beyond the scope of his search. He managed to find her leather bag in the undergrowth, which she clasped thankfully to her chest.

"Are those magic books in there?" he asked as he boosted her up to sit behind Duncan. She looked evasive, and let out a sleepy, noncommittal sound.

 

* * *

 

They rode on for another half-hour, untroubled by bandits or other travellers. Eventually the path steepened and began to follow a rocky ridge, leading up into the foothills. Alistair rode ahead, half wishing to bump into more bandits whom he could take his annoyance out on. Flora had fallen asleep, Duncan assumed; having felt her slump against his back.

The sound of a waterfall grew louder as they approached. With water rushing over the rock above their heads, they followed a side path into a small clearing. It was obscure and easily defensible with only a single entrance point, concealed from the main pathway.

Alistair climbed down from his horse and began to set up camp, inwardly marvelling at the lack of soreness from his wounded arm. Efficient from repeated practise, he had set up the bedrolls and a campfire in the time that it took Duncan to scribe a brief message on a roll of parchment. Having sent it off with one of the Warden birds who kept constant vigilance over agents in the field, he nodded to Alistair.

"Help her. She's had a long day."

"Haven't we all," replied Alistair drily, coming over and reaching up to steady Flora as she half-climbed and half-slid off the horse. "Steady, steady. A controlled fall; that's improvement."

She mumbled, head hanging as she almost lost her balance. He stooped and picked her up in his arms, balancing her staff gently on her face.

"Right, bedtime." Alistair carted her over to the campfire, dumped her unceremoniously onto one of the bedrolls and placed the staff alongside her slumped body.

"Night night."

Flora muttered something unintelligible in response, the back of her hand flung across her face. Duncan came to sit beside the fire with a sigh; Alistair took out some cloth-wrapped meat from his pack and sniffed it, before dropping it into a rusted skillet pan.

"So will we go out recruiting again once we drop her off at Ostagar?" asked the junior Warden after a moment, adjusting the angle of the pan. Duncan glanced over at the sleeping Flora, the firelight catching the dark red of her hair and lighting it like embers.

"Keep an eye on her," the commander said, lowering his greatsword to the ground beside him. "Her lack of training makes her vulnerable. Although she must have some powerful spirits on her side to conjure like that. And no, I don't think we'll have time to go recruiting again."

Alistair raised his eyebrows, shuffled the pan as the meat hissed and spat. From somewhere in the woods below, an owl gave a mournful hoot.

"You think the third assault will come soon, then?"

Duncan nodded soberly, running his fingers through his grey-shot beard. "I can feel them massing again. I hope we're ready."

Alistair cast his mind over the three they had recruited over the past week.  _A petty thief who had joined the Wardens as an alternative to a prison. A member of the gentry, who felt obligated to defend his hometown from the Darkspawn. And the young mage, useless offensively but an exceptionally talented healer._

"Are you going to make her undertake the Joining immediately?" he asked, impaling the burnt meat with a small knife and dropping it on a dented tin plate. Duncan nodded, and they both glanced over at Flora. She was asleep now, her hand still over her face.

"Flora must become a Warden or she will be viewed as an apostate," Duncan said, eyeing him. "And your former brethren will hunt her down, as I'm sure they are doing with the Malificarum at this moment."

Alistair fell silent, grimacing slightly. "I didn't make the rules." He sawed through the hunk of meat with a pocket blade and handed some to Duncan.

"No, but rules are intangible by themselves. They are only made real by those who continue to follow them."

The older man raised an eyebrow at his junior, popping a chunk of meat into his mouth.

"If it were up to you, the Circles would be dissolved and their ranks would swell the Grey Wardens!" retorted Alistair indignantly, forgetting about his own chunk of meat. "Imagine the damage that could do!"

"Imagine the damage one thousand mages could do to the Darkspawn," countered Duncan calmly.

Flora sat up with a yawn, the smell of roasting meat overcoming her fatigue.

"What are you cooking?" she asked, shuffling closer to the fire and eyeing the saucepan greedily. Despite the stockpile of goods in her bag, the cooked meat had an irresistible allure. Alistair sawed off another chunk.

"Roast goat," he said, tossing it to her. "Sorry if it's not up to your Circle tower standards."

"For the love of the Maker, don't you two start sniping at one another again. I'll return you to the monastery and her to the Tower" muttered Duncan, darkly.

Flora caught the hunk of meat and took a hungry bite before responding.

"Us initiates got bread and vegetable stew," she retorted, through a mouthful of meat. "Goat would have been a  _treat_ in the Tower."

"Oh, that's ladylike," breathed Alistair, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

"My dad's a fisherman," she mumbled, swallowing her food. "I'm not a lady."

"Evidently," observed the junior Warden, raising his eyebrows. Duncan grunted under his breath, dark eyes flashing.

" _Enough!"_ he snapped in a tone that caused both to startle. "I won't tolerate this arguing. Alistair, you should know better. This mage helped you today and she may save your life tomorrow. Flora, Alistair is going to assist you with your Joining and you should listen to him."

There was a long pause.

"What's the Joining?" asked Flora; Duncan and Alistair shared a glance of mutual understanding.

_Not tonight._

"Get some rest, Flora Cove," said the Knight-Commander after a moment, his tone softening. "It'll be a long day tomorrow."

Flora eyed him for a moment, then gave a little shrug and nodded, sinking back down onto the bedroll and rolling onto her side to face the dying embers of the fire.

"You should sleep too, Alistair," Duncan continued, raising a hand to stop the younger man's protests. "I'll stand the first watch. Then you can take over."

 

* * *

 

Two hours passed. Alistair slept on the bedroll adjacent to Flora, his feet beside her head. His quiet snores lent a strange familiarity to the darkness; Duncan leaned against the trunk of a tree and let his thoughts wander. Faces materialised before him, so clear it was as if their owners were physically present.

_Ferelden's young King, the reckless and daring Cailan, eagerly planning his advance against the Darkspawn. Then the First Enchanter and his Templar counterpart Greagoir, so reluctant to offer assistance, not believing that they would be so unlucky as to have a Blight in their lifetime. Loghain, the king's uncle and military leader, the sombre voice of reality to balance the King's optimism._

_All of them looking to him. For him to lead them. It was his duty as Knight-Commander._

_Alistair, still so young, so eager to do his part while running from his past. And the new mage, Maker-blessed with unique talent, yet awkward and unworldly._

As Flora's face appeared before him, clear-eyed and youthful, Duncan recalled Irving's words about the dangers of possession. Leaning forward, he peered past the dying embers and squinted at the girl's face. She was sound asleep, her breathing even and shallow, her complexion normal.

When Duncan woke Alistair after another hour, he gestured quietly towards the sleeping girl.

"I trust you recognise the signs," he said quietly, silently referencing Alistair's years in the Chantry. Alistair nodded sombrely; all Templars were trained to identify the symptoms that a Mage was becoming an abomination during sleep.  _Skin flushed, erratic breathing and spasms. The bone-white iris._

"There's not much danger of that though, right?" the junior Warden asked in an undertone. "I mean, she's passed her Harrowing."

"That may be, but she is powerful and demons are drawn to that strength. She is vulnerable when she is asleep, she has not been trained fully."

Alistair frowned, leaning forward on an elbow as Duncan settled back on the bedroll. He peered at Flora's still face, curiously. She looked remarkably normal, mouth slightly open, hair falling across her face.

"Try to resist being possessed by demons while you're in the Fade, Flora," he said to her quietly across the dimly glowing embers as he unsheathed his sword and rested it beside him.

"I'd feel bad if I had to kill someone with your talent."

As the sun began to warm the edge of the horizon, Flora yawned, blinked and slowly returned to consciousness. She noticed that her bunk felt strange –  _had she fallen asleep in the kitchens again?-_ put out a curious hand and felt  _grass._

Her eyes shot open. There were trees above her instead of a stone ceiling, the light came from the rising sun rather than from candles. And approaching her across the campfire was a Templar, unsheathed sword in hand.

Flora let out a shriek, grabbed the skillet from the fire and scrambled to her feet, wielding the utensil in front of her like a weapon.

"Stay back!" she squealed, still half-asleep, backing away from him until she felt a tree trunk against her back.

Alistair dropped his sword on the grass and held up his hands, eyebrows rising.

"Flora, it's just me."

Duncan, roused by the noise, sat up with a grimace. Shrugging arthritic soreness from his shoulders, he glanced around with mild interest.

Flora blinked, the situation slowly clarifying itself. She lowered the skillet, confused.

"Oh," she said after a moment, as she took in Duncan and the horses grazing nearby. "I thought…I was an apostate. And you were a Templar coming to kill me."

Alistair shook his head, retrieving his sword and sheathing it as he began to clean up the remains of the campfire.

"I heard something in the trees. Went to investigate. Turned out it was just a nug. You're half-right thought, I was once a Templar. Well, almost."

Crushing the dying embers of the fire with his boot, he eyed her with an incredulous laugh.

"You're a mage, and you're defending yourself with a  _frying pan?!"_

Flora glanced at the skillet in her hand and slowly went pink.

"Well, I can't cast primal magic, can I?" she retorted, averting her eyes.

Duncan, hiding a smile, rose to his feet and cleared his throat. The junior warden and the uninitiated turned to him. He raised his finger towards the southern mountains, where the bridge to the south stretched between two opposing peaks.

"We'll take the mountain path," he said, reaching down to retrieve his bedroll.

Clearing the camp took scant time, and before long they were back on the horses, following the twisting gravelled path that clung to the side of the mountain. The sun crept higher in a cloudless sky, the air cool and crisp. As they climbed, a stiff breeze began to pick up alongside them. Far below, the Hinterlands were spread out like a patchwork of fields, farmsteads and trees.

Flora, perched precariously on the back of Duncan's saddle, felt her stomach protest loudly at the lack of breakfast.

"Alistair, do you have any food?" Duncan called over his shoulder, prompting the junior Warden to scavenge in his pack.

"I think so- one moment. Here!"

Flora's hunger overrode her embarrassment and she turned around, just as Alistair sent a bread roll hurtling through the air in her direction. Making a wild grab, she almost slid off the saddle; just about managed to snatch it mid-flight.

"Thanks," she mumbled, her mouth full. "Want some?"

Duncan shook his head, half-smiling.

"Have it. You'll need your strength."

Flora swallowed a wedge of bread painfully, having almost forgotten about the 'Joining' ritual that was coming later. Neither Duncan nor Alistair had mentioned any details about what the ritual itself entailed, which disconcerted her.

_Still,_ she thought to herself as she chewed a mouthful of bread thoughtfully.  _It can't be as bad as the Harrowing. If it's a ritual that everyone has to complete, it can't involve entering the Fade._

They continued on, climbing higher into the mountains as the sun ascended higher into the sky behind them. Its light was diluted through a thick veil of grey cloud, casting the countryside into gloom. At one point it began to rain, a thin and continuous drizzle.

They journeyed for three more days, passing through unremarkable terrain mostly consisting of farmland. They were following the course of the Southron river, which cut a meandering path through the southern reaches of the Bannorn. After two days they stopped at a hamlet too small to be named to restock supplies; Duncan made a vain attempt to look for recruits but found no one suitable.

Alistair and Flora initially continued their half-hearted sniping, but this was promptly nipped in the bud by an irate Duncan. Instead, they swapped stories about their times in respective Circles- Flora's four years at Kinloch, and Alistair's two summers apprenticing at Joinen in the West.

As the sun began to descend on the fourth day of their journey, Duncan pointed out the dark silhouette of Ostagar, spanning the valley ahead.

"We're here."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: There were a few things I wanted to set up in this chapter considering later events: the ritual of setting up camp, Flora proving her skill at healing once again, and Alistair's innate suspicion of their new initiate. I did feel a bit sorry for Flora; a mage defending herself with a frying pan is a bit pathetic. I also feel sorry for Duncan - he ended up being caught in the middle of a lot of juvenile snapping. My purpose was to emphasise how immature Alistair and Flora both still are at this point. I liked writing this chapter because it was more time spent with the Warden-Commander, who I think is just such a cool character.
> 
> Character art etc at thelionandthelight dot tumblr dot com and thelionandthelightartwork dot tumblr dot com


	6. Arrival at Ostagar

As they approached the old fortress, it became apparent that it was anything but deserted. A unit of soldiers bearing Denerim livery joined them on the main approach, their Captain greeting Duncan with respect. Flora could see the same symbol that Duncan wore on his breastplate – an argent griffon – displayed on a banner hanging over the fortress wall. Beside it was a colourful scarlet and gold heraldry that she didn't recognise.

"That's the King's arms," pointed out Alistair, following Flora's stare as he drew alongside them. "Cailan arrived to join the third assault on the Darkspawn."

Although his tone was neutral, it was clear from Alistair's face that he thought the King mad. Flora glanced at him curiously, then was distracted by the great entrance gate before them. Two men clad in the garb of Grey Wardens came out and saluted Duncan, while accompanying servants caught hold of the horses' reins.

"News?" Duncan asked curtly, dropping down from the saddle with a grunt and nodding to the stable lad.

"The Darkspawn are massing. Intelligence suggests they'll make an assault within the week. Both Loghain and Cailan wish to see you immediately, as do the mages."

Duncan sighed, raising his eyes to the heavens as Flora clambered down gingerly from the saddle. She lifted down her leather pack and slung her staff over her back, glancing up at the crumbling stone battlements with awe. After four years of confinement in the Circle tower, the sheer  _scale_ of the outside world was still a novelty.

"Ah, I suppose I'd better see Cailan first, since royalty  _must_ insist on taking precedent."

Duncan let out an almost inaudible sigh, turning to his junior. Alistair had dismounted and was already waiting for instruction. "Could you see to the mages? They're complaining again"

Alistair nodded, lifting a hand. "Of course. They're probably just out of frogs' legs." Having delivered this quip, he headed off purposefully beneath the broken gate.

Duncan glanced around at Flora, who was looking anxious, clutching the straps of her leather pack.

"Flora, find the other new recruits. You'll be undertaking the first part of the Joining together. They should be somewhere inside the main camp."

Having issued these instructions, he turned back to the Wardens. Flora nodded faintly, gripping the strap of her staff, then took her first tentative steps into the camp.

It had begun to drizzle again. The tents clustered around the crumbling walls of the courtyard were saturated from an earlier shower; their canvas canopies bowed beneath pools of water. There were men everywhere; soldiers in Royal livery, Grey Wardens deep in conversation, and various servants scuttling in their wake. There was a constant low hum of activity, punctuated by the throaty barking of dogs. The atmosphere was as tense as a taut bowstring.

Flora clutched her possessions, damp hair plastered to her forehead as she avoided the larger puddles. She made her way unobtrusively past a cluster of chattering merchants, dodged a pair of arguing Grey Wardens and ended up beside a hastily constructed Chantry.

"And the Maker will watch over us  _all,_  be they man or woman, Warden or soldier, conscript or volunteer!" intoned a religious sister, not seeming to notice the rainwater streaming down her white headpiece. She held out her arms, tilting her face upwards, emulating the pose of the Andraste statue immediately behind her.

"Send these foul creatures back to the hell from whence they came!" she continued, as a band of bedraggled faithful clustered together before her. "Vanquish them from the Maker's eyes, for He sees them and does  _not approve_!"

Flora, who had never been the most devout of believers, skirted the periphery of the crowd and made her way towards the source of the barking. A series of pens had been constructed around a precariously decrepit pillar, each containing a Mabari war hound. Two handlers were hurling slabs of raw meat over the high fences, while the eager dogs bayed and howled.

Just beyond the cages was a crumbling stone ramp leading to an upper courtyard, guarded by a half-dozen pikemen in scarlet and gold livery. Flora approached them curiously, squinting through the gloom at the brightly coloured tents clustered beyond. In contrast to the grim sense of purpose in the lower courtyard, the upper reaches rung with the sound of laughter and chatter, and even the thin warble of song.

What attracted Flora was neither the blazing torchlight nor the raucous banter, but the smell of roasting meat. She took a longing step towards the foot of the ramp.

The guards eyed her with some wariness; the staff slung across her back identifying her as a threat despite her slightness.

"What do you want, Mage?" spoke up one soldier guardedly as she approached. Flora came to a halt, removing damp strands of hair from her eyes.

"What's up there?"

The man who had spoken shot her an incredulous look.

"What do you think?" he retorted, rudely. "Look, there!"

He gestured to the scarlet and gold banners flanking the ramp. Flora peered at them, oblivious.

"Ah, she's probably fresh out of a Tower," spoke an older guard, who had a daughter about the same age as the bedraggled young mage.

"This is King Cailan's camp. You'll be wanting the arcanists. They're in the garden to the south."

"Thanks," mumbled Flora, taking a last wistful inhalation of roasting meat before wandering off in the direction of the guard's pointed finger.

 

* * *

 

The rain was starting to ease, the clouds slowly drawing back to reveal a watery autumnal sun. Flora avoided shallow puddles as she approached the walled garden at the southernmost edge of the camp. She could feel the hum of arcane energy vibrating in her veins even before she saw the clouds of excess mana hovering above the crumbling walls. The rest of the soldiers seemed to be giving the mages a wide berth. Peering through the arched entrance, she saw a half-dozen men and women in the formation of a summoning circle. Beside the wall, she saw Alistair in the middle of an argument with a middle-aged mage in scarlet robes.

"What else do the Grey Wardens ask of me?!" the older man was demanding, arms folded across his chest. "Is it not enough that I have interrupted my studies to assist them?"

Alistair nodded placatingly, warm hazel eyes widening. "I'm simply here to pass on a message from the Chantry mother. Apparantly she wishes to see you."

This was apparently enough to incense the male Mage, who threw up his arms in frustration. "Again! I am not at her beck and call. There is important work to be done here."

Alistair gave a shrug, shifting from foot to foot. "Should I have had her write a note?" he asked, in a tone of polite insolence. The Mage growled beneath his breath, muttered something vaguely insulting and stalked off towards the temporary Chantry, brushing roughly past Flora as he did so.

"And I thought we were getting on so well!" called Alistair at the departing man's broad back, then rolled his eyes at Flora. "I do love how a Blight brings us all together. Come on, let's see the others."

Without pausing, he strode past Flora, underneath the archway and back into the main bustle of the camp. Expecting her to keep pace, he led the way to a tucked-away corner with only a single, large tent. It was plain and lacking finery, a contrast to the garishly ornate tents belonging to the king's retainers that she had glimpsed in the upper courtyard. Alistair ducked inside, holding open the flap for her. She followed him, apprehensively.

Inside was sparsely decorated, with two pairs of bunk beds, plain and functional, set out parallel to each other. In one corner was a communal pile of baggage. Two men sat on opposite bunks, each studiously avoiding the gaze of the other. One was clad in the worn leathers of a commoner, unshaven and clearly uneasy. The other man had a paunch that indicated two decades of good food and better wine. In contrast to the other, his bulk was encased in fine fustian velvet. He looked faintly nauseous, as if he had eaten something that had disagreed with his digestion.

"Flora, Daveth, Ser Jory," said Alistair, not being much good at introductions. "We'll be going into the Korkari Wilds soon, get the first part of the ritual out of the way. Ready to meet your first Darkspawn?"

"The Korkari Wilds?" asked Ser Jory, scratching anxiously at his neck. "I heard they were meant to be haunted."

"Lots of unpleasant things in the Wilds, but I've never seen a ghost," replied Alistair pleasantly, lifting Flora's pack from her shoulder and slinging it into the communal pile of baggage.

"I'd rather not meet a Darkspawn at all," muttered Daveth, who was looking more mutinous by the minute.

"You'll be seeing more of them if we don't do our job right." Alistair gave a half-grin, heading back to the tent entrance.

"Are we going to have lunch first?" asked Flora hopefully.

There was silence in the tent for a moment, with both other recruits staring at her incredulously. Alistair let out a snort, shaking his head.

"Sure, can't fight on an empty stomach. Kitchens are near the Chantry. Get something to eat and we'll meet by the Tower in twenty minutes."

 

* * *

 

Shortly afterwards the recruits gathered at the foot of the Tower of Ishal, just outside the main entrance to the camp. It had stopped raining, but a chill breeze had sprung up from the mountain valley below.

Ser Jory, who had strapped a breastplate over his fustian doublet, was anxiously clutching his bow. Despite the cold, beads of sweat were forming on his forehead.

"Have either of you ever seen a Darkspawn before?" he asked after a moment, swallowing and checking that his quiver was still slung over his back. Daveth, who had no armour save for his leathers, was silently cleaning a wicked looking blade. At the noble's question he shook his head, lips folded tightly.

"Nah. Nothin' like that in Denerim."

Ser Jory turned to Flora, who was sitting on a low stone wall, eating an apple. She also shook her head, mouth full. The noble licked his own lips, nervously.

"I've seen them before. Monstrous, mindless creatures. Their blood is poison and spreads the Blight. If you get any on you, it'll turn you into a monster too. That's if they don't eat you first."

Flora grimaced, swallowing the last bite of her apple with a painful gulp. Ser Jory's eyes fell on the staff slung across her back.

"What kind of mage are you? Healer?" he asked hopefully, then looked relieved when she nodded. "That's something at least."

"I can't do much else," she warned, just as the door behind them swung open.

"Ready to go?" Alistair appeared from the base of the Tower, flashing a sober half-grin. He had changed into sturdier armour, the chestplate engraved with the symbolic argent griffon. A faintly glowing shield was hung across his shoulders.

"Wait a moment!" Ser Jory interrupted, as they were about to set off. He pointed at Flora, who blinked at him in confusion.

"She has no armour. I won't put myself in front of her just because she's a woman."

Alistair glanced at Flora and raised an eyebrow, shooting her a conspiratorial look.

"Oh, I think she'll be fine," he tossed over his shoulder, overtaking Daveth to head towards the stables. "Come on, the Wilds are a good two hours away."

"More horses!" muttered Flora darkly under her breath as she followed the reluctant Ser Jory.

They followed a small winding path that gradually made its way out of the mountains; the steep crags giving way to sloping foothills around them. Ahead lay grey-brown marshland, dotted with the occasional clump of trees, huddled together for protection. No civilised people made their home within the Korkari Wilds, where now only wolves and Darkspawn fought for territory.

Ser Jory had kept up a near-continuous flow of nervous chatter, his voice gradually creeping up in pitch as they neared the border of the Wilds. They had learnt of his pregnant wife, of the house he had just purchased, and of the tournament that he had won which first brought him to Duncan's attention.

At one point, while they were waiting for a ferryman to carry them across the Farenhal river, Jory eyed Alistair curiously.

"You mentioned you were from Redcliffe? I was recently in service there to Arl Eamon."

Alistair nodded, then peered across to the far side of the water,where the raft was preparing to make the return journey.

"I was raised by the Arl as a child. Left there a long time ago."

Jory squinted across at the tall man, realisation dawning as he absorbed Alistair's distinctive jawline and cool hazel eyes.

"Ah, and I remember you, lad! Everyone thought you were Eamon's bastard. Rumour had it that the lady Isolde sent you away for that."

Alistair snorted, his horse shifting beneath him as he shook his head.

"You're right. Not about the bastard of the Arl part, but that was me."

"Where did you get sent to? Denerim? You couldn't have been recruited as a Warden that young," replied Jory, although his tone was hesitant. The ferryman drew up at the dock, and Alistair nudged his horse forward.

"I was sent to the Chantry."

The arrival of the boat ended the conversation there, and for the next hour Ser Jory brooded in silence. His was a more anxious and sweaty quiet than Daveth's, who had not said a single word since they had left Ostagar. Flora's attention was torn between staying on the saddle and gazing in awe at the low foothills around them, as though they were the Frostbacks themselves. Although she had not been trapped in the Circle tower for a lifetime, as some mages had; four years was a lengthy time for one to be shut indoors.

Finally, realising that he would get no details about the Joining itself from a stubbornly tight-lipped Alistair, Jory nudged his mount forward to ride alongside Flora. She peered around and smiled politely at him, keeping her fingers wrapped tightly in the reins.

"I didn't know women could be Grey Wardens," he began after a moment, eyeing her up and down.

Alistair, riding just in front and overhearing the conversation, interjected.

"I assure you, Darkspawn don't have a preference about who they're killed by!"

Jory scowled, drawing his horse a little closer to Flora's. She eyed the sweating noble, curiously.

"I don't like him," he muttered to her, jerking his head towards Alistair's back. "Just a lad, and he's in charge of us…? I thought at least the Warden-Commander himself would be taking us out for our Joining."

Flora gave an ambivalent shrug, tilting her head to follow the progress of a flight of swallows. Although her hair was stating to unwrap itself from its hastily tied braid, she did not dare to remove a hand from the reins in order to amend it.

"Eh, he's probably busy," she said practically, used to being unnoticed by those in charge. Until her Harrowing, the First Enchanter had not even been aware of her existence. As a strand of hair blew into her mouth for the fifth time, she finally lost her patience and removed both hands from the reins. To her surprise, her body reflexively kept its balance, moving with the swaying saddle.

Jory wrinkled his lip, not satisfied with this answer. He looked her up and down again with a slight frown, noting the finely cut cheekbones and the unruly abundance of thick, dark red hair as she shook her head, running her fingers through it.

"Where are you from?" he asked, curiously. "You look like a northerner."

"I'm from my parent's house," mumbled Flora through several hairpins, while Alistair snorted from in front. "Which isn't anything special. Why?"

"You have good carriage, that's all," answered Jory, defensively. Flora shrugged at him, tucking the pins back into her hair. Alistair let out what sounded like a derisive cackle.

"I'll fall off soon enough," she replied placidly, shaking her loose braid behind her head and taking an apple from inside the cleavage of her tunic.

"The sign of a true lady," commented Devath, sarcastically. Flora rolled her eyes, taking a pointed bite.

"Thank you, ser."


	7. Into the Wilds

Chapter 7: Into the Wilds

They continued to ride deeper into the marshland, while increasing grey cloud gathered overhead. Warning signs were posted at frequent intervals, indicating that danger of various sorts lay ahead. They saw no other travellers, indeed, there was very little sign of life in general.

Finally, Alistair led them to a halt beside a broken stone pillar, standing like an ancient sentinel beside the road. It appeared to mark an old boundary of some sort. He gave the area behind a cursory glance, then gestured for the three initiates to gather around.

"So, the first part of the initiation ritual involves collecting a vial each of Darkspawn blood," he began, retrieving a handful of glass phylacteries from his saddlebag. He showed them to the initiates quickly, with the practised efficiency of one who had been through this process many times.

Jory swallowed and gave a faint nod, glancing quickly across at Daveth. The scrawny man was watching Alistair, tight-lipped, his fingers convulsively clutching the hilt of his blade. Flora was fiddling with her braid, uncertain whether to keep it down or pin it around her head. The minor noble shot her an incredulous look.

"So, we have to kill Darkspawn," the man from Denerim spoke up for the first time since they had left Ostagar, his voice thin and scathing. "Even though we've not been trained."

"Ordinary Darkspawn'll die with a blade stuck in them, like anything else," replied Alistair, dropping down from the saddle and slinging his shield over his back. "I'll assist where I can, and we  _do_ have a mage."

"Aye, a useless one who can't so much as light a candle!" sneered Daveth, who had overheard Flora's admission at the foot of the Tower of Ishal.

Flora was halfway through the precarious process of dismounting, and thus was unable to respond. Alistair sighed under his breath, checking the keenness of his blade before sheathing it.

"Let's all just try and get along," he muttered, tying the reins of his horse around the remains of the pillar. "Come on, tie up your steeds. If you survive, you won't want to be walking home."

They headed into the lowland, Alistair leading the way. The junior Warden walked with confidence, despite there being no discernible path through the swampy marshes. The water that pooled here was stagnant, the trees withered and malnourished. Every so often, a pale and sickly Elfroot plant clung to life on the riverbank.

"There are several Darkspawn camps beyond that rise ," Alistair murmured in an undertone, holding out his arm to prevent them from advancing. "Daveth, could you go and see how many there are? No sense in charging into a full nest."

The slender man shot Alistair a look brimming with resentment, but did as instructed. With a barely discernible tread, he crossed the shallow stream and began to skulk up the far bank. Jory and Flora watched him, the nobleman's face damp despite the cool autumnal air. The sweating man glanced sideways at Flora, who was carrying her staff on her shoulders, her expression impassive.

"Why are you not scared, girl?" he hissed finally, while Daveth melded seamlessly into the trees skirting the top of the ridge. Flora gave a little shrug, watching the slender man's progress.

"Don't know. I'm a Mage, we always have to fear demons. We see them in the Fade all the time."

"Darkspawn, demons, what's the difference?" asked Jory faintly, watching Daveth turn and head back down the sloping bank towards them.

"Demons kill you quickly," replied Alistair cheerfully, though his gaze was also trained on the scrawny man, fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword. "Darkspawn either kill you quickly or slowly, depending on circumstances."

Partway through speaking his tone hardened, rich hazel eyes blazing. Jory gaped, fumbling for his own dagger, although nothing yet seemed out of the ordinary.

"Prepare yourselves," hissed the junior Warden, unsheathing his sword and holding it aloft. Flora stared, feeling her heart beating wildly against her ribcage.

Daveth had reached the bottom of the slope and was just about to cross the stream when there came a most horrible sound from the top of the ridge. It was halfway between a snarl and a throaty gurgle; a noise nothing natural was capable of making. Daveth turned around, face beginning to twist in horror, as several Darkspawn appeared in a mass at the top of the ridge.

Silhouetted against the grey clouds, their twisted forms made a fearful sight. Over six feet tall, hunched and deformed beyond recognition from the living creatures they had once been. They were coated in rags and scraps of ragged flesh, armed with blackwood bows and jagged blades. Their movements were irregular and somehow disjointed, as if rotten muscle barely clung to eroded bone.

Flora felt herself quailing inwardly; she was not unused to demons but demons could at least be  _reasoned_  with, could be stalled and delayed and sometimes persuaded. These were feral creatures who wanted nothing more than to eat you alive, tear you limb from limb, then transform your bones into a monstrosity. Darkspawn were the monsters from the childrens' stories, the creatures who wanted to  _eat_  the world.

_Be brave, Flora. Just be brave._

Beside her she heard Alistair give a roar of challenge, smacking the flat of his sword against his shield and striding into the shallow stream towards Daveth.

Flora followed Alistair, heart rising to her mouth and nausea twisting her stomach. As she ran forward, she pulled her staff from her shoulders, ignoring the instinct that told her to flee in the opposite direction, back towards the Circle Tower and safety.

"Your bow! Use your  _bow!"_ Alistair was yelling at a frozen Daveth. The scrawny man was paralysed as if cursed, his mouth open in a gape of terror. The first Darkspawn let out an unholy shriek, gore from its interrupted meal dripping in globs from its fangs, and began to lope unevenly down the slope on all fours. Alistair roared, raising his shield as he went to meet it. It leapt towards him and he deflected the lunging creature heavily, sending it crashing into the stream with a gurgling howl. The Warden raised his sword and in a single, practised gesture, sunk it deep into the creature's throat. Dark blood began to spill in gouts, mingling with the stagnant water of the stream.

One of the Darkspawn still at the top of the ridge hurled something dark and crackling down the slope, the projectile hissing as it left a smoking trail. It spiralled through the air, end over end, towards the leather-clad shoulders of Daveth.

Without sparing a moment for rational thought, Flora ran forward, water splashing over the top of her boots. As she ran, she felt the familiar energy begin to surge through her veins, heating her blood and brightening her vision. She brought up the staff, feeling the wood vibrate under her fingertips; the golden mesh extended within an eyeblink to shield both her and a cringing Daveth.

A fraction of time later, the pitch grenade hit the shield and exploded in a shower of burning mud. The force of the explosion, powerful enough to have ripped out their innards without the barrier, was still strong enough to knock both of them over. Flora fell on top of the scrawny man, swallowing in a mouthful of stale stream water as she landed face-first. The force of her landing knocked the staff from her hand; the barrier collapsed.

Daveth, who in his panic had not realised that it was Flora falling on top of him, was convinced that he had been tackled by a Darkspawn. Letting out a shriek, he flailed around with his ringed fist, making contact with something hard. Flora let out an outraged squeal and scrambled on all fours away from him, blood oozing from a cut above her right eye.

Alistair, breathless after tackling and decapitating a second Darkspawn, looked around to see Jory frozen on the far bank, and Daveth beating a cringing Flora around the head. He waved his arms at them frantically, gesturing up towards the ridge.

"Two more come!"

Alistair's cry brought a brief moment of clarity to a wild-eyed Daveth; he turned from a kneeling Flora and pulled his bow, aiming an arrow. The shot was true; a hulking Darkspawn staggered as it was blinded. It kept going, hurtling down the slope like a beast driven out of it's mind. Jory, seeing that it was incapacitated, stumbled forward and slashed his dagger clumsily across the creature's throat. Dark, coagulated blood pumped out, mingling with the stained stream water.

Meanwhile, Flora had scrambled to her feet, glanced around and spotted Alistair. He was facing down a hulking Darkspawn, more bestial than humanoid, armed with a brutal spiked club. The junior warden's shield was already dented as he held it up to defend himself from the hail of blows. The creature brought the club down on the shield once more and Alistair staggered backwards, dropping to one knee in the water. The shield had protected him from the crushing blow, but he was clearly exhausted, bleeding from several moderate wounds.

The junior warden panted, the bloody, primal smell of the Darkspawn filling his nose and dizzying his vision – or perhaps that was from the loss of his own blood. His muscles were leaden, the shield suddenly unbearably heavy. The Darkspawn snarled, dripping red-tinted froth from its jaws onto the top of his head.

Suddenly, there came a rushing of energy around him. White-gold light surged up from the earth itself, diffusing through his weary bones and muscles, blood turned to electricity in his veins. His senses felt heightened, his muscles coiled with pent-up energy like tightened springs. There was no time to question or to wonder - there was only the Darkspawn before him.

Releasing the energy in a single motion, his mouth opening in a roar of triumph, Alistair lunged forwards while bringing his sword up in a scything motion. The silver blade tore a hole in the creature's belly, gutting it from groin to throat. It collapsed to the stream, innards spilling forth in a steaming mass.

It was suddenly very quiet, save for the Darkspawn's death rattle and the ragged gasps of Jory. A bird cried to another, low and mournful, across the stagnant marshland. Panting, feeling the bone-weariness return, he glanced sideways to his initiates. Daveth, face contorted in disbelief, was standing helplessly to one side with his bow dangling from a hand. Jory was sitting on the bank, crouched over, clutching his knee. Blood surged from between his fingers. Flora was boot-deep in the stream, soaked to the skin, staff still held high above her head. The corpse of four Darkspawn lay spread around them in various states of dismemberment. Their dark, poisonous blood was already coagulating on the shores.

"Well, I feel sorry for the fish in this stream," commented Alistair after a moment, sheathing his sword. "They're definitely doomed."

He glanced sideways to where Flora was crouched in the water, her staff raised above her head, wide-eyed.

"Poisonous to us too," grumbled Daveth, washing the dark stain from his bow. "This is how Blights are spread."

"Ah, don't worry about that. We all still alive?" replied Alistair vaguely, wading upstream to join them.

Jory let out a strangled moan, teeth gritted as he rocked backwards on the bank. The wound to his knee was deep, three parallel claw marks sunk into the the flesh.

A soaking Flora clambered to her feet and went to him, reflexively responding to the cry of pain. Kneeling on the grass and resting the staff beside her, she began to untie the clasps of the shin guard. Water ran from her sodden hair, rolling over her cheeks and dripping onto the grass.

"Daveth, would you do the honours?" asked Alistair, handing over the three glass vials. Muttering under his breath, Daveth took them and knelt beside one of the leaking corpses.

As the slender man collected the blood, Alistair clambered up the slope and peered over the top of the ridge, squinting at the marshland beyond for any sign of movement.

"Nothing as far as the eye can see," he called over his shoulder, glancing back down the bank. Daveth had just finished collecting the third vial of blood, stoppering it closed with a grimace.

Flora was still kneeling over Jory, her mouth beside his mangled knee, exhaling with her eyes shut. Her fingers moved alongside her lips, coaxing the creation magic to bend to her will. After a moment, the flesh began to knit together. The man let out a grunt of pain through gritted teeth, but his groan was prematurely ended when he saw the end results. Flora sat back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"That's a bloody good job you've done there, girl," Jory exclaimed in admiration, tentatively stretching the joint and feeling only a dull ache. "The best I've seen, in fact."

"That's because Flora is the most renowned healer in Thedas," replied Alistair, half-sliding back down the blood-slick slope jovially. "She once healed a wart on the Empress Celene's big toe. Just don't ask her to do anything else."

Flora mumbled a faintly derogatory response under her breath as she moved onto Daveth. Again she exhaled gently, passing her fingers over his lower arm to heal a red-raw wound caused by burning pitch. Ser Jory clambered to his feet, letting out a snort of astonishment to find himself steady.

"Amazing," he breathed, surveying the corpses of the Darkspawn strewn in the stream around them. "Gets the blood pumping, doesn't it?"

Daveth let out a non-committal grunt, inspecting the sealed burn with suspicion as Flora moved on to Alistair, splashing through the bloodied water.

The junior warden grinned at her, raising his eyebrows. He was sporting a deep cut to the chin and another just beneath his elbow, in the narrow gap where his gauntlet was fixed.

"Can I request you leave a manly-looking scar? The ladies love a masculine scar."

Flora eyed him warily, not quite sure how to react. Deciding that the best response was to give none, she began to move her fingers over the cut to his chin, bringing her lips up beside his cheek. She was guarded, half expecting him to try something audacious; but he stayed perfectly still, holding his breath and allowing her to move from one wound to the other without distraction.

"All done," she mumbled, her voice slightly hoarse from the energy passing through her throat. As she withdrew, he made a half-gesture, not quite touching her forehead.

"Don't forget about yourself," he said quietly, before reverting to his arrogant, clipped drawl to address the others.

"Right, we all done here? I think we've spent enough time in Darkspawn territory for one day."

As he spoke, Flora reached up to touch the cut above her right eye. Even as the wound began to heal, her brow furrowed in a scowl as she remembered how it had been inflicted.

"You hit me in the face!" she complained to Daveth as they made their way back towards the boundaries of the marsh. "I saved your life and you  _beat_  me around the  _head_."

Daveth shrugged defensively, his eyes continually swivelling to scout the sickly clumps of trees and straggly bushes that flanked the winding path they were following.

"Ain't my fault. Thought you was a Darkspawn."

"I don't look anything like a Darkspawn," Flora retorted, slinging her staff over her other shoulder.

"You had just tackled me into the water. What else am I going to think?"

"I didn't  _tackle_ you, I was knocked backwards!"

As he turned to reply, Daveth almost collided with Alistair as the junior warden stopped abruptly. They were approaching the crumbling stone pillar, their horses were grazing quietly and nothing  _seemed_ abnormal until they heard it: a steady, mocking clap.

"Well, well, what have we here?" drawled a female voice that simultaneously radiated arrogance and over-familiarity. Both Jory and Flora came to a halt behind the motionless Daveth, Alistair at their head.

A moment later a woman strolled out from behind the pillar, dark hair fastened elaborately on her head with a myriad of pins, animal bones and feathers. There were scarlet runes emblazoned on her cheeks and lengthy nails were painted a matching shade. She was dressed in a robe that displayed more tanned skin than it hid, and wielded a beaded staff humming with primal energy.

Jory gaped, stepping backwards reflexively onto Flora's toe. The woman's mouth curled up into a wicked, mocking smile.

"Ouch," said Flora.

"What do we have here? Four men, wandering in the Marshes. Could they be lost, I wonder?"

She eyed them more closely, her gaze falling on the bedraggled Flora, who was peering down at her toe.

"Ah, apologies. Three men and….something else."

"Don't look directly at her," hissed Daveth in an undertone. "It's a Witch of the Wilds. She'll turn you into a frog!"

The woman laughed, mockingly, her honey-coloured eyes falling on the slender man from Denerim.

"I do lose track of the names they give us. It's apostate one minute, Witch of the Wilds the next. Have you been hunting Darkspawn again?"

"How do  _you_  know what we've been doing?" retorted Alistair rudely, his Templar training rising to the fore. The woman laughed once more, with a toss of her night-dark hair.

"I've seen you here on a few occasions, little Warden. 'Tis time I introduced myself. I am Morrigan. And yes, I am a witch who lives in the Korkari Wilds so I suppose that name may also be accurate."

" _Little_ warden?"

"Hold, witch!" blustered Jory, thrusting a mouthing Flora forwards. "We have a powerful Mage on our side, so don't try anything!"

Morrigan looked Flora up and down and let out a scornful laugh. Flora, muddied and soaked to the skin, hair plastered to her face, glowered back.

"Surely, 'tis a jest?  _That_ creature?" Morrigan asked, her lined eyes widening in amusement. "I must see for myself."

The witch stepped forward with a tinkle of beads and Alistair's fingers tightened on his blade hilt, withdrawing it an inch. Morrigan curled her lip, waving him off.

"Hold, hold. You Templar boys always strike first, think later. I'll not lay a finger on your 'powerful Mage.'"

"How did she know I was a Templar?!" Alistair squawked in the background, but Morrigan had covered the distance to Flora surprisingly fleetly.

Flora eyed the older woman curiously, her clear grey gaze meeting Morrigan's curious stare. The two females, despite both being mages, could not have been more physically disparate. Flora was a head shorter and slightly built, with a thick braid of unruly dark-red hair falling to mid-back. Morrigan was far more buxom, her heavily-painted face deliberately seductive and her short black hair coaxed into an elaborate spray.

Flora looked up at her and thought  _she's not that much older than me. She tries to act beyond her years, like some of the senior initiates in the Circle do._

Morrigan peered down at the shorter girl for a long moment, and thought… _Hm._

"Well, well, it seems… I was mistaken," she said abruptly, stepping back. "Appearances  _can_ be deceiving."

Alistair exhaled, quietly releasing his grip on his silverite blade as Morrigan withdrew, quickly regaining her composure.

"It's been a pleasure, but I must bid thee good night," she said lightly, her berry-stained lips curving into a cool smile as she swept her skirts in a mocking curtsey. "As you can see, the evening is fast drawing in, and it would be…  _foolish_ for you to stay come dark."

Morrigan stepped back behind the stone pillar, shortly followed by the sound of a slight rush of air. Alistair strode forward, rounded the pillar and stopped short, his brow creasing. Only their four horses stood there placidly, still secured to the rock. There was no sign of the strange woman.

"Sometimes I hate mages," the young warden drawled as he began to loosen the knotted reins.

"Thanks," mumbled Flora as she followed Daveth and Jory to join him by the horses. Alistair shook his head, handing one set of reins to the still-trembling noble.

"Not you, Flora Cove. You're one of the  _good_ ones."

Flora muttered to herself darkly as she negotiated the ascent back up to the saddle. To her surprise, it came far easier than previous attempts.

"Had you ever seen her before in the Wilds?" Jory asked Alistair after he'd mounted his own horse. As the nervous noble asked he shot a nervous glance at the sun, which was rapidly sinking into the marshes. As Morrigan had helpfully pointed out, the sky was indeed darkening around them.

"Never," replied Alistair, swinging himself up into the saddle with a grunt. "I'll be sure to take initiates to a different area in the future. Don't fancy running into her again."

"So is this Joining over now, then?" interrupted Daveth sourly, his lip curling. "Are we wardens now?"

"Ah, not quite," replied Alistair, turning his horse back towards the mountains. "Now it's time for the fun part."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn't call what's coming next "fun" exactly, Alistair, lol.


	8. The Joining

The journey back was faster, the riders impatient to return to the protective walls of Ostagar; their horses sensing their urgency and picking up the pace.

By the time they had arrived, only a thin sliver of crimson sun remained on the horizon. Songs and laughter drifted from the upper courtyard where the king's men were based; the troops in the lower camp ate and talked quietly.

Flora gazed longingly off towards the mess tents, her stomach giving an audible rumble as the smell of roasting mutton drifted past. She twisted the gold ring once more around her little finger to distract herself, feeling the carved initials beneath her finger.  _F,C. Flora Cove._

"For a slight lass, you have an astonishing preoccupation with food," commented Jory, who had overheard her rumbling stomach. Daveth snorted, watching Alistair flag down a passing Warden to enquire after Duncan's location.

"Will there be time for dinner before the Joining?" Flora asked Alistair the moment he returned to them. The junior Warden shook his head, glancing at her quickly before averting his eyes.

"No, the Joining must come first. Follow me, all three of you."

Daveth and Jory shared nervous glances at each other; Flora gazed longingly towards the cook fire.

Alistair led the way through the busy camp, past the Mabari cages and into a decrepit section of the fortress that appeared to be deserted. Here, the only light came from the occasional torch burning in a rusting bracket, the sound from the camp muffled. Their path was shadowed and treacherous, overgrown and occasionally blocked by a collapsed section of wall.

"I know that the Wardens guard their secrets, but this is ridiculous," hissed Jory, almost tripping over as a vine entangled itself around his ankle.

"I don't like this," muttered Daveth in response, his fingers compulsively stroking the hilt of his blade. "Why are we being led off?"

Flora, who had had four years in the Circle to become used to the concept of secret rituals, was unfazed. She picked her way through the undergrowth, trying to ignore the rumbling of her stomach. She had a nasty feeling that the trial might involve fighting a Darkspawn alone, in which case she was not sure what she would do. She also hoped that she was mistaken – she already felt a deep bone-weariness from the magic she had channelled earlier that day.

Finally Alistair led them out into a stone pavilion, encircled by a half-intact ring of pillars. Two braziers were alight, casting a warm glow over the crumbling rock. Duncan was standing in the centre of the stone circle, face grim and impassive, in full Warden-Commander armour. On his back rested a silverite great-sword with an elaborately carved hilt.

Alistair cleared his throat, his face uncharacteristically solemn as he stepped back, allowing the three to pass him.

"Warden-Commander, I present to you three Warden-Initiates. Ser Jory, Daveth of Denerim and Flora Cove, from the Calanhad Circle." His voice had a practised tone to it, as if he had done this many times before.

Jory gaped, realising that the ritual had begun the moment that they had stepped onto the stone pavilion. He glanced around, wild-eyed, took a step backwards onto Flora's toe. She shot him an indignant look as Alistair continued.

"They have successfully completed the first undertaking. I present to you their vials."

Alistair stepped forwards and handed Duncan the three blood-filled vials, then positioned himself to one side slightly behind his senior.

Duncan nodded in thanks, then cast his inscrutable dark gaze over the three who stood before him.

"So the final part of the initiation is upon you," he began, his voice severe and gravelled. "To become a Warden is to devote your entire being to defeating the Darkspawn. In order that you are able to meet them in battle without succumbing to their filth, it is necessary that you imbibe their taint and absorb it within yourself."

At his words, Jory let out a visible gasp of disbelief, glancing sideways at an incredulous Daveth.

"You want us to…  _drink_ that stuff?"

"It'll kill you quicker than any poison," added Daveth sombrely, his eyes focused on the three small vials resting innocuously in Duncan's palm.

"It'll allow you to sense the Darkspawn as they approach," interrupted Alistair in an attempt to be helpful. "And it'll delay the onset of the taint."

Flora, as a mage of the Circle, could not fail to see the connection between the Joining, and the school of magic that all mages were expressively forbidden to perform – on pain of death.

"That's like blood magic," she breathed, her grey eyes widening.

"To a certain degree you are correct, Flora Cove," replied Duncan calmly, his face without remorse.

"And yet the Wardens must take this burden upon themselves, despite the great personal cost. For none but a Warden may slay an Archdemon. Complete this successfully and your Joining will be complete."

Flora grimaced, eyeing the blood-filled vials. As a Mage, she'd had four years of lectures about the dangers of blood magic; and had seen with her own eyes how it had turned Jowan into something unrecognisable.

"The end justifies the means," said Duncan softly, watching her face. "And the Blight must be ended. There is no other way. Daveth of Denerim, stand forward."

Daveth inhaled sharply, his eyes darting from side to side. Trapped between Duncan and Alistair; there was no means of escape. Trembling, he stepped forward and grabbed the vial almost roughly. Uncorking it, his face, he tossed it back like it was a shot of Feraldan brandy.

The other two initiates gaped at the slender man as he let the vial drop from his hand. As it shattered on the stone, Daveth followed it, falling to his knees. A moment later he began to convulse, his back arching and his mouth stretching wide. Ser Jory stood frozen on the spot, mouthing silently, watching in horror. Flora blinked for a moment, then dropped to her knees beside him. She raised her hands, pale gold energy sparking between her fingertips, then looked up at Duncan helplessly. Now the man was in a fetal position, belching great gouts of dark material, staining the front of his leather tunic.

"I don't know what to do," Flora whispered, her eyes wide and frightened as she stared up at Duncan. The older man's face was impassive, but there was regret in his returning stare.

"There is nothing you can do. He was not strong enough to resist the taint. He is dying."

It was not the first time that Flora had seen a man die. Injured men of consequence were frequently brought to the Circle Tower; as a talented creationist, she was often summoned to assist. Sometimes their injuries were too great, or they had been brought too late; and they had died despite her frantic efforts. Despite this, she had never become accustomed to it and would spend the rest of the night sulking and miserable.

Now, she felt an emotion which she had last experienced in the back of a cage, on her first journey to the Circle Tower-  _helplessness._

"I can do  _nothing?!_ " she repeated, staring up at Duncan in disbelief. He shook his head gravely.

"There is nothing you can do to save him, Flora. The taint has him now, and there is no cure for it save death."

For the first time since Daveth had taken the fatal draught, Alistair spoke up.

"But you can make his passing easier," he murmured, his voice low.

Flora stared up at him for a moment, her grey eyes clouded with a myriad of emotions. Then she bent her face close to Daveth, who had stopped belching the dark material and was letting out a long, low moan of pain. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, his breath coming erratically.

"Sshh," she whispered, tears in her eyes, bringing her face close to his despite the mass of gore drying in clumps around his mouth. "Ssshh."

Not knowing what to do she brought her hand to clasp his chin, golden energy trailing from her fingers to suffuse his hollowed cheeks. He half-focused on her, his irises enlarged to take up the whites of his eyes.

"Go to sleep," she whispered, her mouth beside his ear, the end of her loose braid brushing the sticky pool of blood. "There are battles to fight tomorrow; you should rest."

He mouthed something incoherent and she nodded, despite not knowing what he had asked.

"All is well, Daveth," she mumbled, fingertips still glowing as she felt energy flow from her to him. "All is well. Go to sleep."

The convulsions and moaning stopped, and he lay still, unconscious. She continued to press her fingertips against his cheeks, keeping his mind sedated as his body shut down.

Finally, he exhaled and there was a finality about it. Flora, who had felt his life essence leaving, removed her fingertips and sat back on her heels, drained in every sense.

The silence was broken by the sound of a blade being unsheathed. Jory, his face hard and determined, had retreated several steps. The wicked point of his dagger curved up before him, trembling to reflect the tremor of his hand.

"I won't do this!" he bleated, in the tone of a desperate man. "This is madness, it's- it's  _murder_! I'm leaving!"

Duncan slowly turned his regret-filled gaze from Daveth's still body to Jory's pale, frightened face. Alistair let out a sigh beneath his breath that suggested that this was not the first time that someone had refused the ritual.

"You cannot," Duncan said patiently, his dark eyes boring into the terrified man. "You know this. You agreed to the terms."

"I didn't know about- about  _this!"_ retorted Jory, spreading his arms to encompass the two wardens and the dead man. "Blood rituals? It's madness! Does the world know what you Wardens do?"

"We do it to keep them  _safe!"_ Duncan's voice was low and resolute. "Ser Jory, you have no choice."

Flora's head turned from side to side, gaping in disbelief. Jory held up his dagger, trembling. There was a dark stain on the front of his robe.

"I won't do it. I will kill you before I let you do the same to me!"

The desperate man lunged forward with the blade. Flora, too stunned to react, sat gaping.

In a smooth motion born from decades of practise, Duncan drew his great-sword from his back and swung it upwards. Jory stopped very suddenly, several feet from the Warden-Commander. He swayed, mouthing like a fishing out of water. A second later he slumped soundlessly to the stone, face down. The profusion of blood that immediately began to pool around him suggested that it was far too late for anything to be done.

It was over so quickly that Flora barely had time to comprehend what had happened. She stared at the newly dead man before her, her eyes wide, then gazed up at Duncan. Both Wardens were looking at her, Duncan's gaze grave and Alistair's sympathetic.

"Flora Cove?"

Duncan spoke her name with a clear question. Flora swallowed, slowly clambering to her knees. Wiping her bloodied hands on her tunic, she raised her chin.

_Breathe, Flora._

"I'm ready," she replied, oddly pleased that her voice sounded relatively calm. The moon hung overhead, a vast and milky globe, so low that it could almost have been spying on the events taking place in the stone circle.

"Good girl," murmured Duncan, nodding to Alistair. The junior Warden stepped forward, offered her the vial.

As he passed it into her trembling fingers, he caught her gaze and held it.

"You'll be fine, Flora," he said quietly, recognising the apprehension in her eyes. She swallowed once more, feeling her tongue leaden in her mouth, the glass vial cool and fragile between her fingers.

"I just – drink it?" she asked as Alistair withdrew back to Duncan. "I don't have to fight any Darkspawn?"

"The fight will take place inside your own body, and there is nothing you can do to sway the outcome," replied the older man, softly.

Flora peered at the vial, filled with the semi-coagulated liquid. It was a scarlet so dark that it almost appeared black, and appeared strangely innocuous for something that carried the taint. She recalled the draught that she had been given to enter the Fade as part of her Harrowing; translucent and shimmering. Tilting the vial, she watched the liquid slide slowly up the glass; Darkspawn blood appeared to be of thicker consistency than human.

_Stop procrastinating, Flora._

Flora took the vial, tried to envision it as the apple brandy sometimes smuggled into the Mage quarters, and downed it in a single gulp.

Alistair and Duncan watched as she lowered her hand, then her fingers loosened and the vial fell to the stone, smashed into a dozen gleaming shards.

Alistair had seen the ritual performed dozens of times; Duncan hundreds. The initiate would imbibe the blood. There would be a brief, short and brutal struggle between the body and the taint. Nobody knew quite why some managed to resist and others succumbed- Duncan had seen scrawny adolescents succeed where burly warriors had fallen.

If the initiate survived this initial battle, they would fall to the floor, their eyes glazing over as they witnessed the calling of the Archdemon for the first time. They would see the dragon as if through a shadowed dream. Some would die then, gasping for air as if choking. Those who survived would awaken some hours later. They would be stronger, hardier – and most importantly, immune to the taint.

_At least for now._

Flora let out a strangled gasp, then took a step forward. Duncan looked at her, his brow furrowing.

"Has she succumbed?" asked Alistair in confusion after a moment, watching Flora swaying on her feet. Her eyes were open, her gaze clouded. Duncan frowned, a slow question burning in his brain.

"I don't- Ah, there we are."

Flora had opened her eyes, her grey gaze clouded. As they watched, the grey misted over with silver, the pupils fading to pearlescent white. She swayed, as if standing on a ship in a storm.

"Come on, Flo," murmured Alistair, watching her closely. "Indulge my desire to have your barrier on the battlefield. I don't want to get hacked up by the Darkspawn."

Suddenly, Duncan felt a piercing pain in his skull, so great that he raised a hand and expected to feel an arrow. His vision began to blur, his hearing muffled as if suddenly plunged underwater. He could see Alistair turning to him, exclaiming in alarm; but the words were not discernible. The stone pillars, the pavilion, Flora before him and Alistair to his side; all became shadowed. A new world formed around him, superimposed over the old, a chasm and a seething mass of Darkspawn. Constellations of lyrium glowing in a vast cavern above his head. Faintly, so faintly, the Ostagar moon was still visible above them all, like a half-forgotten dream.

_The Archdemon was there, vast and terrible, it's scaly and ancient face turned towards him. Shock and anger radiated through its bestial features, sentient malevolence in its eyes._

_Except it was not looking at him. It's gaze was focused on something beyond, the cause of the creature's wrath. Duncan turned and saw Flora standing there, not blurred and indistinct like himself, but solid and visible. Her outline was blurred with golden energy, which crackled around her like an aura. Among the seething shadows, she burned like a lantern. He saw her gaze upon the Archdemon, watched her meet its stare. He tried to speak to her and found that his words dissolved into nothing on his tongue. It seemed as if she could neither see nor hear him._

_The Archdemon let out a scream of triumph, letting its slathering jaws fall apart, revealing a gaping red maw. With a flap of leathery wings it was airborne, then it was lunging forwards, bloodied claws extended towards the stunned initiate. Duncan tried to move forward but it was if he was rooted in place. Then suddenly the girl was glowing, burning like a pyre had been set around her; Duncan heard a demonic shriek of rage and then darkness fell like a blanket, muffling everything._

Duncan opened his eyes to the crumbling pillars of Ostagar surrounding him, to a night comforting in its damp stillness and to a confused Alistair gripping his shoulders.

"Warden-Commander!" he was hissing, the colour drained from his tanned face.

"Calm, I am fine," replied Duncan, although he was none too sure of the last statement. His heart was beating violent and erratic against his ribcage, he could still see the Archdemon's scaled face blazing and terrible when he closed his eyes- although this was a mere mind's trick rather than a true Calling.

An owl hooted somewhere in the mountain pass below, like an anchor of normality. Duncan felt his blood pressure drop, his heartbeat slow as he focused on the present.

"The girl?" he asked, his throat hoarse. Alistair stepped aside and gestured behind him, mutely. Duncan followed the junior warden's gesture, expecting to see the mage either dead or at the very least, unconscious on the flagstones.

Instead Flora was sitting on an overturned pillar to one side, busily devouring a half-loaf of bread. She appeared none the worse for wear; despite still sporting the dried blood of the unfortunate Daveth plastered across her cheek.

Duncan stared at her for a moment, then blinked hard, not trusting in his own vision.

"Flora?" he asked and she looked up at him, then smiled and shoved the remainder of the bread in her tunic pocket. He stared at her as she came close to them, her smile faltering as she took in their expressions.

"Did…did I fail?" she asked tentatively, her eyes returned to their usual soft grey. Alistair shrugged mutely, glancing over towards Duncan.

From this closer distance, the older man could see that Flora did appear exhausted, purple shadows shadowed beneath her eyes. Other than that, she seemed unharmed.

"Well, this is unusual," spoke up Alistair finally after a moment's pause. "If you'd failed, you would be dead… But I haven't seen anyone pass in quite this manner before."

"Give me your hand, Flora," Duncan said quietly after he had inwardly regained his composure.

Flora eyed him, holding out her bare hand tentatively as he removed his mail glove. Duncan grasped it tightly, closed his eyes. She grimaced, feeling the delicate bones of her fingers compress together between his calloused palms. After a few seconds, he dropped her hand, his eyebrows rising.

"She has the taint," the Warden-Commander said quietly, stepping back. "Welcome, sister. You are one of us now."

"Welcome, sister," Alistair repeated automatically, his brow creasing. "But she didn't fall unconscious! I thought that you had to fall unconscious. Wasn't that part of the ritual?  _I_  fell unconscious, didn't I? She just- wobbled for a bit, then walked over to the pillar and sat down!"

"I'm still here, you know ," muttered Flora darkly, feeling somewhat disheartened at her second bungling of a ritualistic ceremony in as many weeks.

"Flora," spoke up Duncan, his dark Rivaini eyes seeking hers. "Do you remember what happened?"

Flora thought for a movement, then shook her head.

"I remember drinking from the vial, then I felt dizzy. So I went and sat down."

"And snacked," added Alistair under his breath. She shot him a scowl.

"The Archdemon  _responded_  to your presence," breathed Duncan, more to himself than to the now two junior wardens who stood before him. "It is most…. unusual. I do not understand why I was also pulled into the vision- proximity? Or something more?"

Both Alistair and Flora gaped at him, and the old warden sighed inwardly.

"Never mind. It is a discussion that I will be having with the senior wardens, not with a pair of fledglings. Alistair, would you escort her back to the main camp?"

"Dinnertime?" asked Flora hopefully through a mouthful of bread.

Alistair peered at her as they headed back towards the overgrown pathway, leaving Duncan to his thoughts within the stone circle.

"Are you ever  _not_ hungry?" he asked, curiously.

"No!"

He led the way quietly for several minutes, only speaking to point out obstacles and entangled roots. Gradually, the sounds of the main camp became more audible, faint laughter and shouting carried on the night breeze like leaves.

Alistair, gritting his teeth, stopped abruptly in the last shadowed section of the path. Flora, who had been busy looking at her feet to avoid tripping over the uneven flagstones, almost collided with him. He turned around as she stepped back, peering up at him warily through the darkness. His eyes were uncharacteristically serious, his mouth in a rigid line.

"What?" she asked nervously, as a fresh burst of raucous laughter broke out in the lighted camp ahead. Alistair stared down at her, hazel eyes searching her face as if he was looking for something in particular. As if he could not restrain himself, he reached out almost involuntarily and gripped her elbows

"What are you-" she began in alarm, but he cut her off urgently.

"I'll only ask you this once, Flo, but I have to be  _sure_."

Flora stared up at him, seeing a familiar look lurking in the depths of his anxious eyes. She had seen this mistrustful stare on the faces of the Templar guards at the Circle tower every day for the past four years – she could recognise it anywhere, even in the frank, open gaze of this young Warden.

_And he was trained with the Templars at the Chantry,_ she recalled.  _They are taught to view everything we do with suspicion._

"You're hurting my arms," she said, and was relieved when his fingers loosened slightly on her elbows.

"You didn't- you didn't have anything to do with that, did you? What happened to Duncan?" Alistair asked, the words coming out in a tangled rush, clearly deeply uncomfortable to be even pursuing this line of enquiry.

"With  _what?_ I didn't do anything. I drunk it and then I felt faint, so I sat down," Flora retorted, feeling a knot of hurt resentment hard in her stomach.

"It's just I've never seen a Joining like that before," faltered Alistair, confused and guilty. "I've never seen the Commander so affected. And I don't-"

"I  _know_  you don't trust mages!" Flora finished his sentence for him, her grey eyes trained on his.

"Did you read my mind?" Alistair asked, half-joking and half-anxious. She snorted; shook her head.

"No, I read your  _face._ Look _,_ I'm sorry that I unnerve you, I can't help what I am. But I didn't do anything except what I was told to do. That's all I  _ever_ do," Flora replied, somewhat plaintively.

"Me too." Alistair removed his hands from her arms quickly, suddenly ashamed. "Sorry. You're a Grey Warden too now; I shouldn't have doubted you."

Flora shook her head, although she could still feel the imprints of his fingers on her skin.

"It's alright," she said, giving a little shrug and half-smiling up at him. "Don't fret over it."

Alistair, clearly embarrassed and feeling guilty, escorted her efficiently from the shadowed path and issued instructions without looking directly at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay!! I went back home for a week to go to a friend's wedding :)


	9. The New Sister-Warden

Chapter 9: The New Sister-Warden

Flora returned to the initiates' tent, avoiding the bunks that had so recently belonged to Daveth and Jory. A great bone-weariness had set in suddenly, tiredness lapping at the corners of her brain like a rising tide. She sat on the edge of the spare bed and stretched a sleepy hand underneath to check that her pack was still there.

She knew that she was not supposed to sleep alone; an untrained dreaming mage was especially vulnerable to predatory demons. This was the reason why the Templar guards insisted that all apprentice mages slept in communal dormitories.

 _I'll just close my eyes for thirty seconds,_ she reasoned to herself.  _Just for a minute. Then I'll bathe and eat._

Resting the staff gently on the floor, Flora leaned back on the bed and stared at the bunk above her. The mattress, despite being hard and lumpen, felt like the most comfortable resting place in Thedas. Curiously, the striped canvas of the tent above her head appeared to be blurring, the lines melting together. She peered at it with mild interest, her eyelids feeling almost leaden.

Unable to resist, she closed her eyes, and within moments, had fallen into a dead sleep.

The moon hung so low in the starless sky that it seemed to rest on the lofty pinnacle of the Tower of Ishal. The king's camp had fallen silent, Cailan finally growing tired of music and jest. The Templars guarding the Mage courtyard shifted from foot to foot, maintaining their unyielding vigilance. The only light in Ostagar came from the Grey Warden encampment, where a half-dozen men were gathered around a glowing campfire. They were talking in low voices, laughing occasionally, indulging in the gallows humour commonly found amidst their Order. Empty bottles of weak brandy rested alongside discarded swords, while their owners sprawled alongside.

One Warden had just finished telling a darkly humorous story about an initiate he had escorted through the Korkari Wilds. On seeing the Darkspawn for the first time, he had soiled himself and fled into the marshes. The Warden had chased him down on foot, only to find him neck-deep in quicksand.

"Poor bugger," the bearded man commented, taking a swig of his brandy. "Thought he could escape, but the Wilds wouldn't let him go that easy."

"What happened?" Alistair asked, his brow furrowed in concern while the other Wardens laughed. "Did you manage to free him?"

The reply was more than a little condescending, and accompanied with a pitying glance.

"No. He was in  _quicksand."_

Alistair grimaced in empathy while the other men laughed. The bearded Warden shook his head.

"Ah, you care too much about the uninitiated, young Alistair. What happened to your three, anyway?"

Alistair frowned as though he had forgotten something, but his reply was cut off by the other Wardens standing and saluting. He scrambled to his feet, turning just in time to see Duncan and a senior Warden approaching the campfire. Hastily, Alistair raised his hand just as the Warden-Commander gestured for them to sit.

"At ease, brothers." Duncan nodded at his men, a half-smile hidden in his beard. The other senior Warden made no attempt at a greeting. Although he was dressed in the uniform garb of the Grey Wardens, the hilt of his sword was elaborately gilded, and his hair coiffed into a style impractical to be worn underneath a helmet.

"This is Lord Couer, Assistant Warden-Commander of Orlais."

Duncan's introduction was brief and perfunctory, as the other man was clearly eager to depart. Even as the other wardens were giving him the salute of greeting, the Orlesian glanced towards the main gate, where his horse was being readied.

"So Ferelden can rely on its neighbour, then. That is good to know." There was an air of finality to Duncan's tone, his expression grave. His Orlesian counterpart nodded, eyes darting towards his horse. The two Warden-Commanders made their farewells, formally and without regret. The two branches of the Wardens had never harmonised with one another.

When the Orlesian had made a hasty departure, Duncan sighed under his breath. He took a seat beside Alistair on an overturned balustrade which had once been part of Ostagar's formidable defences. The other Wardens glanced between themselves; their leader's positioning not unnoticed. They saw no reason why Duncan had always shown extra concern towards this mediocre junior Warden; even to the extent of accompanying him during recruitment journeys. Alistair was the subject of frequent subtle jibes and ribbing on account of this perceived favouritism.

"What was that about?" asked one Warden, jerking a thumb in the direction of the departing Orlesian's back. "We don't need help from  _them._ "

"They're too busy doing their hair and infighting to assist with Blight in Feralden," piped up a younger man, scornfully. "Alistair would fit in well."

Alistair scowled as Duncan raised a hand in warning, shaking his head.

"Peace, brothers. We are in no position to turn down offers of help, and the Orlesians should know that there is a Blight. It is in their best interest to assist."

The Warden-Commander fell into a thoughtful silence. After a few moments, the other men resumed their bantering, more bottles retrieved to sustain the evening.

"Alistair," said Duncan in an undertone, as one man began to sing a bawdy rhyme. "I went to check on Flora Cove in the mage encampment to see if she was suffering any ill-effects from her Joining, unusual as it was. She's not there, and I can see she's not here. So, where  _is_ she?"

Alistair gulped, scrambling to his feet. A bottle fell from his lap to the gravel.

"I left her in the tent to- to get her things and wash. I forgot to take her to the mages!"

Duncan shot him a hard look, his dark eyes flashing with disapproval.

"You know she can't be left to sleep alone. Come!"

Alistair followed in Duncan's footsteps as the senior Warden strode across the encampment, inadvertently rousing the Mabari kennels and disturbing the Chantry evensong. Leaving scolding sisters and barking dogs in his wake, Duncan led the way to the initiate's tent. Pausing outside, the older man shot a look over his shoulder. Alistair nodded slightly, gritting his teeth as he rested his fingers on the hilt of his sword.

"If our new healer is lost to demons…" Duncan muttered under his breath as he pushed open the canvas flap. The tent was dark, the elongated shadows of the two adjacent bunks stretching across the room. On the lower right bunk, Flora lay curled on her side. She was cradling a wheel of cheese against her chest, as a mother might hold a baby. Her hair was matted with dried blood; her still damp clothing was similarly stained.

Duncan crossed the tent and knelt beside her, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder gently. Alistair hovered behind him, pale and anxious.

"Flora?"

Flora opened one eye and then the other. Duncan stared at her, looking for the bone white iris; a telltale sign of possession. Both eyes were their usual grey shade and the senior Warden exhaled in relief.

As one who had been raised in communal dormitories, Flora was used to being woken by a myriad of various people, and thus did not startle to see the senior Warden crouching beside her. Instead she sat up slowly, reflexively ducking her head to avoid the bunk above. The wheel of cheese dropped from her lap and rolled across the rush matting.

"Did I oversleep?" she asked, yawning and glancing around absent-mindedly for the cheese. Alistair stooped and picked it up, raising an eyebrow, glibness disguising his guilt at forgetting about her.

"I've seen stranger bedfellows," he quipped, handing it back to her. She eyed him uncertainly, while Duncan rose to his feet.

"Come, young sister. You need to wash, get some new clothing. Stene? Could you take our new warden to the quartermaster?"

This was directed to another Warden, who had just escorted two fresh initiates into the tent behind them. They were still clad in peasant garb; both looked frightened. Stene nodded, eyeing the damp and bloodied girl without comment.

"Make sure they don't take my cheese," Flora hissed at Alistair as she followed the other Warden out of the tent.

"Excellent!" Alistair said cheerfully after a moment, as the two new initiates clustered in whispered conversation. "Our new healer isn't an abomination, the Darkspawn haven't stormed our defences- all is well in Thedas!"

His smile faltered as Duncan shot him a severe look. The senior Warden held his stare, dark eyes boring into Alistair's paler ones.

"I can't have this happen again, Alistair. She's untrained, inexperienced. The raw power she does possess makes her a valuable prize for demons."

The junior warden hung his head as the initiates continued their hushed discussion, glancing at him curiously.

"So I want  _you_  to watch her. Day and night."

" _Me?_  Watch  _her?"_  blinked Alistair, his head snapping upright. Duncan nodded, eyes solemn.

"You've Templar training. You know the signs. She can accompany you when you take initiates into the Wilds. You can tell her what you know of Warden heritage, so she can understand the rich tradition she is now part of."

Alistair bowed his head obediently, dubiously eyeing the wheel of cheese on the bed.

"As you wish, Warden-Commander," he intoned, hiding his misgivings about the situation with what he believed was the skill of an Orlesian courtier.

Unfortunately, Alistair's face remained honest and open despite his best intentions, and Duncan could easily read the junior Warden's doubt. The older man clapped a hand on Alistair's shoulder as he headed towards the tent entrance, half-smiling.

"Alistair, I know she's a mage, but do try and be nice to her. She's not a bad girl."

"Not a bad girl, except for when she gets possessed by a demon and starts flinging fireballs everywhere," muttered Alistair darkly as he retrieved Flora's bag from beneath her bunk. As he lifted it, a half-dozen food items- ranging from turnips to pork pies- spilled out onto the matting. The two initiates looked somewhat confused.

Groaning inwardly, Alistair bent to retrieve the spilled items, cursing under his breath.

Meanwhile, Stene had inadvertently taken Flora on a tour of the encampment while looking for a place where she could bathe, as instructed by Duncan. The communal washing area reflected the general population of the camp, which was overwhelmingly male. Stene had asked her if she would be happy to bathe in the company of three dozen honourable men; Flora had given him a look of such horror that he had not pursued the idea.

Finally, the beleaguered warden had taken her to the Chantry tent and abandoned her there. Initially the sisters had eyed her with some suspicion, inherently distrustful of mages no matter how young and dishevelled. The Chantry Mother, who had a niece taken to the Circle tower in Kirkwall, was more inclined to show sympathy. She had directed Flora to a large copper tub in a walled niche behind the Chantry tent and ordered the other sisters to fill it.

It had taken a not inconsiderable amount of time to wash the Darkspawn blood out of her hair. It had taken her longer still to claw her fingers through the thick tangles of dark red, muttering darkly under her breath and swearing that she was  _definitely_  going to cut it off at some point.

 _But it did feel good to be clean,_  Flora thought to herself as she rested one bare foot against the copper rim, leaning her head back and exhaling. The water, although only lukewarm, helped to ease the dull ache that always resulted when she had overexerted herself.

"Ah. Flora?"

" _Aiee!"_

Like a scalded cat, Flora submerged herself up to the chin beneath the water, head spinning frantically to locate the source of the voice. Alistair was hovering awkwardly in the back entrance to the Chantry tent, facing away from her. It was clear that he was equally as uncomfortable as she.

"Why have you come to  _spy_ on me?" Flora hissed, her arms clamped across her chest. Alistair let out a sound of indignation, keeping his head rigidly fixed in place.

"Spy on you? I don't  _think_  so. Duncan's asked me to…. help you settle in." Alistair was deliberately vague, his eyes drifting to the plain canvas roof of the Chantry tent. "You should burn your old clothes, they're tainted."

"Hm," grumbled Flora, eyeing the drab grey material slung over his arm. "You had better not look at me. I'll…turn you into a toad!"

Alistair rolled his eyes. "See, this is why nobody likes mages. The slightest affront, and they go threatening to turn you into wildlife. I'll be outside, avoiding the Chantry Mother."

In response Flora submerged herself fully beneath the water, holding her breath until she was reasonably sure that he was gone.

Alistair did not have long to wait outside the Chantry tent. With one ear tuned reflexively to the evensong Chant, he shifted from foot to foot, peering up at the heavens. Vaguely eyeing the stars as they pricked the blanket of darkness, he tried to remember the constellations that the Arl had taught him as a child. There was one elongated formation of stars, so close that it almost seemed to rest upon the crenelated top of the Tower of Ishal. Its name eluded him, skirting on the edge of his mind.

"The Chained Man," whispered a small voice from behind him, not wanting to disturb the evening Chant. Alistair jumped a little, feeling his heart quicken.

"Ah!"

This earned him a glare from one of the Chantry sisters leading the service; he grimaced apologetically.

"A mage also shouldn't sneak up on people," he hissed at Flora over his shoulder; she shrugged, knotting together strands of damp hair. "Come on."

Hoping that he was leading her towards the mess hall, Flora followed him through the camp. When they reached the main thoroughfare, well lit by braziers, he turned to take a proper look at her.

"Was the uniform alright- oh."

Not a single item of the Grey Warden mage uniform that he had provided fit her slight frame adequately. The blue and silver striped tunic hung to her knees, the breeches were only just held up by a belt. The sleeves of the undershirt were so long that they could have been knotted. The only piece of clothing which fit her were the brown boots that she had brought with her from the Circle Tower.

Flora eyed him, flapping her trailing sleeves defensively like a great bird.

"This was what you gave me!"

"It's the smallest I could find," Alistair muttered, scratching his head as he tried to come up with a solution.

"Don't you have anything for women?" asked Flora, wishing that the belt had an extra notch to clamp the wayward breeches more securely. It was Alistair's turn to look somewhat defensive.

"We don't have any others."

She stared at him, genuinely shocked.

"There aren't any more female Grey Wardens?!"

"There used to be; I've seen pictures of them!" he retorted, with a grimace. "There's just- not been any for a while."

Flora eyed him for a moment dubiously, then sighed and gave a shrug. All mage apprentices had to mend their own clothing; she had a little skill with needle and thread.

"It's alright, I can fix it."

Alistair decided against taking Flora to the Warden campfire in her current state; wanting to spare her any cruel jibes about her motley appearance from the other men. Instead, after diverting to the mess hall to get a half-loaf and some cured meats, he led her towards the Warden encampment. It lay to the south of the Tower of Ishal, with an uninterrupted view over the mountain pass.

"This is where we rest," explained Alistair as he led her between the worn campaign tents. From the sound of muffled snoring through the canvas, it appeared as if many wardens had already retired for the night. Flora glanced from side to side as she bit off some smoked sausage, brow furrowing.

"Is this it?" she mumbled through a mouthful of food. "There aren't many of you."

"The main body of the army are staying on the valley floor," explained Alistair, his voice low as he gestured her inside one of the larger tents. Inside it was plain and functional, lit by two rows of flickering candles in iron holsters. A series of pallets were laid out in rows on the rush matting, many of which were already occupied by sleeping men.

Alistair led her over to two empty pallets in one corner of the tent. Slightly awkwardly, he spread out his hands.

"Home sweet home."

Dropping her bag, Flora sat on the pallet, which did little to absorb the coldness of the damp earth below the rushes. Despite her nap earlier, she suddenly felt very tired and pressed her fingers over her eyes.

Yawning, she took off her boots as Alistair unclipped the external pieces of his armour, coughing to hide his awkwardness. Flora realised that he was feeling far more embarrassed at this forced intimacy than she was. As a mage, she had spent four years under constant observation by Templars and, although the circumstances were different, the parts of  _watcher_  and  _watched_  were familiar to her.

"Good night, Alistair," she whispered, so to reduce his awkwardness, and curled up on her side. From experience, she knew to keep her face turned outwards to allow someone to spot signs of impending possession.

Flora was just beginning to drift off, when she heard Alistair's muffled voice through the darkness.

"Flora?"

She opened one eye and peered at him. He was lying on the pallet beside her, staring up at the ceiling, his armour piled in a hastily constructed barrier between them. Flora peered at the makeshift wall in confusion, then recalled Duncan mentioning that Alistair had been raised in the Chantry.

"Is this because I'm a mage, or because I'm a girl?" she whispered, half-curious and half-amused. He snorted, and had the awareness to look self-conscious.

"A little of both," he replied honestly, then paused. "What's it like?"

"Being a girl?" Flora yawned.

He rolled his eyes at the canvas ceiling.

"No. Going to sleep each night, knowing that…" He trailed off, the words hanging in the darkness.  _Knowing that demons would seek to try and possess you. To warp your body to their ends. To watch helplessly as you were attacked by your own peers or loved ones, weeping as they struck the killing blow._

His pause was accompanied by the snoring of the other men.

"I don't know," Flora replied after a moment, her brow furrowing as she rested her cheek against her folded boots. "It's just… something you learn to defend yourself from, after a while. It's not like we have a choice."

Alistair fell silent, thinking on this for a few moments.

"But doesn't it… "

" _Shut up!"_  hissed an ill-tempered voice from the opposite corner of the tent. "We could be fighting Darkspawn tomorrow and I need my rest!"


	10. Getting To Know You

Chapter 10: Getting to Know You

The night drifted on, deceptively peaceful considering the circumstances. There was no sign of Darkspawn, though the night sentries maintained constant vigilance. Scout patrols reported that there had been only isolated movements from the Deep Roads. The Chantry sisters performed their midnight service for the few who were still awake, or couldn't sleep.

Duncan, who rarely slept more than four to five hours due to increasing insomnia, was pacing the battlements of the fortress. His thoughts meandered from topic to topic, as fleeting as a bird moving between branches, awarding each only a moment's contemplation before moving on to the next.

_Maker knows this lull is the calm before the storm. The Darkspawn will mass again within the month._

_No more recruiting drives for now. With General Mac Tir's troops, we should have sufficient numbers._

_Haven't yet managed to dissuade Cailan from this foolish notion of leading his army into battle. Must be firmer tomorrow._

_I hope that Alistair is not too uncomfortable with his new charge. It'll be good for him; lift some of the prejudice instilled by the Chantry._

Duncan was no idealist; he was more than aware that there were a significant number of criminals and desperate men who had chosen the Joining as an alternative to the headsman. Those who had volunteered freely to enlist were perhaps even more ruthless. Although many would view their new mage with a cautious, if wary respect; there could be others for whom a pretty face overrode their better judgement. Although she could adequately protect herself, it was better to be safe than sorry.

_No, Alistair is the best choice. He's a good boy and his moral compass is sound, if a little rigid. Also, the Chantry have told him for near a decade that lightning will strike him down if he so much as harbours a lustful thought. The lad desperately wants a family and the other wardens haven't fully accepted him; perhaps a sister will suffice instead of brothers._

Five hundred yards to the south on a damp pallet, Alistair was stirring. As an apprentice Templar, he had become used to waking up in the night to check the mages under his guard. Even if he was not on duty, his body still reflexively woke him several hours before sunrise.

He yawned widely and turned over onto his side. A stray elbow dislodged part of his artificial barrier; he grimaced as his helm rattled against a gauntlet. None of the uneven shapes on the surrounding pallets moved, and Alistair exhaled in relief.

Sitting up, he leaned over his breastplate and peered at Flora through the shadows. She appeared to be sound asleep, her cheek resting on the leather of her folded up boot. Quietly, he reached over and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Flora," he whispered, peering at her pale, still face. After a moment she yawned, familiar with the routine. Blearily, she tilted her face up towards a beam of moonlight filtering in through a gap in the canvas roofing. Alistair leaned forwards and squinted at her sleepy eyes; they were still a clear grey.

"Thanks," he muttered, withdrawing to settle back down on his pallet. Flora mumbled something unintelligible in response.

"'Night."

"'Night, Alistair."

 

* * *

 

Over the next fortnight, the fortress began to escalate preparations for the next assault. More soldiers arrived from Denerim, setting up their encampment in the valley below. A contingent of Surface dwarves began to assemble a series of trebuchets on Ostagar's outer walls. As Kingsway gave way to Harvestmere, the weather quickly and noticeably cooled. Early morning hoarfrost began to form on the crumbling stone walls, and those on dawn duty could see their breath crystallise in the air before them.

Everyone within the fortress reacted to the approaching assault in different ways. Some men sought comfort in the Maker, and the Chantry services grew more crowded. Others – Wardens as well as regular soldiers – became more dependent on the bottle. Duncan reprimanded those he caught drinking on duty, but he did not otherwise condemn them for seeking comfort where they were able.

Alistair and Flora had quickly adapted a routine, as strangers forced into each other's company often do. Mornings were for combat training, which was carried out on a sloping plain south of the fortress. Alistair sparred with the other junior Wardens, repeating the motions until they became second nature. Flora stayed well clear of the thrusting blades, having no interest in becoming a battlemage armed with sword and shield alongside spell.

_Besides, there isn't much use for a mage who can't set fire to anyone._

Instead, she stayed in a small corner of the field and practised her barriers on three abandoned scarecrows whom she had named Morris, Boris and Doris.

Naturally the other wardens had noticed her presence, but many of them – after initial interest in seeing a pretty face – had realised that she was a mage and quickly left her alone. Additionally, they noted that she was in the company of the (in their view) unfairly favoured Alistair. The majority now simply chose to ignore her. However a selective few, including Stene, had taken it upon themselves to goad her whenever possible.

A crisp autumnal morning happened to be one of these occasions. Flora, slightly out of breath, had bent over to retrieve some bread from her pack. When she turned back around, one scarecrow had been decapitated and Stene was standing there with a grin, sword in hand. His boot rested firmly on the unfortunate scarecrow's head.

Flora scrambled to her feet, indignantly.

"Hey!" she demanded in outrage. "Give back Boris' head!"

Stene snorted, eyeing her up and down. "Or what? Going to curse me? I don't think so."

Flora flushed at this confirmation that rumours about her lack of offensive magic had spread. Stene grinned, sensing that his shot had hit accurately.

"Sorry,  _sister._ Can't save 'em all."

With a swing of his boot, he sent the scarecrow's head flying to one side, trailing straw.

The head was intercepted by Alistair, who grabbed it out of the air as he approached. He had caught sight of the confrontation out of the corner of his eye in the middle of drill practise.

"Morning, Stene," he said cheerfully, strolling over to the decapitated scarecrow and stuffing the head back onto its lopsided shoulders. "Life is so much easier when you try and get on with people, you know? The power of friendship and all that."

Flora scowled at Stene as Alistair casually positioned himself beside her, draping an arm across her shoulders.

"Look at us! A mage and a Templar. By rights we should be at each other's throats. Instead, we're like brother and sister! Aren't we, Flo?"

Flora leaned her head against Alistair's shoulder, smiled sweetly up at him, then crossed her eyes evilly at Stene.

"Biggest pair of idiots in the Wardens," muttered the older man as he stalked off.

"What's wrong with him?" glowered Flora as Alistair adjusted the angle of Boris' chin.

"Can you heal a decapitated head?" he replied, evading her question and stepping back to admire his handiwork.

"No," said Flora sulkily, shooting a mutinous glance at Stene's departing back.

 

* * *

 

Alistair and Flora had easily fallen into the camaraderie that develops when two individuals discover how well their skills complemented each other. On the order of Duncan, they had been sent out most afternoons into the Korkari Wilds to accompany new recruits on the first part of their Joining; both had soon realised how effective their partnership was. Alistair was a naturally talented fighter, who had always erred on the side of over-caution. With Flora at his back, the young Templar felt the confidence to charge into the fray and unleash his full wrath upon the enemy; while the potency of Flora's shields had meant that their recruits suffered nothing worse than lacerations.

Darkness came more quickly on the last evenings of Kingsway, the watery sun giving up its hold on the day without protest. The night guard was doubled, on constant watch for the attack they knew was surely coming. The main encampment was still and quiet, blanketed in shadow; while the upper courtyard blazed with light and the sound of men in a jovial crowd. A wooden platform had been erected at one end, flanked by the colourful pavilions of the Royal party.

King Cailan Theirin was in the middle of delivering a speech, resplendent in his golden armour and splendid crown. His voice was brash and confident, his gauntlet catching the firelight as he gesticulated.

"It will be a day that will go down in Ferelden's greatest legends!" he bellowed, extending his arms beatifically to encompass his audience. "The Grey Wardens and the King, fighting side by side to defeat the relentless Darkspawn horde!"

Alistair and Flora were on the half-crumbled ramparts above the King's courtyard, after Alistair had been assigned evening sentry duty.

The junior warden was dutifully squinting over the southern wall, peering into the shadowed valley below for signs of movement, for the approaching torchlight that would signify an impending assault.

Meanwhile, Flora was hanging over the other side of the rampart, staring down at the wooden platform. She gazed in fascination at the blond head beneath the crown, the burnished armour gleaming brilliantly in the torchlight.

"So that's the King?" she asked as Cailan continued to speak, his words only half-distinguishable from her lofty position. Alistair made a noise of confirmation, squinting off towards the woods that covered the southern side of the valley. The trees disguised the entrances to the Deep Roads; it was from here that the Darkspawn would make their assault.

Flora flattened herself against the ramparts and inched forward in an attempt to hear more clearly.

"The people of Ferelden shall have no more cause to tremble in their beds at night! Their children shall grow and live to be old men and women, free from the fear of Blight. I, your King, shall achieve this for you!"

"Well, he sounds very confident," breathed Flora, her chin resting on the lichened stone. She gazed the blond man curiously, her eyes wandering over his finely hewn features and curling, arrogant mouth. "He looks a bit like you."

There was a fractional pause before Alistair gave a little laugh.

"Nonsense. I'm much better looking than Cailan Theirin."

Flora snorted, the wind changing direction and carrying the rest of the King's speech towards the Tower of Ishal. Her gaze moved to Duncan, who stood at the king's right with a neutral expression, the silver griffon on his breastplate gleaming.

"Who commands who?" she asked, leaning up on one elbow to retrieve a bag of squashed plums from her pocket. "Here."

Alistair turned just in time to catch the plum as she threw it. Taking a bite, he wandered over and leaned on the stone wall beside her, gazing down at the crowd below.

"I'd say that Duncan advises the King," he said after a moment. "And usually Cailan listens. Although they've begun to disagree recently."

"Disagree about what?" asked Flora, rolling the plum stone between her fingers. She eyed Stene, who stood at the periphery of the crowd below, and tried to gauge the distance and angle needed to hit him in the back of the head.

"Cailan wants to lead his troops when the Darkspawn make their advance," Alistair replied, reaching over and plucking the plum stone from her palm. "It's not a good idea, since he hasn't got an heir yet."

"Oh. Who's  _that?_ " Flora continued, diverted as she caught sight of another figure on the stage. This man stood further back in the shadows of the wall and appeared closer to Duncan's age. Greying hair was pulled back from a grim, gaunt face, while a long scar pulled at the corner of his mouth. He was listening to the King's impassioned speech with a sceptical expression, lips folded tightly.

"Loghain Mac Tir," said Alistair, in a tone that assumed she would recognise the name. Flora shrugged, watching the man glower at Cailan's gilded back.

"Who?"

"Queen Anora's father. Teryn of Gwaren and High Commander of the King's armies." Alistair finished his own plum, tossing the stone over the northern wall.

Flora raised her eyebrows in mild interest. "Why's he looking at his son-in-law like he hates him?"

"He disapproves of Cailan's plan to lead his troops into battle," replied Alistair, returning to his vantage point and staring down into the still-dark woods. "Thinks it's reckless. I'd go so far as to say  _foolish."_

"What do  _you_  think?" asked Flora, her eyes returning to Duncan as he stood impassively, in stark contrast to the gilded and gesticulating King. Alistair shrugged, keeping his face turned to the woods below.

"He's the King. He can do what he wants."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: I wish we'd seen more of the political dynamic between Cailan, Duncan and Loghain in game - I think it's fascinating. A lot of the history I engage with as part of my job involves usurpers, pretenders and advisers to the English throne - the shifting dynamics of power. I've also chosen to extend the time period between the Joining and the Battle For Ostagar; I know that in game, it takes place literally straight away, but I wanted to try and establish a friendly relationship between Alistair and Flora before I throw them into that tragic mission. I also love writing for Duncan - he's such a cool character.
> 
> Character art etc at thelionandthelight dot tumblr dot com


	11. One Trick Pony

Chapter 11: One Trick Pony

The next few days passed in similar fashion. The army encampment in the valley swelled as reinforcements arrived from the furthest reaches of Ferelden. The Grey Wardens continued their patrols, scouting the borders of the Korkari Wilds to discern any possible advances made by the Darkspawn. There was no sign of any organised incursion; the arls and teryns began to talk amongst themselves. Although none dared to publicly contradict the King, murmurs crept around the fortress that perhaps there was  _no_ Blight and no Archdemon. It was suggested that maybe the previous assaults were merely disorganised groups who had found their way to the surface from the Deep Roads.

The King was fully aware of these rumours and chose not to address them. Instead, he threw himself into practising formations alongside the senior Grey Wardens, spending hours training with a patient Duncan.

One drizzly afternoon, Alistair was charged by his Warden-Commander to inspect the trebuchets that stood at strategic points on the battlements. This involved much clambering up and down of rain-slick stone steps and the negotiation of gloomy windswept ramparts. Recently, Alistair had been getting the sense that Duncan was keeping him from the fighting as much as possible.

A sulking and mutinous Flora had skidded in his wake, using her staff to keep herself balanced on the lichened stone. Ever since Stene had coined the nickname  _one trick pony_ for her, people had been quietly whinnying beneath their breath whenever she passed by.

"And…south east looks fine." Alistair made a final note on a soggy roll of parchment. Flora brightened, pushing a strand of damp hair from her forehead.

"Is that it? Are we finished?"

When Alistair nodded, she cast her eyes to the skies in relief.

"Thank yoooou Maker! Can we go back via the mess tent? I'm- "

"Hungry, starving, about to  _die_  from lack of nourishment? Never would have guessed," snorted Alistair as he descended the steps that led down into the main encampment. The sky gave an ominous rumble overhead, the clouds gathering for a third time that day.

"I hope they've still got some of that cheese from Redcliffe," Flora replied, choosing to ignore his subtle jibe in favour of concentrating on the slippery stone steps.

At the bottom, she let out a sound of exasperation. "And healing and shielding are definitely  _two_ tricks, not one!"

Alisatir groaned, turning to face her. "You're not still on about that, are you? Forget about it!"

Suddenly, there came the sound of footsteps thudding against the damp earth.

"Are you the new mage warden? The healer?! _"_

A frantic young initiate appeared before them, hurtling himself around the corner of the nearby tent. He was red-faced, panic rooted deep in his staring eyes. The boy gasped for a moment, inhaling unsteadily. Alistair and Flora glanced at one another, before Alistair strode forward and placed a hand on the initiate's shoulder.

"Calm, lad," he said cautiously, as Flora approached warily. "What is it?"

"No, no-!" panted the boy, his voice high and trembling. "We… we've just got back from the Wilds. My friend, he's been hurt- they can't stop the bleeding, Maker help him. Please!"

Alistair glanced at Flora, who was gaping inanely, and jerked his head. "Come on!"

"I've never been called Maker before," mumbled Flora as she followed in his wake.

They ran down the main thoroughfare of the fortress, Alistair hauling the panting and terrified boy by the arm and scattering a group of outraged Chantry sisters. Flora followed, panting, weaving around a pair of strolling mages. At one point she tripped over a tent rope and went flying forwards, only to be roughly dragged to her feet.

After a gasped instruction from the initiate, they finally arrived at the main fortress gate. A small crowd had gathered on the wooden drawbridge, low murmurings of sympathy layered over a low, primal moaning.

With hasty apologies, Alistair elbowed the observers aside, nudging Flora ahead of him. Flora, propelled inside the circle, stopped short in dismay.

The man lying on his back might have been young, but his features had become so twisted with pain that his age was indiscernible. His body was arching upright, legs jerking involuntarily. He was naked from the waist up, his upper body ripped open by a vicious clawing. White bone was visible in his exposed chest cavity, and dark matter pulsed upwards with every damp, sputtering breath. Blood soaked his torso and saturated the wood beneath him. A pale mage was just rising to his feet, wiping bloodied hands and shaking his head.

"I cannot staunch the bleeding. The damage is too severe."

As Flora blanched, Stene spoke up defensively. His Grey Warden breastplate was also stained with blood, a coagulated slash marking his cheek.

"Genlock dropped on him from a tree. Fool got himself separated. Didn't think he'd even survive the journey back."

"It's a shame," murmured someone in the crowd to his neighbour. "Just a lad."

Flora felt the wooden boards beneath her feet lurch as she stared down at the dying man in horror. Her stomach twisted and she suddenly felt as though she were going to be sick.

Alistair, gazing at the injured man with sympathy, saw Flora sway and reached out to steady her elbow.

"Please help," begged the breathless initiate who had fetched them, his voice high and thin with fear.

Flora swallowed a solid lump in her throat, feeling irrationally close to tears herself. She raised her head and her pale grey gaze met the hawklike stare of Loghain Mac Tir. He was standing at the edge of the crowd, still and grim-faced, arms folded across his chest as he watched her closely.

She dropped her eyes first, returning her gaze to the bloody mass on the ground before her.

_It's just an injured man. You've seen dozens of them before. Why are you afraid?_

_**Don't be afraid.** _

"If his heart is damaged, I can't do anything," Flora whispered, but she no longer felt as though her feet were leaden. Letting her staff drop to the ground, she went to the dying boy and stepped over him. Lowering herself to her knees Flora bent forward, her hair hanging over his face, strangely intimate.

She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, letting the muttering of the crowd melt into the background as she tentatively parted the Veil.

Immediately she felt the constant low smoulder of the Fade inside her begin to ignite. It felt like fire in her belly, a painless heat slowly creeping through her veins until her entire body felt white hot. The warmth built up behind her eyeballs and when she opened her eyes, the world seemed clearer and brighter. Her upright palms were moving of their own accord, her fingers curling as she coaxed spirals of golden energy into material existence.

When she exhaled, the amber patterns took shape, energy arcing between her fingers like electricity. She looked down through the veil and saw not a dying man but the individual parts of him. The ragged sinew, broken bone and torn muscle stood out in sharp and separate focus. As if in a dream she stooped forward, her mouth hovering over the wound, gold-hued fingers dancing in inexplicable patterns over the torn flesh. Her brow began to furrow as she focused, manipulating the sole magic she could command at will.

Alistair had seen Flora's ability in the field, had even experienced it first hand; but he had not seen her heal a wound of this severity before. Glancing over his shoulder, he and Stene badgered the crowd into retreat. Finally, only Loghain Mac Tir and the trembling initiate remained; the teryn's expression remained unchanged throughout.

Oblivious to her surroundings Flora continued to bend over the man, creation energy emanating from her parted lips and fingertips, in gleaming strands so thick they almost appeared viscous. She was murmuring to herself, although the words were too low for them to hear.

Duncan, who had left the King's tent after a lengthy meeting and received the message about the injured initiate, arrived shortly afterwards. The Warden-Commander instantly took in the mortally wounded initiate, and Flora kneeling over him, golden light dancing over her face. She was so close to the wound that her cheeks and hair were bloodied, although she appeared not to notice.

Duncan, giving a cool nod of greeting to Loghain Mac Tir, went to stand beside Alistair. The other initiate was pacing in circles, a desperate hand to his head.

"How long?" the senior Warden asked in an undertone, gesturing towards the injured initiate and the girl crouched over him. Alistair sighed, casting a glance at the slowly descending sun.

"Two candle lengths. I think she's tired."

The Warden-Commander nodded, following Alistair's gaze to where Flora was hunched, her head bowed. She was mumbling to herself, her eyes hazy as her fingers traced their arcane patterns.

Duncan stepped forwards, taking a water flagon from his belt and placing a hand on her shoulder. She turned to gaze up at him, blinking sluggishly, as if seeing him through a dream.

"Huuuh?"

"Have some water," he said quietly, already moving the canteen to her bloodied lips. "Drink."

She gulped a sip obediently, then took another. Duncan took the opportunity to survey the wound more closely. He recognised the ragged laceration of a Genlock claw, running down from the man's collarbone. If the claw had sunk an inch lower, it would have spilled out the initiate's guts.

The outer flesh was still ragged and torn, but the muscle inside appeared to have been knitted together, the white scarification visible beneath a sheer coating of blood. Two pale ribs appeared to have been freshly repaired, the join still visible; while a third was snapped almost in half.

Flora shot him a quick glance without turning her head, her pale grey eyes alight with focus, though lined in shadow. There were beads of sweat on her forehead and her skin appeared clammy. Alistair half-grimaced and averted his eyes towards the Tower of Ishal, silhouetted against the sinking sun.

"Got anything to eat?" she asked faintly.

Duncan reached into the leather pouch at his waist and retrieved one of the hard biscuits that were used as rations for the soldiers. Flora tilted her head back and opened her mouth, the rhythmic movement of her bloodied fingers uninterrupted. He lowered the biscuit to her mouth and she took a bite.

"Thanks," she mumbled, through a mouthful of crumbs, leaning forward once more.

Duncan returned to stand beside Alistair as a light drizzle began to fall. His apprentice glanced at him and muttered in an undertone.

"Look at Mac Tir."

Duncan turned to the steely-eyed general, who stood opposite them on the wooden bridge, barely having moved for the past two hours. His cold blue stare was focused on Flora's narrow back as she bent over, several strands of dark red hair hanging loose.

"Like a hawk would eye a field mouse," continued Alistair, with an indignant grimace. This had not gone unnoticed by Duncan, who gave a slight nod.

"I see him."

The sun slipped fully below the horizon and freestanding braziers were brought to illuminate the sodden drawbridge. The drizzle was light and relentless. Duncan had left to undertake the Joining with the recruits who had survived their foray into the Wilds; leaving muttered instructions for Alistair to remain. Loghain Mac Tir also continued his silent observation, face impassive and arms folded. Alistair had made a few half-hearted attempts at striking up conversation, all of which had been met with incredulous silence. A contingent from the field infirmary had arrived with a basic stretcher and poultices, and hovered by uncertainly.

Flora was bent almost double over the initiate now, exhausted and faintly nauseous. Broken bones had been joined, torn muscle knitted together. The initiate had begun to show feeble signs of life, his breathing becoming stronger and more certain as his chest was repaired.

Now, the edges of her vision blurring, there was one task left to perform.

_Come on, Flora,_ she thought to herself through the fatigue, grinding her teeth in steely determination.  _Finish the job._

It felt as if there was no air left in her lungs. Each exhalation was weaker than the last as she reached the final reserves of her energy. For a brief, terrifying moment she believed that she was drowning, her throat constricting in panic.

Then, through dense fog, she saw the sparking golden mist exhale before her and with the last of her strength, slid her bloodied palm across his chest. The gaping tear sealed itself neatly in its wake, leaving a raw, pink scar.

A fraction of a second later the initiate's eyes opened, wide and panicked. He sat up, letting out a strangulated cry. Hardly able to believe that it was over, Flora sat back on the bloody, rain-soaked wood, ducking her head between her knees.

Alistair stepped forward to crouch beside the frightened initiate, murmuring words of reassurance while gesturing the infirmary workers forward.

"Calm; you're safe and your wound's healed. You're at Ostagar."

Within a few moments, the dazed boy was loaded onto the stretcher. Alistair tucked the blanket close around him.

"He'll need rest," he said bluntly, wiping bloody palms on his tunic. "Check for infection tomorrow."

"There won't be infection," mumbled Flora from between her knees.

She had only one desire: to get something to eat, and then to fall into a dreamless sleep. While Alistair saw off the initiate, she forced herself back onto her feet.

The wooden boards suddenly lurched beneath her, as if the drawbridge was suddenly being raised. As her field of vision violently constricted inwards, she lost her balance and stumbled.

Before she could fall flat on her face, a hand reached out to grip her elbow. The last thing she felt before slipping into darkness was the sensation of being lifted into the air.

As Alistair turned from the departing stretcher, he saw a limp Flora in the arms of none other than Loghain Mac Tir. From the lolling of her head, it was clear that she was unconscious.

Alistair opened his mouth in astonishment just as Loghain turned and strode back into the main encampment. Alistair gaped for a moment, before hurriedly following in the older man's wake.


	12. Of Commanders and Kings

The queen's father strode through the camp, soldiers and Chantry sisters alike scattering before him. Alistair followed, weaving through the crowds while apologising hastily. Loghain ascended the ramp to the upper courtyard, his tent located beside Cailan's quarters. Alistair had to convince the sentries to allow him access; succeeding on the grounds that he needed to accompany the unconscious mage. Templar rights overrode normal camp protocol, and he was permitted entrance to the King's courtyard.

Alistair caught up with Loghain outside his tent, which was noticeably plain compared with the gaudy surroundings. The entrance was flanked by two of Loghain's personal guard, who stepped aside to permit him entry.

Loghain turned as he stepped inside the tent, swinging one of Flora's brown boots against the elbow of one guard. Despite his advancing years, he was still a large and powerful man who was capable of physically blocking the entrance with his bulk. He stared at Alistair with barely concealed dislike.

"What do you want, warden  _recruit_?"

Alistair thought for a moment before answering; aware that Loghain outranked him and could order his immediate removal.

"She needs to be under constant watch while unconscious," Alistair replied, gesturing to the limp Flora. "Especially since she's exhausted herself. Demons can sense weakness."

Loghain glanced down at Flora's pale face, her mouth partially open. Alistair, sensing he had struck a chord, pressed on.

"Trust me, she's not very interesting when she's asleep. And she snores. I'll watch her."

Finally, Loghain gave a grunt of reluctant assent and gestured for Alistair to step forwards.

The interior of the tent was plain and utilitarian; it was sparsely decorated with functional equipment and little else. Alistair followed Loghain through a canvas passage into what was clearly the commander's private bedchamber. It had a hard single bed rather than a pallet, the only evidence of rank in the entire tent. The walls of the bedchamber were flanked by armour and weapon stands, all occupied.

Loghain strode over to the bed and dumped Flora onto the hard mattress without ceremony, immediately turning his back on her. The Royal commander shot Alistair a contemptuous look as he left.

"Alert me when she wakes."

Alistair raised his eyebrows, used to Loghain's disdain. Lifting a small three legged stool, he carried it over to the bedside and sat down. After a moment, he reached out and gently turned Flora's face towards him.

 

* * *

 

Flora's sleep was dark and dreamless; on entering the Fade, she found a quiet hollow for herself and curled up there, plugging her ears against the whisperings of demons. In this manner she passed a half-night free from malign interference.

She was woken by the rumbling of her own stomach, which seemed loud enough to puncture the Veil itself. The waking world came into gradual focus around her, the blurred and shifting Fade melting away. Yet the ceiling she could see was not a familiar one – it was still canvas, but high and vaulted.

Flora sat bolt upright, staring around with some confusion. She was in a bed rather than on a pallet, the room was large and filled with stands of armour, lit by several tall candelabra. Then her eyes settled on a familiar figure trying on a burnished helmet, and her alarm lessened somewhat.

"Alistair?"

He turned around, pointing to the red feathered crest on top of his head.

"What do you think? Suit me?"

She frowned at him, dubiously. "You look like a cock."

He eyed her, raising his eyebrows.

"You know," she clarified. "A cockerel. A man hen."

He laughed and placed the helmet back on its stand. Strolling back across the room, he lowered himself down to the stool and gazed at her, his yellow-brown eyes amused.

"How're you feeling?"

"Alright," she said, noticing that her boots had been neatly placed beside the bed. "Where are we?"

"Loghain Mac Tir's private tent," replied Alistair, and snorted at the expression on her face. "I don't know why either. But he wants to meet you."

Flora groaned, slumping back against the pillow and putting her hands over her face.

"Why would he want to meet  _me_ ," she stated bleakly, staring up at the canvas ceiling. "I don't have anything to say to – what is he? The King's uncle?"

"Father, by way of the queen."

"Do I bow?" wondered Flora, muffled and incredulous through her fingers. "Do I  _have_  to bow? I don't know _how_  to bow."

"You don't have to bow," replied Alistair, eyeing a vast greatsword suspended from a weapon rack with interest. "Do you think he can still wield that? He's not a young man anymore."

" _Why_ don't I have to bow?" she persisted, bending over to pull on her boots. "You just said he's the king's father!"

"He's the  _queen's_  father. The king's father was the late King Maric," replied Alistair, after a brief pause.

"Why don't you bow to the queen's father?!"

As it turned out, Flora was spared the choice about how to respond to Loghain's arrival; the General entered the chamber as she was returning upright from fastening her bootstraps. He stared at her, his hooded eyes dark and thoughtful. She gaped back, momentarily frozen. Alistair felt Loghain's disdainful gaze pass dismissively over him and returned the glare with a broad smile.

"You're the healer?" asked the older man, his voice throaty and grating.

"I'm  _a_  healer," replied Flora once she had swallowed the lump in her throat. Loghain's lip curled as he looked her up and down.

"I wish to speak with you – in private." This last part was directed at Alistair, who gave a shrug and nodded, despite Flora's frantic mouthing and head-shaking.

Flora shot him a dark look over her shoulder as she followed Loghain from the bedchamber, down one of the canvas passages. They passed two guards garbed in the Royal commander's personal livery and she eyed their sharp-toothed pikes with some trepidation.

Loghain strode into a sparsely furnished meeting room, which included a circular table and eight chairs. It was lit by several standing candelabras, and was empty save for a pale-faced Dalish groom cleaning the wooden sideboard.

Flora hesitated as she entered, watching Loghain stroll to the table and gaze thoughtfully down at it. There was silence for a moment. She stared down at her feet, glumly.

"This has not been sufficiently cleaned," snapped Loghain suddenly, directing his ire towards the nervous servant. The trembling elf jumped, almost knocking over his pitcher of water. Flora glanced at him curiously, before Loghain beckoned her closer.

"Come to the light, girl. Let me look at you."

The next few events happened very quickly, taking place over mere seconds. As Flora stepped further into the chamber, Loghain bent to retrieve a sword that had been hidden beneath the table.

The next moment, a roar emerging from deep in his throat, he lunged across the rush matting with sword aloft. The elf stumbled backwards, raising his arms to protect his face. Then Flora, who had almost tripped over in her haste, had planted herself before him, shaking hands raised. Mac Tir's sword struck a gleaming pale gold barrier, sounding a metallic clang which resonated like a bell.

Flora, eyes bulging with shock, gaped at Loghain's amber-tinted face through the glimmering energy . The General, features contorted in a snarl, lifted his sword and laid the edge against the shifting, intangible shield. With his jaw set in determination he pushed it forwards, leaning his weight against the hilt. Flora, the rapid breathing of the servant hot against her ear as he crouched behind her, held her hands steady. The golden barrier trembled but did not give way beneath the increased pressure.

Loghain gave one last, forceful and futile shove, before stepping back. A look of triumph was on his face.

"Very good," he grunted, lowering the sword. An incredulous Flora kept the barrier up, gaping at him, her hands trembling.

"Ah, stand down, girl," the older man muttered, going to the sideboard and pouring himself a whiskey from a gleaming decanter. "He had sufficient warning. Return the sword to its stand, Silan."

Flora caught movement in the corner of her eye, as the elf edged out from behind the gleaming shield and went to retrieve the sword. He shot Flora a somewhat apologetic look as he left, in response to her accusatory glare. Loghain took a gulp of the whiskey and exhaled, nodding quietly to himself. Flora, confused and still a little frightened, slowly lowered her hands. The golden barrier diffused into the damp air, and Loghain came into focus once more.

As the servant left, Duncan strode into the room without announcement. Alistair followed immediately behind him, having hurried to fetch the Warden-Commander as soon as Loghain had left with Flora.

Duncan gazed around the tented chamber, taking in Flora's stunned face, half-lowered hands and Loghain's gulping of the whiskey.

"What's going on, Mac Tir?" he asked, steel underlying his neutral tone. Loghain did not turn to greet him, lined eyes deep with thought.

"Why, Warden-Commander." The general's voice was mocking and amused. "I've heard so much about this new healer of yours. I wanted to see for myself if the rumours were true."

Flora glowered at him as the truth dawned on her, a flush rising to her cheeks. She turned her hands over and looked at her shiny, raw fingertips, a sign of the passage of excessive energy.

"If you wanted to see my shields, you could've come to the training field and watched me with Morris, Boris and Doris," she muttered, mutinously.

Loghain either did not hear, or chose to ignore her. Instead, he glanced over at Duncan and smiled, slow and deliberate.

"You're right, Warden-Commander. She  _is_  exceptionally gifted."

Duncan scowled, his dark Rivaini eyes focusing on the general.

"You should not have forced her hand," he replied, steadily. "She may be skilled, but she is still a junior Warden and is under my jurisdiction."

"When the Darkspawn make their assault, she will be part of the King's personal guard," Loghain stated, his fingers moving idly over the smooth surface of the table. Alistair glanced sideways at Flora, who was still glowering.

For a moment, Duncan looked as though he were about to protest, but ultimately remained quiet. Loghain looked at the three of them in turn, his satisfied smile flickering as his gaze passed over Alistair.

"You cannot deny that the King deserves the highest level of protection," he continued, the smile not reaching his eyes. "And the girl  _is_  a natural."

Duncan, lip curling, gave a stiff nod of assent. "As you wish, Mac Tir."

Curtly, he turned on his heel and strode out of the chamber, anger simmering close to the surface.

Alistair and Flora glanced at each other, then Alistair gave Loghain a cheery wave; though his eyes were solemn.

"Always a pleasure, Commander," he said, nudging Flora behind him and out of the chamber. "Come on. Your staff is with the guards, they don't allow them up here."

Flora hurried to keep up with Alistair, who was striding energetically down the tented passage towards the entrance.

"What did Loghain do?" he asked as they emerged, blinking, into the weak morning light.

Flora scowled; retrieving her staff from a nervous guard who handed it to her like it was a live grenade.

"Tried to cut his servant in half. What if I hadn't been fast enough? What if I was too tired to summon anything? What if I'd been…  _sneezing_ and missed it?" she complained, trailing off as she smelt cooking eggs on the breeze.

Alistair followed her gaze, which was firmly angled towards the mess tent, and grinned.

"It's not a bad thing, you know. Being with the King. He'll be the best defended person on the battlefield."

Flora scowled, deliberately setting out over the damp grass towards the kitchens. He strode to keep up with her, steadied her elbow as she almost slipped.

"You know this means you'll probably meet the King soon, too."

Flora made a sound of exasperation.

"I don't  _want_  to meet the King!" she grumbled, plunging her staff into the mud to avoid skidding again. "I'd be happy if I never met any royalty ever again."

"So spoke the fisherman's daughter from the fishing village named  _after_ a fish."

"That's right!"

 

* * *

 

To Flora's immense relief, King Cailan did not summon her that day, nor the day afterwards. By the evening of the third day, she began to calm a little, hoping that – for some reason – Loghain had changed his mind. Their daily routine continued unaltered, following the familiar pattern of training and then forays into the Wilds with new initiates.

Night brought more weak grey drizzle and a cool wind from the north. Flora lay on her pallet, blanket pulled beneath her chin, and stared up at the mildewed canvas ceiling. As Alistair had grown more accustomed to her presence, the barricade of armour had slowly shrunk. Now, thirteen days later, only her staff lay on the earthy ground between them.

Flora cleared her throat quietly, not wanting to invoke the snoring Stene's wrath. The middle aged warden had become more irate over the past week, complaining about what he perceived to be the favouritism shown by Duncan to an inexperienced junior warden and a liability of a half-trained mage. Despite her impressive healing of the injured recruit, he still referred to her as the  _one trick pony._

"Alistair?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think Loghain's changed his mind?"

"Who knows?" Alistair yawned, shifting position on the lumpen mattress.

Flora brooded for a moment, her grey eyes dim and shadowed in the darkened tent.

"I hope he has," she whispered after a moment, resting her face sideways against the damp pallet.

"Go to sleep, Flo," Alistair replied, his eyes closed.

Some hours later, in the deepest part of the night, Alistair woke reflexively. Propping himself up on an elbow, he studied Flora's face through the gloom. She appeared peaceful enough, but Alistair was thorough in his duties and no Templar would go by expression alone. He reached out and touched her shoulder, she yawned and opened one eye sleepily.

Her iris was silvery in the moonlight, free of demonic influence. He withdrew his hand and she closed her eyes again, hunching her shoulders against the chilly breeze. The wind rustled the canvas walls of the tent, rain beating against the already saturated material of the roof.

The next morning dawned damp and dull, the tents waterlogged and the earthen courtyards turned to mud. The cook complained that his sacks of grain were soggy and the quartermaster found that his herbs and poultices were soaked through. A cold wind from the North circled the crumbling walls, whistling thorough Ostagar's many parapets and stone archways.

Alistair had been waylaid by the Chantry Mother and instructed to take a message to a particularly elusive Templar lieutenant. Flora, whose first priority in the morning was always to locate her breakfast, informed him bluntly that they would rendezvous later in the mess camp.

She endured fifteen minutes of complaining from the cook about his spoilt grain before receiving a half loaf and a hunk of cheese. Rather than eat on the long wooden tables- the other Wardens were still whinnying at her - she decided to take her breakfast to the narrow bridge that spanned the chasm.

Flora sat on the stone ledge and peered out at the mist-veiled Southeron hills, absentmindedly lifting the bread to her mouth. Below appeared deceptively peaceful, dark pines wreathed in silver-grey morning mist. It was hard to believe that somewhere in the lowlands, a vast army of monsters was gathering strength.

Determinedly pushing this thought out of her head, she concentrated on the more pressing issue of how to prepare a sandwich without a knife.

She was in the middle of using a loose fragment of stone to hack through the cheese, when a voice from immediately behind her almost made her slip off the ledge.

"Warden Flora?"

Flora swivelled around, eyes wide. Her first impression was of dirty blond hair and refined cheekbones, and assumed that it was Alistair, speaking in jest. Then she saw the beginnings of crow-lines around the eyes, shoulder-length hair and carved gilded armour, far more ornate than her brother-warden's grey steel.

Flora then noticed the two flanking guards clad in Royal livery, and understood why the man had seemed familiar to her. She then realised that she was sitting on a ledge eating breakfast in front of the King of Ferelden.

Flinging the sandwich to oblivion, she sprang off the ledge and dropped to her hands and knees, pressing her face against the cracked flagstones.

"Please forgive me," she said against the mossy tile, thinking  _don't chop off my head._

Cailan laughed, shaking his head as he extended a gauntlet to her. She took it gingerly, scrambling to her feet.

"No Grey Warden should ever bow before me. I assume you are the mage, Flora? Loghain said you have rare talent."

Flora, already regretting casting her sandwich to the valley below, nodded dumbly.

"Are you happy to become part of my personal guard? I intend to lead the charge. We will be in the thick of the fighting."

The King eyed her dubiously as she gaped at him. Cailan had a specific scene in mind which he wished the bards to describe after their victory: of a brave King, surrounded by devoted and sturdy guardians. Gifted or not, this slender and awkward girl in ill-fitting clothes, hair in an untidy braid and crumbs on her face, did not fit his mental image.

Flora, who knew she was being unfavourably compared to the other refined mages at the camp, hung her head.

"I would be honoured to be in your personal guard," she mumbled, wondering if her sandwich had perhaps landed on a lower ledge and could be retrieved.

Cailan nodded, his brow furrowing as he looked her up and down one more.

"I'll talk to Duncan. See if he can get a proper fitting uniform."

"There isn't one," Flora muttered, still staring intently at the worn flagstones. They were polished smooth from centuries of patrols. "There's only men's uniform. Even the dwarf tunic is too big."

Cailan grimaced at her, pursing his lips.

"If only Anora was here, she would know what to do!"

"Who is Anora?" asked the forgetful Flora.


	13. The Shadows Draw Close

Chapter 13: The Shadows Draw Close

"And  _then_ he said: ' _Your QUEEN, mage!'"_ complained Flora in the mess camp later, jabbing a chicken bone in the air for emphasis. Alistair, leaning against the table as he waited for her to finish, snorted.

"Well, she  _is_  the Queen. I know not much gets in and out of the Circle towers, but surely you knew that?"

Flora scowled, flicking the bone into one of the dull brass braziers and getting to her feet.

"Bah. I have to go and get my uniform fixed."

Some time later, she eyed her reflection dubiously in the full-length mirror located in Cailan's tent. An elven seamstress was kneeling beside her, pinning up the grey coat above her knees. The blue and silver striped tunic had been fitted to her narrow waist and her hair was caught up in a painfully tight ponytail on top of her head.

"There you go, ser mage," muttered the elf with a mouth full of pins as she clambered to her feet. "Now you look the part."

"Does that matter?" mumbled Flora, tilting her head and watching her burnished hair swing from side to side. The elf servant diplomatically refrained from answering; gave a bow and left.

Flora shot one last brief glance at herself in the mirror, grudgingly acknowledging that she did indeed look the part.

Unfortunately on leaving the tent Flora was fatally distracted by the smell of roast boar on the wind. Thus diverted, she failed to notice a slick mud puddle beneath her feet and promptly fell over.

When she arrived at the Grey Warden encampment a few minutes later, Alistair greeted her with slight confusion. He was sitting with some of the other Grey Wardens around the embers of the previous night's fire, taking advantage of a break in their duties to have a quick drink.

"I thought you were getting polished up for the King." Alistair's brow furrowed as he gazed at her. Her hair was dishevelled, smears of mud defacing the blue and silver stripes of her tunic. She shot him a murderous look, before slumping down on the wooden bench and putting her head in her hands.

One of the other Wardens, a burly man in his middle years whose impeccable tunic stretched over a bulging waist, snorted derisively.

"Hey, mage, aren't you supposed to be in the Kingsguard?"

Flora mumbled something incoherent in response. Alistair hid a grin and shrugged, patting her companionably on the shoulder.

"Don't worry about it, Flo. Your barriers are just as effective whatever state you're in."

The other warden quickly lost interest after he failed to goad her into a response, and turned his attention to Alistair instead.

"Where's the Warden-Commander these days? He always seems to be with the King."

Alistair gave an amicable shrug and raised his eyebrows.

"I've no idea."

 

* * *

 

Over the next week, Flora was summoned by Cailan every afternoon to venture into the Korkari Wilds. Accompanying them was a small retinue, including several other mages and an escort of Templars. The King pressed deeper into the Wilds each time, pursuing the stray Darkspawn they stumbled across with single-minded determination. Seemingly careless for his own safety, he hunted them across the marshes and through the sickly woods; ancestral sword held high and burnished armour gleaming like a flame against the murky swamps.

One evening, after a particularly close call where their escort had been flanked on both sides by Darkspawn archers, an exhausted Flora stumbled to the Grey Warden campfire. Alistair and several other junior Wardens were cleaning their weapons by the flickering light of the flames.

Grabbing a discarded bottle of Thedas ale, Flora took an experimental gulp. A moment later she dropped it, pulling a face.

"Ugh, disgusting."

"Long day?" asked Alistair, while the other Wardens acknowledged her neutrally. One man gave a faint  _whinny_  under his breath.

Flora groaned, sinking to the dusty earth and pressing her fingers against her temples. Her staff pressed against her back awkwardly and she unslung it from her shoulder, resting its length beside her. Alistair surveyed her with a sympathetic grimace. Large portions of her crumpled blue and silver tunic were streaked a faded crimson, her hair hanging out in long and tangled strands. Dark purple shadows lined her eyes and she cradled her hands gingerly in her lap, as if they hurt.

"The King has a death wish," she muttered, her shoulders hunched. "We were ambushed."

"Where?"

"By the old temple. I only just managed to keep him shielded. So many got stuck with arrows, they looked like hedgehogs."

"Lose anyone?" asked a young Warden, passing his whetstone to Alistair. Flora shook her head, yawning.

"No, two are in the infirmary. Ooh, I'm starving."

She glanced around for some food, then spotted the remains of dinner on the grill rack. Her eyes lit up and she leaned forward, stretching out an arm to retrieve some grilled lamb. Alistair, who had learnt not to get between Flora and her food, leaned back reflexively then frowned.

"Flo, you're hurt."

The back of Flora's tunic was torn, exposing her shoulder blade. Three jagged claw marks rent the skin, each about an inch. Flora returned back to her sitting position, blinking at him.

"Eh? Oh, that."

Now she remembered; the horrible shrieking in her ear, a blast of foul breath and then a sharp spike of pain. She had been so absorbed in maintaining the barrier around the reckless Cailan, and then tending to the severely injured, that she had temporarily forgotten about her own comparatively minor injury. She twisted her head but couldn't see it; then offered her hand to Alistair.

He took her wrist gently and guided it up and over her shoulder, until her fingers rested against the torn skin. Summoning the last of her energy, Flora closed her eyes. The conjured golden mist drifted between her fingertips, sealing the shallow wound in moments.

"Did I get it?"

Alistair peered at her skin through the evening gloom, then nodded.

"All better."

Flora retracted her hand and returned to the business of dinner, raising grilled lamb eagerly to her mouth. Alistair began to sharpen his sword, methodically dragging the whetstone up and down the edge of the blade. Several other Wardens began to talk quietly among themselves, making bets on when the Darkspawn would finally make their advance.

"I should think it will be soon."

Duncan's voice preceded him as he emerged from the shadows, firelight glinting off his silverite chest piece. The griffon flickered in the light, almost seeming to move of its own accord.

The other Wardens raised their hands to their chest in the salute of greeting; Duncan nodded in acknowledgement before taking a seat on the bench nearest to the fire.

"I've been with the King. He wished to pursue a Darkspawn scout. Took his horse, rode off with no retinue. I only just caught him up."

Alistair raised his eyebrows, putting a second rack of meat over the fire.

"He went out for a second time today? Surely that's tempting fate."

Duncan sighed heavily, his dark Rivaini eyes shadowed.

"It's not wise. Mac Tir questioned the decision also."

As he unslung his greatsword from his back he gave a visible grimace of pain, lowering the weapon to the earth. Alistair, who had finished setting up the grill, noticed and frowned.

"Are you injured?"

Duncan waved a hand dismissively. "Ah, it's nothing. Not as fast as I used to be. It's fine."

Alistair glanced over at Flora, who was absorbed in devouring the last of the grilled lamb. Sensing his gaze, she looked up, mouth full. Alistair gestured to Duncan, who shook his head, wearily.

"I'll stop by the infirmary later."

"Now, Warden-Commander. You have to set a good example to the rest of the troops," chided Alistair, nudging Flora meaningfully.

Duncan sighed, relenting. He reached up to unclip his breastplate, Alistair leaning over to help him. When the beige under armour was lifted away, a dagger-length slash was revealed across his bare chest. Although it was not deep, there was a seething darkness creeping into its edges.

Alistair shook his head, leaning back as Flora scrambled to her feet. Clutching the grilled lamb in one hand she stepped over him, lowering herself to straddle the bench beside Duncan.

"That's poisoned. The infection could have gone to your heart if it had spread," the junior warden said disapprovingly as he reached forward to turn the cooking rack.

Duncan let out a grunt as Flora hunched over beside him, spreading a hand against the tan skin of his chest as she squinted at the cut. There was something simple and guileless about the way she only saw the medicine and not the man behind it.

"Can you remove the infection, child?"

Flora nodded, having regained some energy from the meal. Her grey eyes narrowed as she surveyed the cut, spreading her fingers around it.

"Mhm," she mumbled, ducking her head to his chest. Her mouth hovered over the cut and she inhaled slowly. A golden vapour clung to her teeth; almost immediately the dark stain began to fade. She breathed in the poison, the healing mist moving over her tongue like a rolling sea. Her stomach gave a faint gurgle of protest.

When the stain was fully gone, a weary Flora pulled her head back. There was a sour aftertaste in her mouth and she spat onto the earth, taking a swig of Alistair's proffered flask before returning her fingers to his wound to seal it up.

"The King spoke highly of you," Duncan said quietly to her, as the other Wardens tactfully began to converse amongst themselves.

"I don't think I'm what he pictured beside him," she mumbled, her fingers moving gently over his cut. "I don't look the part."

Duncan smiled, glancing down at her dishevelled head as she hovered beside him. The other wardens, save for Alistair, shot her the occasional dirty glance; clearly not trusting a mage so close to their commander.

"My young sister," said Duncan after a moment, his voice low and reassuring. "The King is fortunate to have a healer of your calibre at his side."

Flora smiled up at him and he eyed her gravely, wondering how young she appeared in the firelight. A moment later she drew back, clambering off the bench and returning to sit on the earth at his feet. The cut on his chest had been neatly sealed, with barely a mark to denote where it had been.

Flora stifled a yawn, lowering her chin to her knees. Silence fell over the Warden campfire; the only sound being the hissing of sparks as they rose to the cloudt sky above. In the upper courtyard, they could hear distant laughter from the King's encampment.

"I believe that the attack will come soon," said Duncan after a moment, taking a gulp from his ale and placing the half-empty bottle on the earth beside him. Alistair, who was putting the finishing touches to his blade with the whetstone, glanced up curiously.

"What makes you say that?"

Duncan's eyes were distant, as though he were looking straight through the ruined fortress, out across the dark stretches of the Wilds, where the Darkspawn army waited for their unholy command.

"I can feel it," he said shortly, not wishing to explain further. "I hope we're ready."

"What's the plan?" asked Alistair, returning the whetstone to its owner. Duncan let out a heavy sigh.

"Cailan is still insistent on facing the hoard in the valley below, alongside the Warden forces. When the majority of the Darkspawn army have been lured into the field, Loghain Mac Tir will then direct his troops to charge forward and flank them."

Alistair, who had no experience of larger engagements, shrugged.

"That seems like a decent plan, except for the  _Cailan leading his troops_ part. Seems a bit reckless."

Duncan shook his head wryly, reaching once more for the ale.

"Maker knows I've tried to talk him out of it. But he's insistent."

A soft grunt came from their feet. Flora was slumped over, head resting against the wooden bench, half-asleep. Duncan nodded down at her, taking a long gulp.

"See our young healer gets a decent rest. If my suspicions are correct, we shall all have an exhausting day tomorrow."

"Right." Alistair slung the newly sharpened sword onto his belt and crouched down beside Flora. "Come on, Flo. Bedtime."

She roused herself enough to sling her arms around his neck, he rose with a grunt.

"Oof. Too much grilled lamb, I think. 'Night, Warden-Commander."

"Goodnight, brother, sister."

Alistair headed past the Mabari compound, setting off the usual string of barking; then ducked underneath the half-collapsed stone arch and onto the familiar sloping path leading down to the Warden tents. He felt Flora's face slumping against his shoulder, her steady breathing indicating that she had fallen asleep.

Entering the tent silently, Alistair crept past the half-occupied pallets to their own corner. Many of the Wardens had moved their bunks away, not wanting to be within cursing distance of a mage while they were sleeping and vulnerable. Alistair lowered Flora awkwardly onto her pallet, she mumbled and opened a sleepy eye.

"Alistair?"

"Oi, keep your voice down. And if you're about to ask me for a snack, I haven't got anything. Feet."

Flora slumped back against the damp mattress with a muted grumble, raising her hand over her face and lifting one leg into the air. Alistair leaned over and pulled her mud-covered boots off one by one.

After pulling the blanket up to her chin, careful to turn the mildewed side away from her face, he removed his own mail. The beige underarmour gave little protection against the autumnal night air, and he quickly pulled his own blanket up around his shoulders.

"I wish we could have a campfire inside the tent," he muttered, turning over onto his side. She was already facing him, one eye half cracked open.

"You don't have to be a mage to foresee a few problems with that," she whispered back, her grey iris dull in the night gloom. He squinted back at her face, only a foot away but its features concealed by shadow.

"Flo?"

"Mghh?"

"Are you scared of the Darkspawn?"

Flora opened both eyes and looked at him, cupping her cheek in her palm. He stared back at her, his hazel gaze solemn.

"Of course," she mumbled eventually, pulling the blanket higher around her shoulders. Alistair paused for a moment, then pressed forward.

"You don't seem it."

Flora shrugged, clutching the blanket beneath her chin.

"Demons have always hunted me," she said softly after a moment, covering a yawn with her nail-bitten fingers. "Being scared doesn't help you. You just have to deal with it the best you can."

"Oh," replied Alistair, turning her answer over in his mind. "So you  _are_ scared, then."

Flora did not reply, but looked at him. After a moment, she nodded slowly. He gazed back at her, then reached out a hand from beneath the blanket and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

She smiled at him and he looked away quickly, hastily withdrawing his fingers.

 

* * *

 

The next morning dawned dull and grey, the valley floor hidden in a sea of mist. Every spy and scout at Ostagar was sent to probe the dank forests, to espy where the Darkspawn forces might be. Dampness hung over the crumbling fortress; the mossy stone slick underfoot and dusty earth turned to mud.

Back at the encampment, tensions grew with each passing hour. Mages and Templars lost their tempers with each other, exchanging bitter words. Cailan stalked the ramparts restlessly, pale brown eyes searching the horizon for a scout raven. Loghain remained at the war table, gazing at the different markers denoting the troop positions. The Grey Wardens checked their weapons and waited, the customary pre-battle solemnity already upon them.

A nervous Alistair practised his formations incessantly, striking the practise dummies until his blade dulled and required sharpening. Flora had clambered up to the highest point she could access while still being within his view. She sat on top of the crumbling battlements, mindlessly eating stale biscuits to distract herself from what was to come.

They were not kept waiting all day. Mid-afternoon, a breathless scout arrived back with the news that the Darkspawn were massing in the eastern region of the Wilds. At a steady pace, he estimated that they would reach the valley by dusk.

The news seemed to electrify Cailan. A zealous light burning in his eyes, he began to direct his own forces into position in the valley below.

In the chaos of shouting men, moving equipment and barking dogs, a messenger found Alistair and Flora at the training ground.

"Warden Alistair? The King wishes to see you."

"What have I done now?" moaned Alistair, sheathing his sword and glancing at Flora. "Come on, I can't face our King without reinforcements. His enthusiasm is overwhelming."

"I can't face our King without getting his look of disappointment," retorted Flora, following him and the scout through the shifting throngs.

They headed up the stone ramp, no longer guarded, into the upper courtyard. Duncan, Loghain and Cailan were clustered around the war table, the latter two in the midst of an argument.

"Then perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian troops for reinforcements, then, if you believe our cause so hopeless!" snapped Cailan, eyes blazing. He was already in his polished gold armour, standing out like a burning brand against the crumbling stone wall. Loghain grunted in frustration, shaking his head.

"If your father was alive to see you invite in the people who subjugated this land for a century…!"

"Fine, then we stick to our original plan," hissed the King.

For a minute, the two men glared at one another, eyes blazing. Finally, the army commander gave a tight nod.

"As you wish. You are the King."

Alistair, on hearing the two men argue, stopped abruptly. Flora trod on his heels as she collided with his back, then nudged him forward impatiently.

"He asked for you, remember? Go!" she hissed darkly, trying to flatten down rampant strands of hair while simultaneously smoothing her crumpled tunic.

Cailan glanced up, his eyes giving Flora a cursory glance before settling on Alistair.

"Ah, Warden Alistair! I'm glad you're here. Go on, Loghain, explain the plan."

Duncan remained silent as the army commander, sliding the small figures on the war table, illustrated the strategy. His dark Rivaini eyes fell first on the uncomfortable Alistair, who looked ready to turn and bolt, then onto his new mage. She was peering down at the war table with vague interest but little understanding.

"Cailan and the Grey Wardens will lure the Darkspawn into the valley below Ostagar's bridge," he said bluntly, shoving forward a grey stone counter across the map.

Flora, half-listening, shifted from foot to foot. Despite it only being afternoon, the sun had already retreated beneath a thick veil of cloud.

"The King fighting alongside the Grey Wardens, just as in the days of old!" interjected Cailan. Loghain shot him a look of mild incredulity before continuing.

"When the Darkspawn are in position, a signal fire will be lit at the top of the Tower of Ishal. I will order my men to charge from the hills, encircling the horde."

"Who are these men you have lighting the fire?" asked Cailan suddenly, the silhouette of the Tower itself falling over the war table. The map of the valley was consumed by darkness, the counters swallowed by shadow.

"Two of my solders," replied the general, glancing over at the young king. Cailan shook his head impatiently, shooting another glance at Alistair.

"I want a Grey Warden to light the beacon. Warden Alistair can do it."

At the mention of his name, Alistair glanced up in surprise. His brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to protest, then remembered that this was the King. He stared at Cailan, hazel eyes clouded over in confusion.

Cailan paused for a second, then glanced over at Flora.

"Your sister-warden can accompany you. Is that alright with you, Duncan?"

Flora blinked in surprise; Alistair's eyes sliding sideways to meet hers. She gave an infinitesimal shrug. As Duncan began to reply, the general cut him off abruptly.

"Why must it be Grey Wardens, Cailan? Do you not trust my men?"

Cailan held up his hands placatingly, raising his eyebrows at his Queen's father. Loghain glared back, bristling eyebrows drawn together. His battleworn armour seemed dull and drab besides the King's gilded mail surcoat.

"I'm not saying that, Loghain. But the lighting of the beacon is vital."

Loghain shot Alistair a look of dislike. Alistair grimaced back, well aware of Loghain's antipathy.

"But what about the girl? Cailan, she is the most talented barrier mage here. She must accompany you in the field."

Flora stared at her leather-scuffed boots, resigned to the fact that she had no say in where she was assigned.

"All the more reason for her to go with Alistair," countered Cailan, in a tone that brokered no discussion. "This is  _my_  decision, Loghain."

Loghain sighed heavily, shooting Flora a foul glance. She scowled back at him, recalling his fraudulent attack on the servant in his tent.

"Besides, the Warden-Commander will be fighting alongside me," added Cailan, although the general was no longer offering any resistance. Duncan inclined his head, acknowledging the implied compliment, although his eyes were still and thoughtful.

Cailan departed shortly afterwards, restless with anticipation for the evening's battle. Loghain followed him, a barely imperceptible limp speaking to an old injury. Duncan was left standing with a frowning Alistair and a confused Flora.

"So I won't be in the battle at all?" spoke up Alistair after a moment, his brow furrowed. Duncan rested his palms on the edge of the war table and exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a moment.

"The King has requested that Grey Wardens light the beacon, and Wardens willdo so," the older man replied curtly, grimacing up at the clouds as a light drizzle began. Although he had lived in Ferelden for twenty years, he still had not grown fully accustomed to the climate. Rivain was drier than a used snakeskin, and so hot that lakes dried up in the summer.

Flora looked sideways at Alistair, who looked contrite. He bowed his head towards Duncan, raising his fist to his chest.

"I'm sorry, Warden-Commander. I'll light the beacon. I just wanted to do- do my bit to help defeat the Darkspawn."

Duncan relented somewhat, half smiling through his greying beard.

"Believe me, the lighting of the beacon will be essential."

He gazed at the young Warden for a moment thoughtfully, then turned his attention to Flora. She was peering gloomily at the gravel, her fingers twisting the bottom of her grey and blue tunic.

"And are you ready to do your duty, Flora?" he asked her, gently.

Flora turned her wide grey gaze on him, the same colour as the rain clouds above, her expression inscrutable.

"Yes, Warden-Commander," she replied, her voice very quiet. Duncan looked at her and thought _ah, she is inexperienced. Did I make a mistake supplanting her from the Tower?_

_No. She has defended herself from demons all her life, and darkspawn are not all that different._

Hearing shouts from the battlements, Alistair turned away, peering over the ivy-covered balcony to the mist-covered valley below. The faintest of lights had appeared in the southern woods, accompanied by the uniquely distinct sound of an approaching army.

" _The Darkspawn are on final approach!"_  came the cry from the watchtower.

Duncan and Flora remained immobile for a moment; movement flowed around them as the camp sprang into action. He stepped forward, reaching into his pockets and bringing out a thin sheaf of papers, tied with twine.

"These are your official discharge papers from the Circle, certifying you as a member of the Grey Wardens," he said as she took them, gazing up at him anxiously. "Keep them safe."

He watched her tuck the papers inside the front of her tunic. It took her shaking fingers several moments to retie the fastenings.

Once she had finished, he stepped forward and grasped her bare hands between his gauntlets. He had glimpsed Cailan's retinue descending from the upper courtyard and knew that time was short.

"I know that you were not treated well in the Circle," he said hurriedly as she gaped at him like a fish. "Disparaged for your lack of ability. But, little sister, you have a great and rare gift. Use it well."

She blinked up at him, not sure what to say, and then he had dropped her hands and gone to Alistair. The young Warden inclined his head respectfully towards his Commander, solemn faced.

"Do you know when to light the beacon?"

Alistair nodded, glancing towards the base of the Tower, which loomed over them at a slight angle like a drunken sentry.

"I swear, it'll be lit."

Duncan gazed at Alistair for a moment, then nodded briefly. The younger man paused for a brief moment before speaking quietly.

"Maker watch over you, Commander."

"Maker watch over us all," replied Duncan; and with a farewell nod to Flora, he strode in the direction of the King's encampment.


	14. Warden's Fall

Chapter 14: Warden's Fall

Alistair, somewhat dejected, led the way back to the Warden tent. They were surrounded by a frenetic mass of people – soldiers falling into formation as they marched towards the valley road; Wardens distinctive in blue and silver among them. Archers hurriedly checked the tension of their bowstrings as they followed; a contingent of Templars escorted the mages as they followed in the crowd's wake. After weeks of tension and nervous inactivity, the inhabitants of Ostagar had finally been summoned to the field. Loghain had already departed on a fast horse to join his troops, who were stationed on the adjacent hill.

The Warden tent felt damp and empty without its usual inhabitants. Alistair and Flora withdrew to their corner and, as was customary, turned their backs on one another to change.

"Why do we need to wear armour if we aren't taking part in the battle?" complained Flora, her voice muffled as she struggled to pull the striped tunic over her head. The mesh-lined material dropped heavily around her thighs, weighing down her shoulders. She slid a hand inside her shirt, felt Duncan's sheaf of papers against her skin.

"I don't know," replied Alistair, a slight edge to his voice as he buttoned up the padded undercoat. "In case one of us falls down the stairs inside the Tower?"

Flora fastened the belt around her waist, clenching the loose folds of material together over the grey breeches.

"By one of us, you mean me," she grumbled, freeing her hair from the collar of the tunic before reaching down to pull on her leather boots. Alistair snorted, distracted.

"Hm? Yes."

Straightening, Flora reached behind her blindly and patted Alistair's elbow. This served the dual purpose of reassurance and confirmation that he was fully clothed. Turning around, she looked him up and down.

The dull Warden armour was plain and functional, lacking elegance but well-made and sturdy. The only embellishment was the carved silver griffon on the breastplate, claws outstretched. He held the helmet cradled beneath an arm, his dirty blond hair rumpled and stubble just beginning to form. His hazel eyes were clouded with anxiety.

Flora reached out and laid her hand on his breastplate, her fingers spreading over the silver griffon. Her nails were bitten almost to the quick.

"Alistair," she said quietly, her grey irises searching his. "Worrying won't help anything."

He looked down at her, wondering at how a month ago, a mage stood at this proximity would have caused him to break into a sweat.

Now he half-smiled down at her, nodded.

"Of course, you're right, little sister. Let's go to the battlements, we can watch the troops moving out."

He picked up his Warden shield and hung it on his back, sheathed the sword at his belt. The freshly honed blade made a satisfying metallic sound as he slid it home. Flora reached under the damp, straw filled pallet and retrieved her staff. She held it to her nose, grimacing.

"Ah, it smells like  _mould!_ "

Indignantly, she followed Alistair out of the tent and up the gravelled slope towards the main courtyard. He was shaking his head, unsympathetic.

"Well, if you insist on keeping it under your bed, what do you expect?"

She caught up to him just as a contingent of grim-faced mages approached, accompanied by their omnipresent Templar guard. The two Wardens stood back against the crumbling wall to allow them to pass.

"If I leave it out, I get dirty looks from everyone," Flora grumbled, eyeing the stony faced expressions of the mages as they marched past. Several of them shot her supercilious glances as they passed; recognising her as the mage-warden with the embarrassingly limited repertoire. She flushed slightly, dropped her eyes to her feet.

As they continued towards the battlements, Alistair noticed Flora's head hanging. He nudged her in the ribs, gently, trying to prompt a smile.

"They won't be sneering like that when you're patching them up later."

Flora, still glum faced, nodded. "I suppose not."

They came to a halt in the middle of the upper rampart, not far from the foot of the Tower of Ishal. Beneath them they could see the main road curving down and away from the fortress, descending through the mists to the valley floor below. Although the fog seemed to be clearing, the forest was obscured by lengthening shadow as the sun began to sink beyond the Frostbacks. Somewhere, hidden within the darkened pines on the opposite side of the valley, the King's general was waiting with two thousand men.

The majority of troops had already departed Ostagar, the Kingsguard and Wardens at the head of the forces. The Templars escorting the mages had been the last of the main contingent to leave. The Chantry sisters were praying at their makeshift shrine; a few lookouts and guards still remained at their posts. The ruined fortress seemed very quiet without the majority of its inhabitants; a pall seemed to settle over the old, mossy stones.

Alistair leaned over the battlements, sword and shield leaning against the stone wall. The last of the Templar retinue dropped down from sight as the cobbled road descended, and he exhaled under his breath. Glancing sideways at Flora, he saw that she was peeling wax paper from a wedge of cheese.

"What?" she demanded indignantly, tearing the twine with her teeth. "We need to conserve our strength."

"Conserve our strength for what? We aren't fighting!"

"You never know," she retorted, taking a overlarge and deliberate bite and then regretting it immediately.

Alistair took the crumpled square of wax paper and smoothed it out against the stone. The rampart slowly descended into shadows around them; those usually responsible for lighting the braziers were somewhere on the valley floor, far below.

"Have you never been able to cast anything else?" he asked, thinking back to the derogatory sneers of the mages while absentmindedly folding the paper.

Flora swallowed the mouthful of cheese with difficulty, grunting in the negative.

"No. I've never even been able to light a candle."

Alistair raised his eyebrows, grateful for any distraction that averted his mind from the valley and the approaching horde; where he still believed his rightful place should be.

"I wonder why?"

Flora shook her head, swallowing the last of the cheese with a triumphant gulp.

"I don't know. Never been able to. The instructors couldn't understand it."

"Did you just eat  _all_ that cheese? I don't know how you stay so skinny. Anyway, at least healing's a good skill to have. Other people appreciate it, even if the Circle doesn't."

Flora snorted, leaning over the battlements and pointing out a circling hawk hoping for early evening prey.

"I'm still a mage, though. No one likes me."

Alistair glanced sideways at her, then held out his hand. Resting on his palm was a small flat dog, which he had created by carefully folding the wax paper. She took it, holding it up towards the sinking sun admiringly.

"Ah, where did you learn how to do that? Teach me how."

"An old bard who lived in Redcliffe taught me. That's where I grew up."

Flora gazed at him curiously, fingering the delicate folded ears of the paper dog. Although they had spent over a month in each other's company, they had shared little in the way of personal history. Conversation had mostly been focused around current events, and speculation about the future. She only knew that he had spent nearly ten years in the Chantry, the latter five in preparation to join the Templars.

"Redcliffe," she said after a moment, holding the dog back out to him. "That's the village on the southern shore of Lake Calanhad."

He nodded, then gestured down towards her palm.

"Keep it."

Flora tucked the dog inside her shirt, sliding it beneath the twine binding Duncan's papers together.

 

* * *

 

A short time later, the sun had sunk fully beneath the horizon. A forlorn moon rose slowly in its place, issuing its weaker alternative light. Dim pinpricks of torchlight were faintly visible on the valley floor, but no movement could be seen.

Alistair had been pacing back and forth between the narrowly spaced battlements, treading the worn flagstones down further. Flora was sitting on the cold tiles, back against the wall, absentmindedly twirling the magic dampener around the end of her staff.

"I just wish it was daylight," Alistair exclaimed suddenly, coming to an abrupt halt.

"Does the dark give them any advantage? _,"_ mumbled Flora, running her finger over the lyrium-infused iron ring. Alistair shrugged, then shook his head. Shadows obscured his expression.

"Not that I know of. It's just- everything seems  _worse_  at night."

Flora looked at him for a second, then hoisted herself up by her staff, scrambling to her feet.

"Here."

Holding the staff upright, she gazed up at its nondescript beech end. Raising her fingers, she began to coax a pale white-gold light from the dull wood. As the movements of her fingers became more pronounced, the light expanded and grew. Finally she held up the staff, the end dancing with incandescent, fluid white-gold flame. It bathed their section of the ramparts in mellow light, reflecting brilliantly against the metallic griffon on Alistair's breastplate.

Alistair gaped at it, then at her.

"I thought you said you couldn't summon a candle flame!"

"It's not flame," Flora said, lowering the base of the staff to the flagstones. The arcing glow seemed to change shape every moment, clinging to the wood like molten metal. "Not really. It's not hot. It's just my healing magic."

Alistair approached cautiously, staring at the strange white gold flame with a Templar's suspicion. After a pause, he raised a hand, fingers still bare from folding the dog. Inhaling, he passed his hand quickly through the flame.

Letting out a grunt of surprise, he moved his fingers back and forth. The magic clung to his skin, falling in small sparks when he shook his hand, but it was indeed not hot. Instead, it felt lukewarm, like bathwater left out too long.

"You can't cook meat on it" Flora whispered conspiratorially, watching the light dance over his face. "I've tried."

Alistair laughed and withdrew his hand, striding back over to the battlements to pull his gauntlets back on.

"Is food all you ever think about-?"

His words were cut off abruptly by the sound of a bugle, thin and distant, from somewhere in the shadowed valley below. Faintly, like the cries of ghosts, the angry shouts of men were carried on the wind up to the fortress ramparts. Alistair started as if he had been struck from behind.

"That's the signal," he breathed, then moved swiftly to retrieve his shield and blade. He turned, looking for Flora but she was already beside him; her staff slung over her back with the arcane glow reduced to the scale of a single lamp.

"Ready?" he asked, glancing up at the ancient stone mass towering behind them, a thousand year old marker of the Tevinter Imperium's once-dominance.

Flora nodded silently, her eyes scaling the height of the structure. As her stomach churned, she wished that she had not eaten the entire wedge of cheese.

As the faint war cries of men and monsters drifted up from the valley below, the two young Wardens made their way to the foot of the Tower of Ishal.

As they approached the massive set of iron-bound wooden doors that marked the front entrance to the tower, there was the sound of shouting from within. Alistair strode forward and was about to open the door when it burst open before them. A man clad in Loghain's livery stumbled out, pale-faced and bloodied.

"Shut the damn door!" he bleated weakly at Alistair, who did as he was told, gaping. "Bloody Tower is filled with Darkspawn!"

Flora approached anxiously, her fingers reaching behind her shoulder to rest on the haft of her staff. Alistair stared at the man, his head already beginning to shake back and forth.

"No, that can't be possible."

"Everyone is  _dead_ in there!" Loghain's scout hissed, sitting heavily on the top step and mopping some of the blood from his forehead. "They must have burrowed up from the lower chambers."

Alistair raised his hand to his head with a grimace, while Flora eyed the bloodied man.

"Do you need me to- ?" she asked, at which the man shook his head, grimly.

"It's not my blood, lassie. And anyone in there- " he gestured at the double doors behind him, "- is beyond healing."

The wind carried the sounds of the battle below up the sloping sides of the valley, men's cries echoing around the walls of the ruined fortress. Alistair gritted his teeth, glanced up at the top of the Tower. It stood above them, vast and dark, starkly silhouetted against the moon.

"We need to move quickly," he said, lifting his shield from his back and glancing at Flora.

Flora nodded, gripping the staff, her face set and pale. A small knot of fear was forming in her throat. Alistair turned to the shaking man, raising his eyebrows.

"Are you joining us? The King depends on that beacon being lit!"

To Alistair's dismay, the man let out a hollow chuckle, remaining hunched and motionless on the steps.

"I've seen enough Darkspawn to last me a lifetime. No, you two Grey Wardens can deal with it. That's what you do, right?"

Flora scowled at him, while Alistair let out a sigh and moved towards the doors, sword in hand.

"Fine. Ready, Flo?"

"Partially," mumbled Flora in response, gripping the staff more tightly to prevent her fingers from trembling. Alistair nodded tightly at her, before nudging his shoulder against the door and edging it open. The inside of the Tower was dark, the braziers extinguished. Their footsteps on the flagstones echoed around the chamber like thunderclaps.

As the heavy wooden door swung shut behind them, they were immersed in suffocating darkness. Then Flora held up her staff, coaxing the white gold flame from the end of it until it formed a blazing torch. She swung it before her, sending a sweeping arc of light around the hollow chamber.

There was no sight of movement. The vast stone chamber had become a giant mortuary, a mere receptacle for the two dozen corpses which lay scattered across the tiles. They lay face down, mutilated and broken, uniforms torn beyond recognition. Dark washes of blood swept across the stone beneath them, pooling in the mortar-filled cracks.

Flora felt her whole body slacken in shock, as if someone had suddenly turned her bones to liquid. Suddenly unable to stand, she dropped to her knees, and the staff fell from her hand. The torch dropped too but was not extinguished, illuminating the twisted expression of a man who had been slain only feet from the door. Although she had treated plenty a gruesome injury and did not squirm at the sight of blood, she had never before seen such wanton carnage.

After a moment, she heard Alistair's voice, urgent and low in her ear, muffled as if through a blanket.

"Flora! Flora, come on. There's nothing to be done for them. FLORA!"

He had to shout in her face before she appeared to recognise him. Her grey eyes stood out starkly against her skin, her dark pupils massive with panic. He gripped her shoulders, mail clad fingers clenching her hard enough to bruise.

"Flora, we have to light that torch _._ "

He hauled her roughly to her feet, gave her another shake.

"Let's go, we need to get upstairs. Everyone here is with the Maker already."

She followed him wordlessly, the arc of light before them shuddering as her hand trembled around the staff. They made their way across the vaulted chamber, towards an archway leading to the main stairway.

As they reached the foot of the stairs, Alistair reached out an arm to stop her.

"Careful. Look." He pointed towards the corner of the stone passageway, where the shadows seemed to pool darker. Flora directed the light in the direction of his finger, and the white-gold glow illuminated a gaping hole in the floor. The flagstones had caved in, revealing a clawed out void into the earth below.

"So now we know how they got in," Alistair said grimly, eyeing the ruined flooring. "I liked the pattern on these tiles, too."

Flora blinked at him, unsure whether she had just heard an attempt at humour. He gave her no more time to contemplate, but grabbed her arm and began to haul her up the uneven steps.

"They're on the other side," he warned her outside the wooden door at the top of the stairs, alerted by the preternatural warden senses. She nodded, having forced the knot of panic down into her stomach.

"Let's light that torch," she whispered, holding up the glowing staff. He half-smiled at her, then quietly leaned into the door.

Despite his attempts to be stealthy, the iron fixings of the door gave a rusty creak of protest. This floor still had its braziers lit, illuminating a group of four Hurlocks as they crouched in the centre of the room. The corpses of more men surrounded them. The noise of the door opening echoed around the chamber; their mutated faces immediately turned to the archway. Slightly thrown, Alistair paused for moment, then held his sword aloft.

"For the Grey Wardens!"

Raising his shield in front of him, he charged forward. They lurched upright, blood dripping from fanged maws, raising their own rusted weaponry. Feeling the knot of panic rising into her throat once more, Flora followed him, raising her staff.

It was at once both like and unlike the Darkspawn encounters they had faced in the Wilds. The half-light made it difficult to see, but the stone pillars offered useful cover. Alistair used his sword to thrust straight into the snarling face of one Hurlock, withdrawing it in a spray of gore to slash sideways into the shoulder of another; while blocking the curved Dwarven blade of a third with his shield.

Flora saw the fourth dragging a vast spiked mace as he hurled himself towards Alistair, and swung her hand upwards with a yelp. A swathe of dripping white-gold light arced up to form an incandescent barrier; the Darkspawn's rusted weapon bounced off it as if it were solid steel. The creature itself fell to the floor, momentarily stunned. Flora brought her staff down onto its head with a loud crack, then spun it and brought the other end down even harder. Dark blood began to seep from its nostrils, and she turned to see Alistair grunt in shock.

With two Hurlocks dead and a third incapacitated, a Genlock archer had emerged from behind a pillar and launched a black arrow into Alistair's leg. The depth of the injury had been mitigated by the mail, but the junior warden still let out a snarl of pain as he wrenched it awkwardly from his knee. Flora shot out a hand towards him, her lips moving silently.

The gasping Alistair felt a wellspring of energy suddenly burst inside him, his injured knee temporarily numbed. His shield felt as light as a feather as he swung it into the snarling face of the fourth Hurlock. As the last creature, enraged by the deaths of its companions, lifted a massive broadsword, a shield of shimmering light sprung up between them.

Meanwhile Flora had seen the archer at the pillar loading another arrow to take a second shot. She skidded across the blood-slick flagstones towards it with her staff out, one hand held behind her to maintain Alistair's shield. As it raised its bow, she lifted the glowing staff towards its mutated face. The white gold flame increased in brilliance, cool and incandescent.

The archer, temporarily dazzled, dropped the bow and let out a vicious shriek of rage, lashing out blindly towards her. A muscled arm struck the staff full force, stinking claws coming within inches of her face. She staggered backwards, dropping the staff, the light extinguishing in a second. As she fell, she looked behind her, to see Alistair withdrawing his blade from the chest of the fourth Hurlock, still protected by the sheath of light. He looked to her and she saw his mouth begin to form a shout of warning.

The barrier around him collapsed and reformed around Flora just as the Genlock hurled itself on top of her, going for the throat. Its foul breath seeped through the misty barrier as it scrabbled hopelessly, trying to slash its way through. She grunted, hands held before her as the golden mesh bent inward. Suddenly, the Genlock's head was cleaved from its shoulders, enraged expression intact as it rolled across the floor. Alistair, sword in hand and breathing hard, dragged the body off her. She sat up, the barrier disintegrating, eyes wide.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, sheathing his blade and exhaling unsteadily. She shook her head mutely, staring at the limp body of the Genlock as it bled out on the tiles beside her.

"We need to keep moving," Alistair continued grimly, shooting a glance towards the stairway.

Seeing that he was resting his weight unevenly, Flora leaned forwards and put her hand on his leg. Bringing her face close to his knee, she saw the bloodied gap between his mail tunic and the greaves, and opened her mouth. Exhaling, she breathed the whitegold energy over the wound, moving her fingers quickly in a long-practised pattern.

"That's only temporary," she said thickly, feeling the tingling particles of light still clinging to her tongue. "I'll fix it properly later."

He smiled at her, offering a hand. As she clambered to her feet, retrieving her staff, he gestured across the chamber.

"We have to hurry. They're coming up through the hole."

They made their way up through the Tower of Ishal, managing to keep to the shadows and avoid the clusters of Darkspawn on the third floor. A vast bonfire of human flesh was taking place as the Hurlocks capered around it in celebration. Gagging on the smell, Flora and Alistair made their way to the stairs and reached the fourth floor.

Here, they ran into two smaller separate packs of Darkspawn; two Genlock archers and a group of injured Hurlocks. The two junior Wardens worked together in a synchrony developed out of weeks of practise; Alistair leading with Flora at his back, staff raised. If she kept close enough, she could encompass both within a glimmering sheath of protection. Leaving the bleeding corpses behind them, they made their way to the next set of steps.

These led out onto the stone balcony which encircled the top of the Tower. High above the crumbling fortress, the valley below seemed to be bathed in fire. Even from this lofty height, the sounds of desperate battle were audible, carried by and mingling with the howling wind. It had started to drizzle, the flagstones slick underfoot, rain blowing sideways into their faces. Alistair stopped so suddenly that Flora collided with his back. He turned to her, his face pale.

"They've caught up." His words were swept away by the gusts of air buffeting the Tower.

She stared at him, her senses not yet refined enough to match his. Then she realised that she did not need to, she could  _hear_  the horde surging below them, a seething mass single-mindedly bent on pursuit. Alistair glanced over his shoulder, desperately, eyes searching for the small stairway that led to the Tower roof.

"There's no time- " he began, then Flora raised her staff towards him. He gaped at her, rivulets of rain dripping down his face.

"The magic dampener," she breathed, jabbing a finger towards the nondescript iron ring that encircled one end of the staff. "Take it off. Only a Templar can."

He blinked at her in confusion and she thrust it impatiently at him.

"Hurry up!"

"Flora, what are you-?"

"I'll stay here and hold them off. You light the beacon."

Alistair stared at her for a moment, shocked. She scowled up at him, the loose strands of red hair plastered damply to her cheeks.

"Alistair!" she hissed, her grey eyes suddenly fierce. "Just do it!"

Numbly, he reached out and fiddled with the iron ring. It came apart in his hands and he let it fall to the flagstones. She exhaled, lowering the staff and returning her gaze to Alistair. He was staring at her, with an awful expression.

"Alistair, I will push you off this tower myself if you don't leave now," she hissed at him, removing a strand of windswept hair from her mouth. "Duncan is waiting for you! Your King is waiting for you!  _Go!"_

He nodded, looked as if he were about to say something, then backed away. Forcing himself to turn, fighting the urge to vomit, he headed around the stone balcony.

Glancing behind him, he saw Flora standing at the top of the steps, her slight figure clad in grey lost against the imposing stone. His stomach constricted and he forced himself to turn away. The stairway to the roof was before him; he began to fight his way through the rain towards it, shielding his face with a gauntlet.

Flora watched him go, then returned her gaze to the narrow steps descending to the fourth floor. Through the closed wooden door, she could hear the bestial sounds of the approaching horde. Swallowing her panic, she instinctually twisted the gold ring around her little finger. Feeling the familiar carved  _F C_ beneath her fingertip calmed her, allowing her to regain focus.

"Flora Cove, don't you mess this up," she mumbled to herself, lowering the end of her staff to the wet flagstones and closing her eyes. "This is the only thing you've ever been good at. Apart from eating for Ferelden."

As she snorted despite herself, white gold strands of light began to stream from the bottom of the staff. Lifting one hand, the streams of light rose upwards and surged across to join with each other. Shimmering strands interwove, weaving together to create a great gleaming barrier across the stairway.

Opening her eyes, Flora stepped back to survey her creation. Even she was impressed the size of the undampened barrier, glancing at the naked end of her staff in shock. A gold stream of light connected the base of the wood to the barrier, constantly renewing its energy.

"If only the other mages could see this," Flora breathed, wiping damp strands of hair from her eyes. "They might stop- "

She was cut off abruptly by the door in front of her buckling, the wood creaking in helpless protest. All other thoughts fled; she tightened her grip on the staff and swallowed. Her heart began to throb painfully in her chest and she gritted her teeth.

_Stay focused, Flora. Keep it up for as long as possible. The Blight stops here._

_Maybe they'll build me a commemorative statue in Herring._

_They're more likely to name a fishing net after me._

The door splintered as the horde broke through. There appeared to be no distinction between individual creatures; it was a surging mass of Darkspawn moving towards her, bloodied maws gaping, cruel blades thrust forward. Flora planted her feet either side of the staff and braced herself. The mass struck the barrier and fell back, letting out twisting cries of rage. Flora felt her staff shudder and gripped it tighter, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. The terror surged up from her stomach and she fought it back.

_You've faced demons, Flora. Be brave._

They struck the barrier again and again, hurling themselves against it, the ones behind not waiting for those in front to stagger upright before they too flung themselves forward. The noise they were making was indescribable, a ghastly screeching that chilled bone to the marrow.

Flora closed her eyes against the cacophony, focused instead on the warm whitegold energy passing through her body. She felt a ringing echo inside her skull, heard the whisperings of unseen things as she allowed herself to become a conduit for the only type of Fade energy she could harness. The barrier bent against the surging mass, but did not break.

_**Yes. Good girl, yes.** _

_**Hold on** _ _._

She smelt something and opened her eyes; saw smoke drifting through the grey drizzle. The top of the tower was glowing, orange light illuminating the crumbling stone buttresses. Despite herself, she grinned, squinting up through the rain.

"Alistair!" she shouted triumphantly, the wind sweeping her words away. " _Alistair!"_

Then all hell broke loose.

The stone wall of the Tower shattered outwards, revealing a vast mutated form in the shadows. It was six times the size of a Hurlock, with vast curving horns and malevolent eyes like a spider. Flora, who had never seen an ogre in the Wilds before, gaped at it. It was breathing hard, pallid flesh covered in mucus, razor like claws gouging the flagstones. It raised its bull-like head and looked at her.

Then from overheard came a shriek, far more terrible than any Darkspawn could produce. The moonlight darkened as a shape crossed it, circling the skies above them. Then there was a deafening sound of an impact as the top of the Tower seemed to topple, ancient stonework crumbling. Flora lost her grip on the staff, stumbled and fell backwards. The last thing she saw was the barrier disintegrating before her, golden light evaporating into the fog. She reached out her hand, light streaming from her fingertips in a futile effort to defend herself.

Then the world receded from her and she fell into darkness; her fall accompanied by the faint beating of leathery wings.


	15. Revelations and Recriminations

Chapter 15: Revelations and Recriminations

_Flora, help your father with the boat._

_Yes, Mama._

_Her least favourite chore, but she always did what her parents told her to do. Even though the boatshed was dirty and smelt strange, like old tar; she was a good girl. The shed was constructed against the wall of their small house, leaning against it drunkenly. As she ran down the path, seagulls circled in the sky overhead. The tide was out, revealing great stretches of grey sand and bleached driftwood. The smell of salt clung to her nostrils, synonymous with home._

_Her father was patching a splintered gap in the small wooden boat, a wound inflicted when it had been forced aground in yesterday's storm. His wrinkled gaze was focused and intent._

_Papa, I've come to help._

_Her father turned to her, his worn face contorted in fear._

_What are you doing, girl? Don't you know the tide is coming in?_

_He pointed and Flora turned to look, just in time to see a white-capped surge of water crest over the beach. Already vast, it grew steadily in height as it approached the shed. The roar of the storm surge echoed in her ears and Flora opened her mouth to scream._

"Wake up, wake up! 'Tis only a dream," came an irritable voice in her ear. Flora opened her eyes, saw a dark-haired woman hovering above her, and sat upright. Immediately a jagged bolt of pain shot through her leg and she gasped, reaching down reflexively through the blanket which covered her.

"Calm yourself, girl. Mother did as best she could with your injuries, yet she is no natural healer. Your leg is broken; she has set it but I believe 'tis still in need of your attention."

Flora surveyed her surroundings with increasing confusion. She was on a stuffed pallet in one corner of a small stone hut, just large enough for a bed, some shelving and a large chest. A cast-iron cooking pot rested over smouldering embers in the fireplace. The woman kneeling beside her was strangely familiar, and suddenly Flora remembered where she had seen her before.  _Her first excursion into the Wilds, lurking beside the horses._

"You're Morrigan," she breathed, as the woman rolled intense amber eyes and sighed.

"I'm  _so_  pleased to be memorable. Yes, 'tis a month to the day when we stumbled upon one another."

Flora stared at her for a moment, then looked down at herself.

"Why am I naked?" she asked warily, peering beneath the blanket. Morrigan rose to her feet with a gentle clatter of the tiny animal bones strung around her neck.

"Because for the past three days I have tended to your wounds. You're welcome."

"Thank you," replied Flora slowly, her memories of the fight at Ishal slowly creeping back into her consciousness. "Um, so... are the Darkspawn defeated? Do you know what happened?"

Morrigan paused for a moment, then turned her back to tend to the dying fire.

"I am afraid not. The King lies dead and your Wardens are betrayed. Oh, and _also_  dead."

Flora gaped at her in disbelief, feeling cold fingers of fear edging down her spine. Clutching the blanket to her chest, her throat seemed to clamp around the words to stop them escaping.

"Everyone's dead? But we lit the beacon."

"I'm afraid so," Morrigan replied, clicking her fingers at the glowing coals. A flame sprung up, licking the base of the iron cauldron. "Your General called for a retreat when he saw the signal fire. He is returning to Denerim as we speak, and has branded the Grey Wardens as traitors."

Flora inhaled unsteadily, confusion fighting with nausea in the pit of her stomach.

"I don't understand," she whispered, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. "Everybody  _can't_  be dead."

"Well, they are." Morrigan's voice was unsympathetic as she prodded at the flames with an iron poker. "Your friend is not taking it well."

"My friend? Alistair?"

"Is that his name? He's not stopped blubbering since Mother brought you both here," retorted the Witch of the Wilds, adding something small and furry to the stewpot. "I think he's outside, by the lake."

Flora tried to move, then hissed in pain as another jolt of pain shot up her leg.

"Oh," she remembered, pulling up the blanket. Her calf was heavily bruised and bound tightly against a wooden splint. With trembling fingers, she loosened the splint and leaned forward, tucking her braid out of the way. Exhaling unsteadily, she coaxed the pale gold mist over the ugly, swollen flesh. It took her nearly a minute to heal the bone and torn muscle; her mind kept returning to the top of the Tower of Ishal, to the wind and the rain and the sound of leathery wings beating in her ear.

"Very clever," admitted Morrigan grudgingly, watching her from besides the cooking fire. "Even Mother was impressed by you."

Flora scrambled to her feet clumsily, gathering the heavy woollen blanket around her. Somewhat unsteadily she made her way across the room and pushed open the wooden door. The hut rested on a small island amidst the marshes, surrounded by a few scrawny trees. The sun hung low and hazy in the sky; it appeared to be late afternoon.

She looked around and saw Alistair sitting by a half-collapsed wooden dock, staring down into the murky swamp as if it would give him an answer. He was clad in the beige linen tunic and breeches worn beneath armour; his shoulders were hunched and he looked like a defeated man.

"Alistair?" she said quietly, clutching the blanket around herself. He startled, looked over his shoulder.

"Flora? You're awake!" He clambered to his feet, hurried over and grasped her shoulders. Concerned hazel eyes swept over her in quick appraisal.

"Thank the Maker. You're not hurt?"

"I'm fine," she replied, staring up at him. Dark shadows surrounded his eyes, with three days of stubble on his cheeks. "Alistair, is it true?"

His jaw tightened and he let her go, his eyes hollow. This was all the answer that she needed; but he opened his mouth to respond anyway.

"They're all dead," he said bitterly, turning away to gaze out over the murky Wilds. "The King, Duncan. Everyone except Loghain, traitorous bastard."

Flora felt a moment of sharp sadness for the man who had been kind to her, who had encouraged her to find value in her magic limitations. Then she looked at the new gauntness of Alistair's cheeks, and felt the scale of his loss.

"Alistair," she whispered and a muscle twitched in his jaw; he turned away.

"Don't," he said tightly, fixing his gaze on the stone hut. "I know. I don't want to believe it."

He strode away from her back towards the dock, then slumped down into his former position. Flora hesitated and then went to sit beside him, clamping the front of the blanket closed with her fingers.

For a time they sat there in silence, watching the sun slowly slip beneath the horizon.

"He always said that this might happen," Alistair said finally, his gaze unfocused across the lake. Flora looked sideways at him, her grey eyes wide and anxious.

"I mean, that any of us could die at any time. But I never thought it could happen to  _him_. He always seemed invincible."

Flora stretched out an arm from beneath the blanket and put a hand on his knee.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled for want of anything else to say, patting her fingers gently against his skin. Above them, a crow gave a rasping cry of warning as it spotted the slow rotations of an eagle.

Alistair nodded, not trusting himself to respond. He glanced sideways at her, then gaped at the sight of her bare shoulder above the blanket.

"Are you…are you  _Maker-naked_ beneath there?!"

When she nodded, he shot up quicker than if she had electrocuted him, his face flooding with colour as he turned to face the stone hut.

"Where are your  _clothes_?!" he demanded, in a tone several pitches higher than usual.

"Left them on top of the Tower of Ishal?" Flora retorted, clutching the blanket more tightly around her as she scrambled to her feet.

Alistair clapped a hand over his eyes, groaning. "I'm definitely getting struck by lightning. Please put something on."

"Fret not," interjected Morrigan's world-wearied voice between them as she went to retrieve firewood from the stack beside the hut.

"Mother has quite the collection of odds and ends in her chest from… visitors she has entertained over the years."

The dark haired woman cast a scornful look over at Alistair, who was still determinedly facing away, his ears beet-red.

"And you should not be so hasty to begrudge this body. For 'tis this body which placed itself between you and certain destruction. Or is your memory so short?"

Alistair startled at this, then grunted in frustration. In the aftermath of the tragedy of Ostagar, in the death and despair it had wrought; Flora staying behind to delay the horde had almost slipped his memory.

"Sorry, Flo- " he began, turning with his fingers over his eyes. When there was no reply, he cracked his fingers apart slightly. The marshy grass stood bare before him; his sister-warden gone.

* * *

 

Inside the hut, Morrigan knelt beneath the bed and pulled out a tangle of leather and wool. Garments of all shapes and sizes spilled out onto the stone floor; everything from velvet doublets to silk pantaloons. Flora held up a Chantry priest's robe against herself, then eyed Morrigan dubiously.

"Where did you say your mother got all this from?"

"Why, from her many conquests, of course," Morrigan replied, returning to the stew and giving it another brisk stir. The smell of unidentifiable animal filled the stone hut. Flora put down the priest's robe with some trepidation, then tried on a heavy leather helmet with a grill covering the eyes. Tilting her head back and forth, grimacing at the weight of it, she stared at her reflection in a burnished Templar's shield propped up against the wall.

"When you're finished playing dress-up," Morrigan's voice cut acidically through the smoke of the fire. "Dinner is almost ready."

Flora removed the helmet and surveyed the tangled pile. Feeling fraudulent even handling the velvets and silks, she found instead a linen vest and rough wool breeches that were somewhat close to her size. Pulling them on, she glanced around for shoes but could find none.

"Your things from Ostagar are over in the corner," called Morrigan over her shoulder as she perused the vial-filled shelving. Flora started, then approached the small pile warily. As she caught a glimpse of blue and silver stripes, she felt the bile rise in her throat as she remembered Ostagar.

_Duncan dead. The King dead. The Wardens gone._

Inhaling unsteadily, focusing on the smell of the roasting meat in the stew, she knelt beside the remains of her possessions. Lifting the tunic, she saw that the blue and silver was irreparably torn, the material saturated with black Darkspawn gore. As she held it up, the sheaf of papers fell out, blood splattered but intact, still bound in twine. She tucked them inside her vest, noticing gratefully that her boots appeared to be relatively intact. Then her eyes fell on something leaning against the wall and she let out an involuntarily sound of confusion.

"But- this fell. I dropped it. Why is it here?"

The two jagged halves of her staff were propped up against the wall, the wood bloodied but recognisable. She felt a moment of sadness, then berated herself for mourning a mere staff when so many were lying dead.

"I should not feel sad overmuch," stated Morrigan briskly, retrieving three tin bowls from the shelving. "It appears to be the most plain and basic of tools."

"It saved my life," retorted Flora, coming to sit cross legged on one of the overlapping rugs beside the fire. Morrigan raised her finely plucked eyebrows, ladling some stew into one of the bowls.

"Call that whining friend of yours in. Supper's ready."

As Flora scrambled to her feet, she registered with mild surprise that her leg still ached somewhat. The door opened and Alistair entered as if on cue, clapping one hand over his eyes.

"Can I look?" he asked, walking into the corner of the bed. Morrigan rolled her eyes as she ladled another portion of the stew into a second tin bowl.

"I've found some clothes," Flora said hastily as he threatened to collide with the shelving. He opened his eyes and exhaled with some relief, taking a seat beside her on the rug.

"Thank the Maker. Sorry. I just- well, you know. I'm not used to it."

"Curiouser and curiouser," Morrigan mused acerbically, handing the first bowl to Flora, who lifted it straight to her mouth. "Here I thought you were a Grey Warden, and yet you have the prudishness of a Templar."

"Well, I was raised in a monastery," Alistair mumbled, taking the second bowl of stew.

At this, Morrigan snorted in wordless derision, ladling stew into the final bowl. Alistair, when he thought she wasn't looking, took a sniff of the meaty broth and eyed it suspiciously.

"Ah, must we repeat this ritual every time? Trust me, boy, if I wanted you dead, you would be dead."

"Or turned into a frog," muttered Alistair, but took a cautious sip. Morrigan gestured towards Flora, raising her eyebrows.

"If you have any doubt, look at your friend over there. If I'm not mistaken, the little hog has already devoured the entire bowl."

Flora, who had indeed finished the soup in a matter of seconds, wiped her mouth and looked defensive.

"I haven't eaten in a  _week-!_ "

"Three days," interjected Morrigan.

"- and I'm starving."

Alistair took another sip, then set the bowl down, his eyes darkening once more.

"Please, no more blubbering," muttered Morrigan. Flora, eyeing the remaining stew in the pot, interrupted quickly.

"Is your mother going to eat dinner with us?"

Morrigan shook her head, while Alistair grunted, muttering that he  _very_  much hoped not.

"No, she is out hunting. I assume that she will back tomorrow, if we are very unlucky."

Flora fiddled with the fraying hem of the linen tunic, tugging at a stray thread.

"You said earlier that she –your mother- saved us from Ostagar," she said carefully, pulling the thread loose and watching the linen slowly unravel. "I don't remember seeing any, um,  _older ladies_  at the top of the Tower."

Morrigan laughed nastily, reaching out to take the pot off the fire before the contents could burn.

"Why, she turned into a dragon and scooped you up with her claws, of course."

Flora shot a glance at Alistair, who shrugged helplessly. Morrigan lifted her dark brows, rising to her feet and placing the pot on the shelf.

"Or I could spin you a more believable lie, if you wish," she continued, her tone derisive. Flora nodded, diplomatically.

"I think I'll ask her."

"Good luck getting a straight answer out of that old witch," Morrigan flung back, extinguishing the flames with a gesture. The hut was suddenly plunged into half-darkness, moonlight spilling into one corner from a gap in the thatched roof.

"Now, 'tis late and I am ready to rest. Templar, Warden- whatever you are. Do you have a problem sleeping beside your greedy little friend now that she is awake?"

Alistair, face hidden by the shadows, shook his head mutely.

"I-I have to check her during the night anyway."

"Do you?" Morrigan responded nastily as she withdrew around the partition to the bed.

* * *

 

Some time later, Alistair lay flat on his back on the animal skins beside the pallet, staring up at the ceiling. An arm's reach away, Flora sat with her trouser leg rolled up over her knee, head bent, fingers coaxing golden light over her still bruised calf.

"You alright?" he asked after a moment, anxiety filtering through the question. She nodded, leaning forward until her head was beside her knee. Closing her eyes, she exhaled more of the shimmering energy over her bare calf.

"I did a poor job of fixing it earlier," she replied, feeling the golden particles clinging to her tongue. "Were you hurt?"

He shook his head, watching the bruising fade to a pale greenish tinge beneath the nimble working of her fingers.

"I was knocked unconscious. Woke up here, with these two witches-" he lowered his voice. "And I mean that in  _all_  senses of the words."

Flora returned upright and surveyed her work, finally satisfied. Grabbing the blanket she had discarded earlier, she settled back on the pallet. Moonlight streamed through the gaps in the thatch above her head.

"Flo." Alistair's quiet voice was disembodied in the darkness.

"Mm?"

"I didn't say this earlier and I should have, so I'm sorry. It was a brave thing you did at Ostagar. Remaining behind to give me time to light the beacon. But, really, you should have gone. I should have been the one to stay."

"Why?"

"Because- because I've been a Grey Warden for longer."

"Oh." Flora turned over onto her side to face him, pulling the blanket up over her shoulders for protection against the plummeting temperature within the hut. "But it made more sense for me to stay. Creating shields and barriers is the  _only thing I can do._ As well as heal. One trick pony, remember?"

Alistair half-laughed into the darkness. "I suppose so. The voice of reason from Trout."

"It's Herring, and you know it," she muttered back darkly.

In the darkest part of the night, Alistair awoke. As it had been for the past three nights, his first emotion was bewilderment at the eclectic surroundings; then the shock and grief struck as reality reasserted itself.

Grimacing, he suppressed the wave of sadness as it surged upwards and turned over to face Flora. Dishevelled hair fell across her nose, her features still as carved marble in the moonlight.

As he had done for the past three nights, he reached out gently and touched her eyelid. He felt wetness on his finger and she flinched away from him.

"Flora? Flo?" he whispered tentatively after a moment. "What's wrong?"

She sniffed damply, then rolled onto her back and covered her face with a hand.

"I…I didn't do a good job of healing my knee," she said evasively, her voice unsteady. He said nothing, knowing her well enough to know she hadn't finished. There was silence for a few minutes; an owl hooted from somewhere within the Wilds.

"I should've gone with them into the valley," she mumbled through her fingers, her voice now quivering like a plucked bowstring. "If I had been there, I might have been able to protect them. I don't know."

"You can't think like that," Alistair replied after a moment, his tone heavy. "I've thought of little else since we escaped, but it doesn't accomplish anything. It just makes you feel worse."

Flora let out a grunt of helpless frustration, grimacing through her fingers up at the ceiling.

"I could've done  _something_  to save him," she mumbled, defiant. Alistair shook his head, although she wasn't looking.

"Even if we'd both been there, it wouldn't have made a difference in the end. We would have been overwhelmed," he replied, quietly. "Loghain betrayed everybody. The King, the Wardens. Duncan."

Flora exhaled unsteadily and was quiet for a moment. A tear ran down the side of her cheek and dripped into her ear. Not knowing what else to do, Alistair reached out to bridge the space between them, and took her hand in his. Her fingers curled around his and squeezed them tightly, as if he were a rope and she were drowning.

 


	16. Me and You, Just Us Two*

Chapter 16: Me and You, Just Us Two

Alistair was woken the next morning by the lukewarm sunlight bathing his face from the high window. Blinking and stiff from sleeping on the blanket-covered floor, he felt something caught between his fingers. He turned his head and saw Flora's slender fingers, still entangled within his own. The next moment, a tall shadow fell across them.

"So, this is  _all_  that is left, then?" enquired an imperious female voice. "The fate of Ferelden, left in the hands of two inexperienced Grey Warden recruits. How heartening."

Alistair groaned and sat upright, gently removing his fingers from Flora's. She mumbled, grimacing and pulling the blanket over her head.

"Wake up," he muttered, digging his elbow into her side. "It's my second favourite person in the world, after Morrigan."

"Is it wise to be  _insolent_  to the one who saved your life, boy?" enquired the woman, who had haughty and finely hewn features, with a tangled mass of grey hair reaching to her waist. Her dress was merely a collection of sewn rags and leather, although she was adorned with many pieces of gleaming jewellery. In her hand she held a staff made of twisting dark wood, topped by a gleaming sunstone.

Hearing the strange voice Flora sat up, peering around blearily. Her eyes fell on the imperious old woman and her mouth hung open.

"My name is Flemeth, and I expect that since you are a mage, child, you will have read about me," the old woman announced, golden eyes flashing with authoritative pride. Alistair groaned and clambered to his feet, going to the nearby ewer to splash water on his face.

"I haven't read about you," replied Flora honestly, her tongue still thick from sleep. "But Morrigan said that you saved us from the Tower. Thank you very much."

Flemeth laughed, turning away with the expectation that Flora would follow. Flora, not as intimidated by the presence of a powerful mage as her companion, trailed obediently after her while stifling a yawn.

"That polite tongue won't do much to prevent the Darkspawn from overwhelming us all," Flemeth replied archly, plucking a cup of tea from a waiting Morrigan's hand.

"It's scalding hot, Mother, just as you like it," Morrigan added, with a sweet and insincere smile. Flemeth returned the gesture in kind, before strolling through open door and inhaling the fresh Wilds air.

"I can be rude if you prefer," mumbled Flora, albeit under her breath, and followed the old woman out. The weak autumn sun was making a valiant attempt at burning through the early morning mist.

"Now, your idiotic Templar companion badgered me for my name, and he has told me yours. I wish to get these tedious social interactions out of the way before we discuss business. It  _is_  Flora?"

"Yes, ma'am," Flora replied, feeling her stomach rumble in protest at not yet receiving breakfast. Flemeth turned and shot her a scowl eerily reminiscent of Morrigan.

"They don't make you Wardens out of the same stuff they used to, do they? With  _your_ constant eating and _his_  moping around."

This was directed at Alistair, who had just shuffled out into the sunlight, squinting. He sighed under his breath, before offering Flora a crabapple.

"Here. I found this on a bush. Morrigan says it's safe, and, well… she hasn't tried to poison either of us yet."

"Foolish boy," muttered Flemeth, shooting him a malevolent look. "Neither my daughter nor myself intend to harm either of you. We wish the Blight stopped as much as anyone else."

Flora took a grateful bite into the apple, its sharp tartness tingling on her tongue. A frog leapt from the swampy marsh onto the bank and Alistair gestured towards it.

"Was that Morrigan's father?"

Flora let out an unexpected splutter of laughter, fragments of apple launching from her mouth. For a split-second, Flemeth lost her composure and gaped at them both.

"Ferelden is doomed!" she muttered, her fingers clenching her staff. "A pair of incompetent children are all that stand between this land and the Darkspawn horde."

"I told you so, Mother." Morrigan emerged from the hut, carrying her own cup of tea. "It's hopeless."

Flemeth exhaled, turning once more to Flora. Flora gazed up at her warily, midway through gnawing the apple core, strands of dark red hair escaping her braid.

"You, mage. You were telling me where you were from?"

"Herring," mumbled Flora, her mouth half-full.

"That's a fish," countered Flemeth, her eyes narrowing. Flora sighed, tossing the apple stalk into the marsh.

"It's also a village on the north coast," she replied, watching enviously as Alistair bit into his own apple. Flemeth wrinkled her nose, dismissive.

"So nowhere of relevance, then. Hm." She paused, and for a few moments only the sounds of the waking marshes filled the air. "Morrigan, come. I wish to discuss something with you."

Alistair exhaled in relief as the two women sealed themselves inside the hut, Morrigan shutting the door with a prominent thud. He leaned against the half-rotted wooden fence, gazing out across the Wilds towards the purplish-blue silhouette of the Southeron hills. Somewhere amidst the low rolling valleys and peaks lay the ruins of Ostagar fortress, and the remains of the King's army.

_And somewhere, Duncan._

"I'd like to have a proper funeral for him," he said suddenly, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "Something grand and… memorable. I don't know if he had any family. I don't think so."

Flora pressed the apple pips against her palm, curious at the contrast between their shiny darkness and her pale skin.

"He had you," she said, and Alistair fell silent for a moment, inhaling unsteadily. She glanced sideways at him, with a small grimace. His hazel eyes were bright and damp.

"Sorry."

"No, I- it means a lot. That you say that. Thank you," he replied, half-smiling at her. She smiled back at him, sliding her thumb absentmindedly over the apple pips.

"I'd like to build a memorial too," he continued, enthused on the theme now. "Though I don't know how- I don't think either of us have two coppers to rub together."

Flora patted the pockets of her vest, half-hoping the previous owner might have left behind a sovereign or two. After a moment, she shrugged, drawing out the sheaf of bound papers.

"Just my discharge papers from the Circle."

Alistair shot them a cursory glance, then frowned.

"That's not just discharge papers. What else is there?"

Flora shrugged, passing him the bound sheaf. "Don't know. Duncan gave them to me."

He shot her an incredulous look as his fingers worked at the twine.

"You haven't looked?"

"I can't read," she replied, and this made him pause and stare.

"You can't  _read?"_

She scowled at him, a flush rising to her cheeks, before quickly averting her eyes out over the pond.

"My parents can't read. No one taught me."

"Didn't they teach you at the Circle?" he asked, his fingers tugging haplessly at the knotted twine. She shook her head, gave a little shrug.

"Not when they realised I couldn't do anything but heal. Thought it was a waste of time. I did try and teach myself for a while, but…" She trailed off, twisting the small gold ring around her little finger. "It didn't work. It's fine."

"I'll teach you, if we get a moment," Alistair said impulsively, returning to the knots. Flora snorted, leaning her elbows on the fence.

"Teachers say I'm a poor student."

Alistair was about to reply when the twine finally came loose beneath his fingers. He pulled it to one side, and began to sort through the sheaf of papers.

"This is your Joining record," he said, then let out a sudden grin. "Maker, we almost share the same birthday!"

"First day of Solace, 9:11," Flora said automatically, and he nodded.

"Last day of Justinian, 9:10. We'll have to have a joint party!"

"No, a _feast_ ," she countered, her eyes hazing over dreamily. "From your birthday till mine. Twenty four hours of nonstop  _eating._ "

He snorted and continued to sort through the papers.

"This one must be your Circle dismissal, it has Kinhold Hold's seal at the bottom, see. Wait, your name is Flora  _Chastity_ Cove?!"

She flushed, shooting him a sideways scowl.

"My parents are religious," she muttered. He snorted, shuffling it to the back of the sheaf.

"So what are- "

He broke off abruptly, frowning down at the paper in his hands. Flora noticed him stop and followed his stare, curiously. The document he was touching seemed far older than the others, the parchment yellowed with age. Silently he lifted it to find two more identical scrolls, creased where Flora had folded them, but otherwise in good condition. Flora squinted at the writing, but the letters were meaningless forms to her.

"Flo, do you know what these are?" Alistair said quietly, his face very still. She squinted at the tangled letters once more, then shook her head.

"They're the old treaties. The other Grey Wardens told me about them."

Flora peered at the yellowed scrolls, fiddling with the end of her braid anxiously.

"What are they?"

"Old accords made between the peoples of Ferelden and the Wardens. They are compelled to help whenever there's a Blight. To send whatever forces they have."

Alistair's voice rose slightly as he stared at her, the scrolls trembling slightly in his hand.

"Who are they with?" Flora asked, her breath caught in her throat.

"The Dalish, the Circle. And the Dwarves of Orzhammar. Flora, do you know what this  _is_?"

She shook her head, the conversation moving too fast for her to keep track of. He gripped her arms suddenly, eyes lit from within.

"It's an  _army,_ Flora. An army we could use to fight the Darkspawn."

Flora gaped up at him, her mouth falling open.

" _Us_? Lead an army?"

It was as if her words suddenly brought Alistair back to reality. He loosened his grip on her arms and stepped back, shoulders slumping.

"You're right. It's an insane idea. We're just two junior Wardens. Why should anyone listen to us?"

There was silence for a long moment. A carrion bird overheard circled, looking for anything left unconsumed by the marshes. Flora closed her eyes for a minute, lost in thought. Alistair let out a heavy sigh, leaning back on the fence.

"Why should anyone listen to us?" she said quietly, her eyes moving over his profile. He turned to look down at her, brow furrowed.

"Pardon?"

"Because we'll have these," she whispered, reaching out to pry the treaties from him. It was his turn to stare at her now, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

"You said they have to help the Wardens if there is a Blight," she continued, conviction strengthening her voice. "And a Blight is coming, and we  _are_  Wardens. We can  _make_  them help."

Although she felt faintly ridiculous standing in the middle of a swamp, waving some yellowed parchment in the air, she assumed an expression of determination.

"Flora, are you sure?"

"If a war comes here, it'll come to Herring eventually," she replied, with more conviction than she felt. "I can't go home until this is over, one way or another."

Alistair stared at her for a long moment, then nodded at her.

"Right then," he said, a half-smile creeping over his face. "Let's do it, then. The sole remaining Fereldan Wardens, standing alone against the ravenous horde. Me and you- "

"Just us two," finished Flora, flashing a slightly manic grin back at him. He took the treaties and thrust them into the air, waving them toward the Southeron Hills.

"You hear that, Darkspawn? We are coming back with an  _army!"_

"One that  _won't_  quit the field!" added Flora, shaking her fist in determination.

"One that won't quit the field!" echoed Alistair.

"You  _are_  aware that you both look like idiots?"

Flemeth stood behind them, sneering slightly with her arms crossed across her chest. Morrigan was at her side, a supercilious smile hovering.

"I agree, Mother. A prize pair of fools."

"Yet your plan is a sound one."

Morrigan's smile slid rapidly off her face. She turned to Flemeth, her dark-painted lips dropping open.

"You  _approve_ of this ridiculous notion? Uniting Ferelden to defeat the Darkspawn?  _This pair_?"

Flemeth nodded, arching her gnarled, ring-clad fingers together.

"They are Wardens and their treaties are still valid, though ancient they might be."

Morrigan threw her hands to the air, bracelets clattering. She shook her head in disbelief.

"This has nothing to do with us, Mother! Why do you even want to interfere?"

Flemeth's golden eyes flashed and she shot her daughter a piercing glare. A flock of birds launched themselves from a nearby bush, letting out a cascade of high-pitched cries as they wheeled skywards.

"You are blinder than I thought if you cannot see beyond the borders of our land, Morrigan. If the Blight is allowed to escalate to full scale, it will consume the Wilds whole. It must be stopped."

Morrigan made a last vain protest, gesturing towards where a staring Alistair and Flora waited beside the pond.

"But, Mother, these two-  _really?_ The gormless and the glutton?"

"Hey!" muttered Alistair, though unwilling to draw too much attention to himself before two Witches of the Wild. Flora merely shrugged, acknowledging the truth in her label.

"Yes, these two. They must be assisted while they attempt to raise this... motley force."

Flemeth fingered a tarnished brass chain around her neck thoughtfully, casting her eyes first over Flora and then over an uncomfortable Alistair.

"My, my. I've just recalled who you remind me of," the old woman mused, her gaze lingering on Alistair. He shifted from foot to foot and lowered his eyes, gritting his teeth.

"Fine," muttered Morrigan, turning with a jangle of small animal bones. "I'll gather some poultices and herbs."

"Gather your own things," retorted Flemeth, her eyes focused hawklike on her daughter. Morrigan's jaw dropped and she spun back towards her mother.

"I think my hearing must be ailing, Mother. I thought you said for me to gather my  _own_ things."

"You heard me, girl," snapped Flemeth, painted lip curling. "These poor fools will need all the help they can get."

"Now hang on a moment," interrupted Alistair, paling. "You want her to come with us? That's- that's ridiculous!"

"For once me and the idiot are in agreement," muttered Morrigan darkly, although resignation was creeping into her tone.

"My daughter is a skilled sorcerer. You are bound to come up against many enemies on your travels throughout Ferelden, and if I am not mistaken, your current mage is somewhat  _defective."_

Alistair felt Flora wince beside him and felt a surge of unexpected protectiveness.

"Hey, she's not  _defective._ She's just...specialised."

"Alistair," whispered Flora, nudging his elbow. "We shouldn't make a habit of turning down allies."

He turned to look at her head on as she turned her face up to him.

"You think so?" he asked her, his eyes searching hers. She nodded quietly, her grey gaze steady. Alistair stared down at her for a moment longer, then turned back to Flemeth and gave a curt nod.

"Fine."

"Do I get no say in this?" complained Morrigan, petulantly. Flemeth smiled sweetly and wickedly at her daughter, caressing a lock of her ink-black hair.

"You've been desperate to go beyond the Wilds for years, girl. This is your chance."

"Alright, Mother," grumbled Morrigan with a heavy sigh and a poisonous look towards the two young Wardens. "I'll go and collect my things."

The corners of Flemeth's painted mouth turned up as she nodded, slowly. Her amber gaze turned on Alistair and Flora.

"You two should also prepare for your journey. Young man, there is a plethora of armour in my chest. And since a little bird has told me that your general has called for any remaining Grey Wardens to be purged as traitors; I suggest you choose Templar mail. And as for you, girl…"

Here she stood, and cast a derisive look over Flora's linen vest and breeches.

"Those look like smallclothes. Get something warm on that doesn't  _immediately_ identify you as a renegade Warden."

Before Flora followed Alistair into the hut, she turned back to the old woman.

"Can you fix my staff?" she asked, plaintively recalling the two broken halves leaning against the wall. Flemeth smiled cruelly, raising her eyebrows.

"Ah, finally run into something you can't heal? I will do my best to make a temporary repair."

"Thank you," replied Flora, hearing Alistair mutter something darkly under his breath behind her.

Some time later, Alistair stood in the centre of the hut in a hastily assembled set of Templar mail. The weighty, cool metal felt familiar against his skin, recalling memories of years spent in the Chantry. Although Duncan had conscripted him before he had taken his vows, Alistair knew the cut and feel of the Templar armour intimately. Although his sword and shield had been lost at Ishal, he had found passable replacements.

"I'm not even going to ask where she got that collection of Templar armour from," he said out loud as Flora emerged from the partition, her hair caught up at the side of her neck in an untidy bundle. She had found more substantial grey woollen breeches, and had a large man's coat draped over her arm. The cream linen undershirt was too big, the sleeves draping over her hands.

"Can you tighten this at the back?" she asked, trapping stray strands of hair beneath her palm. Alistair stepped behind her and carefully drew the linen drawstrings as far as they would go before tying them in a bow, letting the ends drop against her neck.

"Ready to go?" Morrigan peered inside the hut, her voice flat and unenthusiastic. "Tis vexing enough to be forced on this journey to begin with, let alone to be kept waiting beforehand."

Flora finished pulling on her boots before following Alistair out of the door, checking that the treaties were tucked inside her shirt as she left. The papers lay nestled against her skin, dry and cool.

Morrigan was already pacing circles in front of the hut. Beside her blackthorn staff, a small leather pouch was slung over her shoulder. Other than the pack, she appeared to have made no other preparations for the journey.

Flora eyed the woman's scanty outfit, glancing at the slow copper advancing on the leaves of the scrawny trees. The scarlet silk barely covered her breasts, and the skirt- made from sewn together leather patches- was divided by two lengthy slits.

"Is that your travelling outfit?" she asked, somewhat dubiously.

Morrigan scowled at her, her eyes flashing in a manner reminiscent of her mother.

"Yes? What of it?"

"Won't you be cold?" Flora persisted as Alistair let out a low snort from behind her. Morrigan shot them both a poisonous look.

"Nothing more than I'd expect from a pair of juveniles," she muttered, haughtily, deliberately inspecting her dark-painted nails..

"Besides-" here, she cast a disparaging glance over Flora's ill-fitting and masculine attire, the burgundy hair untidily restrained. " _Someone_  needs to make an effort."

Flemeth emerged from the rear of the hut, holding out the wooden staff. It was still marred by scratches and chips, but the broken halves had been united with a potent bonding charm.

"The charm will need renewing by a skilled mage every week or so," the older woman stated, handing it over to a grateful Flora.

"Thank you very much." Flora bowed her head respectfully, clutching her mended staff tightly. Flemeth gave a curt nod, before turning her fierce gold gaze on Morrigan.

"Now, be cautious, Morrigan. The world is not like the Wilds. Do not cross anyone you cannot overcome."

"Yes, Mother." Morrigan rolled her eyes, but there was a strange affection in her tone. "I'll be careful. Try not to die of old age while I'm gone."

The older woman's tone harshened slightly, her voice lashing out like a whip.

"Careful what you wish for, girl. It is likely you will return to find the Wilds and this hut swarming with Darkspawn."

Morrigan appeared somewhat chastened.

"Mother, I…I did not mean it in that way."

Flemeth turned her sharp gaze on Alistair and Flora, appraising them both from head to foot.

"Now I suggest that you venture to Lothering first," she said shortly, glancing at the watery midday sun as it struggled to penetrate through the mists.

"It is a half-day's walk from here on the northern road. If you obtain coin, you can purchase supplies. But I should not linger there; the village lies in the path of the Darkspawn horde and they will not rest easy for long after their victory at Ostagar."

"We appreciate your help," piped up Flora politely, slinging her staff over her shoulder. Alistair grunted, muttering his own begrudging thanks under his breath, anxious to get underway.

"You're welcome, Warden Flora.  _My Lord,_ " the old woman added in a malicious undertone, just loud enough for Alistair to hear. Flora smiled obliviously, already turning towards the road. Alistair shot Flemeth a dark look before hurrying to catch up with his sister-warden.

"Farewell, Mother."

"I'll see you soon, Morrigan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by Andarix, featuring Flora clutching the Warden treaties.


	17. The Journey to Lothering

Chapter 17: The Journey to Lothering

The north road leading towards Lothering was more of a muddied track, wending its way around bogs and clumps of trees. The ground was damp underfoot after a brief rain shower, and the three travellers were soon forced to navigate large puddles.

Alistair, whose armoured boots were impervious to water, was content to stride straight through these watery obstacles; Flora, oddly attached to her leather boots as the only clothing that had survived Ostagar intact, crept past them. Morrigan, whose footwear was as unsuitable as her outfit, took great pains to edge around the muddy puddles, complaining loudly.

"Oh, to think I could be warm inside Mother's hut, studying her spells and secretly plotting her downfall," she hissed after failing to navigate one such obstacle. Alistair turned around, watching Flora take an ambitiously lengthy stride over a boggy section.

"Aren't you a hedge witch?" he retorted, raising his eyebrows as Morrigan pressed herself against the rotted wooden fence to avoid coming into contact with the water. "Can't you just… transform into a crow or something? Fly there?"

Morrigan shot him a tight, malicious little smile, thrusting her hair away from her forehead with a hand.

"And give away  _all_ my secrets so soon?"

She let out a derisive cackle and strode past him, heading for the brow of the hill. Alistair slowed his pace slightly, allowing Flora's shorter stride to gain on him. He bent his mouth to Flora's ear, keeping his eyes on Morrigan's scantily clad back.

"Do you trust her?" he muttered, darkly. Flora eyed the woman with a thoughtful expression.

"I don't trust her  _as a person_ ," she said carefully. "But Flemeth was speaking the truth when she said that the Darkspawn would swarm the whole of Ferelden unless they were stopped. She has to help us."

A sceptical Alistair muttered something beneath his breath, shooting Morrigan a mistrustful look. The apostate reached the apex of the hill, glanced scornfully over her shoulder and waited for them to catch up.

"I don't trust her. And she's  _mean._ "

"She's not nice to me either," countered Flora, using her staff to propel herself up the slope. "She keeps asking if there are any pigs in my family lineage."

Alistair snorted as they reached the brow of the hill. They had come to the edge of the marshy Wilds; before them lay a stark sweep of farmland, left barren for the winter. In the distance, a huddle of buildings clung to the base of a low hill. The four blades of a distant windmill were just about visible, as was the tall spire of Lothering's Chantry.

Flora was watching Morrigan, who now appeared hesitant to lead the way, trepidation on her face. Taking a deep breath, not particularly wanting to be transformed into a frog, she approached the dark-haired woman.

"I know it's hard leaving your home for the first time," she said, kindly. "I remember when I had to leave Herring to go to the Circle. The Templars had to lock me in a cage, I kept trying to run away."

Morrigan flashed her golden eyes at Flora, her nostrils flaring.

"Do not insult me by comparing your reeking little  _fishing village_ with the glory of the untameable Wilds," she hissed, raising her chin.

The placid Flora, who was used to contemptuous remarks from the other mages at Kinloch, gave an amiable shrug.

"Well, take as long as you need."

Flora had rapidly lost interest in the conversation after spotting a large clump of fruit-laden bushes at the side of the road. Making a beeline towards it, she immersed herself within the feathery green branches. Inhaling the fragrant earthen scent of the leaves, pungent after the rainfall, she began to gather berries. Half of them went into her mouth, the others she placed in a small velvet pouch for later.

It was cool and dark among the fronds and foliage, the leaves trailing damp fingers on her face. For a moment she closed her eyes, eluding the twin wolves of fear and doubt that had gnawed incessantly at the corners of her mind since Ostagar. Her finger went reflexively to the golden band, tracing the carved initials there.  _F, C._

"What is she doing? The girl is mad," breathed Morrigan as they watched the clump of bushes rustle. Alistair muttered under his breath, his expression sullen.

"Come on,  _Flora Chastity._  The Darkspawn aren't going to wait for you to stuff yourself silly."

Morrigan's expression contorted on hearing Flora's full name.

Flora emerged from the bushes, her linen shirt damp and leaf-marked, strands of dark red hair falling around her ears. Morrigan, whose own hair was carefully arranged to give the impression of wildness, wrinkled her nose.

"Just gathering supplies," Flora retorted, her lips and tongue stained red from the berries.

"Inhaling the entire bush, more like," Morrigan muttered. "I tire of this."

She strode onwards, turning her back on the Wilds and setting forth determinedly down into the sloping grey-brown fields. Flora and Alistair trailed behind her, Flora surreptitiously licking the tart juice from her fingers.

 

* * *

 

Some time later, they were in the middle of a farmer's field. The road cut through the centre of the property; which in spring would have been filled with swaying ears of corn, but currently bristled with dried grey stalks that reached above their heads. There was the occasional rustle as small creatures darted between the decaying crops.

"So, Flo," began Alistair, running a hand through his dirty blond hair in a subconscious gesture. "It occurs to me that I don't know much about you- your background, I mean."

Flora glanced curiously at him, squinting through the watery sunlight.

"What do you mean?"

They came to a branch in the road, one fork leading westwards to the ancient King's Highway, the other continuing north towards the village. As they took the northern route, Alistair nodded.

"Yes. Any dark secrets I should know about? Hidden lovers? Mysterious disappearances of family relatives related to inheritance? That sort of thing."

"Ugh, spare me the bonding," muttered Morrigan, deliberately falling behind. Flora let out an inadvertent cackle, then blinked at the incongruity of the sound in their post-Ostagar circumstances.

"Not that I know of," she said, shooting him a toothy grin. "Things like that don't tend to happen in Herring."

"How old were you when you were taken to the Circle, then?" Alistair asked curiously, squinting at her profile.

"Fifteen. My mum and dad were Chantry-fearing, but they didn't want to send me away. Plus my, um,  _limited_  type of magic was easier to hide."

" _Very_ limited," interjected Morrigan from behind them, acerbically. Alistair jumped, shooting her a dark look over his shoulder.

"That woman has hearing like a shrew," he complained. "And I  _like_  that it's limited. You're my favourite type of Mage: one that can't hurt anyone."

"Otherwise known as the  _useless_ type," chimed in the sharp commentary from the rear.

Flora, who had long accepted her offensive uselessness, gave a mild shrug. They continued on the path, unfertilised earth crumbling and damp beneath their feet. A hawk circled above, its malevolent yellow eye scanning the blunt stubble for exposed prey.

"What about you?"

"Eh?"

Flora, attempting to tuck stray strands of hair back into her untidy bun, glanced over at him.

"I know you were raised in the Chantry."

"Ah," Alistair replied vaguely, his hazel gaze sliding sideways. "I was raised by wolves. Big, ravenous, blood-thirsty wolves. They're what gave me my prowess in combat."

"Ha!" came Morrigan's voice from behind once again. "Any self-respecting wolf would have eaten you at birth."

Flora gave a mild shrug, retrieving the small velvet pouch from her pocket and popping a berry into her mouth.

"It must have been difficult for you to integrate into human society afterwards," she replied sweetly, offering him the pouch. "Sorry, I don't have any mice or rabbits."

Alistair took a berry, then glanced sideways at her. She was gazing intently at the road, trying and failing to avoid the muddier sections. He let out a heavy sigh.

"Fine, here's the truth. I was a bastard, alright? Not in that way, hedge witch, before you say anything."

Flora peered at him, taking the small velvet pouch back.

"My mother was a serving girl at Redcliffe Castle. My father was- well." Alistair paused for a moment, let the silence hang. "He wasn't important. He left. The Arl allowed me to stay after mother died."

Flora shot him a small grimace. Her sympathy was more for the loss of his family than for his bastard status, which was meaningless to her.

"He was right to let you stay," she said indignantly, taking an unsteady stride over a large puddle. "Why'd you leave?"

Alistair sighed under his breath, stretching out his hand to help her over a marshy area. "Arl Eamon married an Orlesian woman. She saw me as a threat. Forced him to send me off to the Chantry."

"Can you blame her?" interjected Morrigan, who had forsaken the muddied road and was striding with impunity alongside the high, dead stalks in the field. "You're  _clearly_  the bastard son of the Arl. It's competition for her own children."

"My father wasn't Arl Eamon- " began Alistair, then held out an arm to stop them. The dried out crops to either side of the path ahead of them were rustling far louder than any small creature could be responsible for.

Alistair reached down just as three men melted onto the road before them, slipping out like shadows from the dead crops. They were shoddily dressed, but the weapons they carried gleamed sharp and bright.

"More refugees fleeing the ruins of Ostagar?" enquired the tallest, fingers creeping over the hilt of his blade.

"No, a Templar escorting two mages under order of the Chantry," replied Alistair, forcing authority into his tone.

"Two mages? I see only one," came a voice from behind. Both Alistair and Flora turned to see two more men sliding out onto the otherwise deserted road.

"Really?" said Alistair to the empty air, then turned to Flora. "I  _told_ you we couldn't trust her." Flora gave a little grimace in response.

"Regardless of your purpose," continued the tallest man, asserting himself as their leader. "Everyone must pay a toll if they want to continue to Lothering."

"You're charging refugees an entrance fee? To get to safety?" asked Flora, her brow furrowing.

"A reasonable price, since I like redheads," retorted their leader, caressing the hilt of his blade. "Thirty silver."

"You are all very bad men," drawled Alistair, his tone casual but his eyes as focused as the hawk circling above. "Don't you know there's a Blight? We don't need bandits adding to Ferelden's problems."

The man was only half listening to Alistair, preoccupied with trawling his eyes over Flora. She eyed him back, warily.

"Throw in the mage and I'll let you go for fifteen," he said, abruptly, his voice thickening. Alistair was left momentarily speechless. This was a problem that had never occurred to him. Flora herself let out a derisive snort.

"Maker's Breath!" he spluttered after a few seconds, letting out a bark of laughter. "Are you mad?!"

"Mages are more trouble than they're worth, boss," muttered the shorter bandit to the side, casting a mistrustful glance towards the now-scowling Flora. "A pretty face ain't worth the hassle."

"We've got a mage cage in the cart," breathed their leader, his eyes still fixed on her, seeing the potential that lay beneath the dishevelled hair and ill-fitting clothing.

"Why are you talking about me like I'm not  _here_?" interjected Flora petulantly. "Anyway, I'm  _not_  going with you and we aren't paying you anything."

The bandit leader's lip curled, transforming his deceptively affable features into something hard and cruel. He jerked his head, and the shorter man stepped forwards. Flora raised her hands, but Alistair was faster. In a split second he had drawn his sword and held it out, watery sunlight reflecting off its length.

"Ready, Flo?" he muttered, although he knew that she had been prepared since the men had slid onto the path before them. She was after all no protected child of the Circle, but a girl raised in an isolated trade village, who could recognise bandits at a hundred paces. Flora had already swivelled around, stepping sideways until her slender back pressed against his mail-clad own. It was a stance they had performed many times in the Wilds, against far more sinister enemies.

The bandits attacked as a haphazard group. The two men at the rear fired off bolts from shoddily constructed crossbows, while the three before them lunged forwards with glittering blades drawn.

The two crossbow bolts rebounded off a sheath of glimmering light. Flora, who had flinched reflexively, opened her eyes to see one of the bolts hit its owner in the temple. He staggered backwards, crashing through the rotten fence and falling out of sight. She let out a cackle, keeping one hand raised to maintain the barrier while peering around Alistair.

Likewise, the two flanking blades had met resistance against the shifting barrier. Alistair, lunging through the glimmering light without hindrance, slammed his shield full force into the face of the shorter man. The man who had protested at the taking of Flora stumbled backwards, spitting blood and teeth, broken jaw hanging slackly. Alistair's blade came down squarely on the leader's thinner rapier, knocking it effortlessly to the ground.

"Pick it up," hissed Alistair, his hazel eyes gleaming. "I won't kill an unarmed man."

"I would run," advised Flora helpfully, still peering over her shoulder.

Instead the bandit leader, his face showing rage and fear in equal measure, retrieved a thin, green-tinted blade from within his tunic and lunged forwards in a final, desperate thrust. Alistair, who had paid far more attention to Templar battle formations than other aspects of the doctrine, effortlessly parried it.

The next moment, he sunk his own blade deep into the man's unprotected chest, the thrust aimed precisely. It penetrated the man's heart in a single blow, granting him a quick and relatively painless death.

The bandits left standing stepped back, eyes widening in fear. Flora dropped her hands and the shimmering barrier fell in a shower of misty golden particles. For a moment, the only sound was the calling of the carrion hawk above as it smelt freshly spilled blood.

Alistair withdrew his sword, breathing hard. He glanced at Flora, who gave a fractional nod.

"The rest of you- get out of here," he said heavily. "And if I hear that you've been preying on any more refugees, we'll come back."

"And next time I'll explode your heads, with my mage powers" added Flora, boldly.

As the men limped off, save for the one still unconscious in the broken crops, Alistair raised his eyebrows at her. She shrugged, defensively.

"What? They aren't to know I can't actually  _do_ that."

They were interrupted by the sound of slow clapping. Morrigan was leaning against the half-rotted fence, smiling mockingly at them both. Her amber eyes glittered in the mist-veiled sun.

"Well, well. 'Tis good to see you Grey Wardens are at least capable of taking on a few bandits, if not the Darkspawn horde."

"Thank you for your help, it was invaluable," muttered Alistair as he wiped his blade ineffectually on the fence. Morrigan raised her eyebrows, holding up several bulging coin purses.

"Ah, but while you were brawling in the road, I was locating their loot stash. I've retrieved enough coin for us to purchase whatever we require, in addition to lodgings at the inn."

Flora, having finished inspecting her reddened fingertips, trotted over and neatly plucked the coin purses out of Morrigan's hands. She flashed the outraged woman a grin as they disappeared into the inner pockets of her oversized coat.

"We can return these to the Chantry. I'm sure they'll distribute it fairly to those who were robbed."

As Alistair hid a smile, Morrigan hissed in disapproval, her amber eyes widening like a cat's. She followed Flora in disbelief as the girl slung her staff back over her shoulder.

"Are you perhaps addled in the brain? How else are we meant to purchase supplies?"

Flora shrugged, squinting down the northern road.

"In Herring, we offer a reward for any bandits routed," she offered, helpfully. "Maybe it'll be the same in Lothering."

Morrigan threw up her hands as they continued, leaving the unconscious man half-hidden by the fading crops.

"Do they not have some  _intelligence_ requirements for the Wardens?"

Alistair caught up to Flora in several long strides, calling over his shoulder to Morrigan.

"Well, we're actually on the side of  _good_  here, Witch of the Wilds. I don't know if you realised that."

As Morrigan muttered darkly to herself, Flora and Alistair shared a glance, smirking at each other. For a moment, it was almost as if Ostagar had not happened; and they were merely junior Wardens sharing light-hearted banter at the expense of a scowling Chantry sister.

 

* * *

 

Reality quickly asserted itself as they came closer to the village and saw the spreading refugee camps clustered around its border. Templars were posted to keep order but there was no need. The refugees huddled together in sorry clumps around small fires, dejected and inadequately clothed. Barefoot children clung to their mothers, staring up at the travellers with wide and frightened eyes. Many of the older ones were pleading with their parents, only to receive muted head shakes in response.

Alistair kept his eyes fixed ahead, not wanting to meet the eyes of the desperate, his jaw held tightly. Flora's head turned from side to side as she surveyed the weak, the exhausted and the ill, her mouth hanging open. Even Morrigan had fallen silent.

"Alistair," Flora whispered, as he paused for her to catch up. "Why is nobody helping them?"

"A lot of healers were at Ostagar," he replied, his voice uncharacteristically solemn. Flora fell silent, trailing behind him as he led the way towards Lothering's Chantry. The only stone building in the village, it dominated the surrounding houses, spire reaching proudly upwards like a gleaming spear point.

As they approached, the Templar guarding the entrance held out his gauntleted hand to stop them.

"Hold, strangers," he said, steel running through his voice. "There is no more room inside the Chantry for refugees. You must make camp down by the river with the rest."

"We aren't refugees, Commander," replied Alistair, seeing that Flora was still bewildered and silent. "We're- "

"Travellers." Morrigan interrupted hastily, as the Templar shot her a look that stated clearly  _I know what_ you _are, but I have more urgent issues to deal with._

"We need to speak with the Revered Mother, then buy some supplies," Alistair continued, recovering quickly. "Ser…?"

"Ser Maron," replied the Knight-Commander, grudgingly. "I suppose I cannot turn anyone away who seeks to trade. Fine, but make it quick."

"And we also cleared out the bandits on the Wilds road," added Alistair hastily, elbowing Flora, who appeared to be in some sort of stupor. Blinking, she reached inside her coat and held out the pouches of coin.

"Ah, you never did?" Ser Maron took the pouches, feeling the weight of them in his palm. Peering inside one, he saw the dull gleam of silver.

"That's one less problem for Lothering. Thank you; I'll oversee the distribution of the coin back to the refugees."

Morrigan coughed pointedly, and the Templar continued.

"If you speak to the Revered Mother inside, she will furnish you with a reward."

Alistair bowed his head politely in thanks, before holding open the door of the Chantry.

Morrigan wrinkled her nose, withdrawing to one side and fiddling with the thin bone dangling from her ear.

"Mother and I both despise organised religion. I have little desire to mingle with the blinded sheep within."

She cast a malevolent look at the Templar. Ser Maron, who had lived long enough besides the Wilds to know about the hedge witches within, knew better than to challenge her. Instead, he shot her a dark glower, at which she smiled sweetly and sauntered away.

"Flora? My arm is getting tired," muttered Alistair, still propping the heavy wooden door open. Flora ducked beneath his extended arm, then emerged once more.

"Why is no one helping the refugees?" she asked, plaintively. Ser Maron reluctantly tore his eyes from Morrigan's scantily clad back, looking down at her.

"We barely have resources to help ourselves, lass," he said, with a shrug. "All the healers left to join King Cailan. If it wasn't for those treacherous Wardens- "

"Right, thanks!" Flora interrupted, pulling Alistair hastily inside just as he was opening his mouth to retort. The heavy wooden door shut behind them, and they were immersed in low babble, the main hall filled with refugees and Chantry sisters.

Nobody had taken any notice of them when they entered, a strange pair with him clad as a Templar and her in unflattering and ill-fitting clothing.

"Alistair- "

"Flora, I-I  _can't_  listen to people calling Duncan a traitor," he hissed down at her, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "He died a hero in  _their defence_."

His eyes were bright as they bored into hers, his mouth trembling.

Flora gazed up at him, seeing through anger to the despair that fuelled it. Faced with the force of his grief, and not knowing what to say, she put her arms in their oversized sleeves around his waist.

"They'll find out the truth," she whispered, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "But we need to stop the Blight first."

Alistair clearly did not know how to respond initially, his body rigid. After a moment of surprise, he relaxed against her, letting his arms settle lightly around her shoulders.

She drew back and eyed him. He seemed calmer, if somewhat dazed.

"Sorry," she said, her brows drawing together. "Felt like you needed it."

Alistair shook his head, blinking. "No, I- I'm glad you did. Thank you. I'm just not used to… that. We never did that in the Chantry."

"Well," mused Flora, squinting through the throngs of refugees down the main aisle. "People didn't do it much in the Circle either. Unless it was  _illicit hugging in the Potions store._ "

"Illicit hugging in the-?" Alistair followed her hastily as she wove her way through the crowds towards the altar. "What do you-  _oh!"_ He flushed slightly and she flashed him a smile over her shoulder. "That. Right. So did  _you_  ever…? "

"Revered Mother!" announced Flora, who had been on the lookout for the tallest white hat she could see. Slipping neatly into one of the side chambers, she gave an inexpert bow to a greying woman who sat at a desk covered in papers. The woman gave the Chantry sign of greeting, though her eyes were weary.

"Yes, my child? If you've come for a blessing, one of our lay-sisters can assist you. I am very busy."

"We got rid of the bandits on the Wilds road," said Flora, smiling hopefully at her. "Ser Maron said there might be a reward? We don't need much, just enough for a room and a few supplies. And some food."

The Revered Mother nodded, summoning the energy to return the smile.

"The Maker loves those who bring hope in the darkest times, and curses those who would bring more shadow," she intoned, then raised her voice. " _Sister Leliana!"_

Almost immediately, a young woman appeared in the doorway. She wore the traditional white Chantry robes, but her hair was shorn shorter than was customary for a religious sister, the bright orange strands brushing her chin.

"Yes, Revered Mother?" she said, her accent Orlesian. The senior priestess reached into her desk drawer and took out a small key.

"Could you retrieve the two silver candlesticks from the cabinet for these refugees? They have finally rid us of those damned bandits."

"Of course, Revered Mother." The young woman took the key and went to the wooden corner cabinet, shooting them a curious glance over her shoulder as she did so.

"Actually, Revered Mother," Alistair interjected, stepping forward and catching the old priestess' dark eyes with his clear hazel gaze. "We aren't refugees. We are survivors from Ostagar. Grey Wardens."

The Revered Mother inhaled sharply, gesturing to Leliana.

"Quick, girl, shut the door."

The young sister hurried to do so, closing the wooden door quietly. She remained in the room, turning to stare. The Revered Mother rose to her feet, encompassing both Alistair and Flora in her imperious gaze.

"You know your order is condemned as traitors? Loghain has sent instruction to every town in Ferelden to arrest any Grey Warden who survived Ostagar."

"Was it part of the Wardens' plot to end up completely massacred?" drawled Alistair, his eyes flashing with no less power. "Because that's what happened. Due to Loghain."

"There's just the two of us left," whispered Flora, gazing at the woman. "We saw everything."

"How did you come to survive, then?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "You're a  _mage_."

Flora was used to hearing the distrust in others' voices, and so it did not affect her. Alistair, who had always been one of the suspicious, heard the distrust for the first time from another perspective. He felt a surge of defensiveness towards his only remaining Warden ally.

"We lit the signal beacon," he retorted. "We weren't in the main battle. Had a great view of Loghain ordering the retreat and abandoning Cailan and his army to  _die_ though."

Flora was about to correct him and say that they had not actually seen the events of the battle due to the Tower's height and the obscuring fog; then realised that it was probably not the correct decision.

The Revered Mother swept her probing stare over both Alistair and Flora. The silence hung heavy enough to be cut with a blade. Finally, she let out a weary sigh and sunk back into her seat, suddenly appearing every one of her advanced years.

"What do you intend to do?"

"Form a new army to stop the Blight," said Flora, her voice small and determined. "We have the treaties. Others will listen to us, even if Loghain doesn't."

The Chantry sister beside the door stood bolt upright, her pale blue eyes widening.

"Not all the arls are in support of Loghain," murmured the Revered Mother, glancing at a letter on her desk. "There is dissension in Denerim. You may be able to find some support there. Leliana, stop gawping and bring those here."

The young Chantry sister came to the Mother's desk and handed over the candlesticks. Flora took them gratefully, tucking them inside the voluminous pockets of her ugly but functional coat.

"I can offer you nothing else but my silence," the old priestess added, abruptly. "I will not tell Ser Bryant that Grey Wardens are here. Old Ithan at the stables will take a candlestick for two horses. And if you mention my name to Barlin at the Dane's Refuge, he will sell you his last room."

Alistair bowed, giving the Templar sign of respect.

"Thank you, Revered Mother. Come on, Flo. I think we should make sure that Morrigan isn't setting fire to anything."

In the doorway Flora turned around, catching the Revered Mother's eye once more. The old woman raised her eyebrows, her guarded expression now tinged with sympathy.

"You know we lost at Ostagar," Flora said, quietly enough so that the refugees in the main hall could not hear. "The Darkspawn are coming. People should leave."

The Chantry mother gave a heavy sigh, standing with the aid of the younger sister.

"We will try our best to survive, child. As, I'm sure, will you. Maker be with you."


	18. Lothering

Chapter 18: Lothering

The setting sun blazed through the stained glass of the Chantry windows, casting Andraste's story in jewelled colours on the flagstones. The refugees in the main hall turned their faces from the tinted light, the beauty seeming to mock their despair.

Flora and Alistair made their way outside, where the skies were gradually darkening. In the distance, over the southern farmland, they could see the dark entanglement of the Wilds.

"Think Morrigan's gone back to Mother?" wondered Alistair hopefully, nudging her towards a merchant trader's cart. Flora shrugged, feeling the lumpen shape of the candlesticks against her ribs.

"Don't know. Let's get rid of this though, it keeps poking me in the… " Alistair glanced at her. "… in the stomach. And I'm hungry."

After some half-hearted haggling, in which neither Flora nor Alistair excelled themselves, they obtained some basic cooking equipment and a pair of canvas tents. As the sun slipped beneath the horizon and the village torches were lit, there was still no sign of Morrigan. A local pointed them in the direction of Dane's Refuge, which lay in the residential side of the village over a small bridge.

"Maybe she's turned into a bird and flown away?" suggested Flora, mumbling through a mouthful of bread. There was a metallic clatter with every step she took; her staff was resting horizontally across her shoulders with the various cooking utensils dangling on either side.

"Maybe she was never physically with us, and instead we've been talking to a demon assuming her form?" offered Alistair, struggling slightly beneath a mass of canvas and poles.

"Tragically, neither is true," came a familiar acerbic tone from behind them. Several cooking pans slid off the end of Flora's staff as she jumped.

"Maker's Breath!" Alistair hissed, almost dropping the tents. "Do you always have to make a dramatic entrance?"

Morrigan snorted, waving a hand dismissively. Her cool amber gaze swept scornfully over Flora as she attempted to retrieve the dropped utensils, and settled on Alistair. Her eyes focused on the tangled and unappealing mass of canvas.

"I assume you have secured accommodation for tonight that is not in one of those…  _things,_ " she muttered, falling into step behind them. Alistair gritted his teeth as Flora, triumphantly rose to her feet again, pans collected.

"Come on, let's just find this inn."

The locals on this side of the river were less helpful, believing them to be both refugees and possibly up to no good. As they wandered the torch-lit alleyways between dwellings, Alistair glanced sideways at Flora.

"So, ah, what you were saying earlier?"

"Eh? About me still being hungry?"

"No, no…about  _illicit hugging in the Potions store._ "

Flora laughed, the pots clattering around her ears.

"Yes?"

"Have you ever… illicitly hugged anyone in a Potions store?" He glanced sideways at her, curiously.

Flora shot him a grin, watching the tops of his ears go pink.

"No. What's the Templar equivalent?"

Morrigan was eavesdropping with increasingly frustrated confusion. Alistair thought for a moment, shifting the tentpoles onto his other shoulder.

"Out-of-hours prayertime," he replied after a moment, with a snort. Flora cackled, her turn to side-eye him.

"Have  _you_  ever had out-of-hours prayertime with anyone, then?"

Alistair shook his head, solemnly. "Not even close. I kissed a lay sister once, that's about it."

From behind, Morrigan let out a squawk of disbelief as she finally discerned their topic.

"Gods, you must be mocking me! The survival of Ferelden is entrusted to a pair of  _virgins_?!"

A reddening Alistair stammered, muttering about Chantry rules and gendered dormitories. Flora simply laughed, the pots sliding once more onto the dusty earth with a clatter.

 

* * *

 

Once they had located Dane's Refuge and convinced the innkeeper to sell them his last remaining room, Alistair's Templar uniform doing more to persuade the man than Flora's scruffy attire or Morrigan's lack of it. The downstairs tavern was full of dejected locals; bitter farmers who had set up traps to stop refugees from taking their autumnal crops, and merchants who lamented that there was no one willing to pay an honest price.

The rooms upstairs appeared to be fully booked. The unscrupulous innkeeper had maximised profits by putting up thin partitions in the larger rooms and selling each half separately. Those refugees who had coin enough to purchase lodgings had little choice but to accept.

Fortunately, the innkeeper led the three of them down the narrow corridor to a small room at the end. With poorly fitting glass over a tiny window, a threadbare rug and a single bed, it appeared to have once belonged to a servant.

"This looks perfect, thank you." Alistair smiled to the innkeeper, who replied with a single begrudging grunt. Sidling past Flora, who was side-stepping down the corridor in an attempt to avoid colliding the ends of the staff with the walls, the man shot them a baleful look as he returned downstairs.

Morrigan immediately claimed the bed, perching herself gingerly on it with a moan of despair.

"Mother, if only you could see me now. Housed in servant quarters, treated worse than an elf."

"I think you can hear the tavern," mused Alistair, unclipping his pauldrons and rotating his shoulders with a grimace of discomfort.

"You can  _see_ the tavern," breathed Flora in fascination. She had dumped the now-despised cooking utensils in a corner and was on her hands and knees, peering through a gap in the floorboards large enough to fit a sovereign through.

Alistair removed his gauntlets and laid them alongside the Templar-marked breastplate. Exhaling, he appreciated the lightness of the linen undershirt as he sat back against the wall, running a hand through his hair.

"Who did this armour belong to?" he asked suspiciously, rubbing at the marks left on his arms by the gauntlets. Morrigan raised her head from the lumpen pillow and eyed him, one finely plucked brow raised.

"Do you really want to know?"

The tone of her voice made Alistair doubtful.

"Ah, yes. No. I- I'm not sure. Does it involve… your mother murdering Templars?"

"Templars sent to murder  _us_. But yes. Possibly."

"Right." Alistair grimaced, though he'd had his suspicions. Flora was still glued to the floor, watching a drinking competition between two belligerent dwarves.

"But you've forgotten the part where Mother would first- "

"Ah!" yelped Alistair, clapping his hands over his ears. "Enough! I don't want to know."

Morrigan let out a cackle, lying back against the pillow and arching her fingers in a manner eerily reminiscent of Flemeth.

Flora clambered to her feet, still in her bulky coat. Alistair sat up, his brow furrowing as she headed towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

"I just have a few things to do before bed," she replied, taking the other candlestick from inside the coat and placing it beside the discarded utensils. Beside the pile, her staff was leaning against the wall.

Alistair frowned at her, strangely perturbed.

"Do you- do you want me to come with you?"

"No, it's fine," she replied, flashing him a quick smile as she buttoned the coat back up as protection against the chilly evening air. It was almost Firstfall, and the nights would only get colder from hereon.

Alistair scratched the stubble forming on his chin, not quite sure why he felt disconcerted.

"Are you sure you'll be…safe?"

Morrigan let out a snort from the bed, perusing a small, leather bound tome that she had retrieved from her pack.

"Surely, 'tis a jest. This girl has the best defences in Ferelden. Indeed, it is all she  _can_  do!"

" _Indeed_  it is," repeated Flora, giving Alistair a quick wink. "I'll be fine."

Pausing in the doorway while tying her scarf, she shot a slightly evil grin over her shoulder.

"Don't go engaging in any out-of-hours prayertime while I'm gone."

Alistair almost choked on his own tongue while Morrigan let out a shriek of revulsion, nearly dropping her tome.

"I'd rather lie with the  _Archdemon_ ," the hedge witch hissed, deep golden eyes flashing.

"You probably already have," muttered Alistair, darkly. "Flo, don't leave us alone for too long, please."

Flora gave a wave and departed, the door swinging shut behind her. Alistair let out a sigh, tilting his head back to look at the wooden ceiling eaves. After a moment, he glanced over at Morrigan's book.

"What's that? The  _Guide to Being A Nicer Person_?"

"No, it's  _How to Tolerate Being With Idiots,"_ Morrigan retorted, pointedly turning her back on him.

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Flora had made her way out of the tavern and back over the small bridge. Lothering was quieter now that dusk had fallen, the villagers locking themselves away from the world and its woes. The Chantry glowed like a lamp, light blazing from each window. It stood out like a beacon in the darkness, and Flora briefly contemplated going to evening prayers. Although she was not particularly religious, she liked hearing the singing and the music. There had been no choir at the small Circle Chantry for her to listen to.

Then she recalled the Templars standing guard at the entrance, and guessed that they would not be pleased by the arrival of an unaccompanied mage. Turning her back on the Chantry, she headed down the slope towards the refugee camps. These were marked by bright specks of orange in the gathering shadow, as each group huddled around a small fire. There was less noise and activity now; some were trying to sleep, sprawled protectively over their remaining possessions. Snoring children clung to their mothers, in temporary respite from the fear and cold. The injured and alone lay in the dark, too weak to pull themselves closer to the fire.

Flora stood in the middle of the encampment, looking around at the shadowed masses uncertainly. Suspicious faces, many of whom had seen her arrive with a mage's staff, scowled at her from their huddled groups, rising heat blurring their features.

She went over to one group and cleared her throat, feeling rather stupid.

"Um, I'm a healer. Can I help anyone here?"

"Not unless you can replace our lost farmstead," hissed one man, his breath visible in the chill air.

"Can you conjure up a four-roomed house and a barn, mage?" spat his wife, a scarf wound tightly around her weary face.

"I've never tried," replied Flora carefully. "But...probably not. No."

"Go away then!"

Chastened, Flora headed off towards the next fire. The occupants asked if she had ale, and when she replied in the negative, someone threw an empty tankard at her head. Although she could have stopped its progress with a finger, she did not wish to antagonise them further with what they would surely perceive as ostentatious display, and allowed it to collide with her skull.

"Carver Hawke!" came a chastising voice from the huddled shapes around the campfire. "Behave!"

When the tankard hit her, she winced and wished that she had actually shielded herself. Grimacing, fingering the lump that almost immediately began to rise on her temple, she trudged onwards.

"Hey, miss- did you say you were a healer?"

The male voice was hesitant yet desperate, coming from a campfire next to a half-collapsed wall. Flora followed the source of the noise with some trepidation.

"You're not going to throw anything, are you?"

"What? No." The man behind the voice came into view, an elf in his middle years crouched with his wife alongside a young boy. The child was breathing shallow and erratic, his brow pallid and sweaty.

Flora approached, kneeling down beside the child and reaching out to feel his heartbeat with a gloved finger.

"What's wrong with him?" she asked, peeling off her woollen gloves and tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear.

"We…we were fleeing Ostagar." The elven woman's voice was hoarse, her eyes reddened and small. "Jendel was knocked down by a knight on a horse. They didn't stop, they didn't even  _look back_ …"

"I think it's his ribs," interrupted the man, reaching down to touch his child's forehead gently. The boy moaned, eyelids fluttering. "They're broken, pressing down on his lungs. Makes it hard for him to breathe."

Gingerly, he pulled up the child's tunic to reveal a mass of bruising over his small chest.

Flora nodded, leaning over the boy, already feeling the golden energy building up at the back of her throat. Ducking her head and spreading her fingers gently over the child's skin, she  _exhaled_ and felt the mist surge forward over her tongue. Directing it with her fingers, controlling its ebb and flow, she watched the golden particles absorb into the boy's bruised chest.

Remembering how her knee still ached from the rushed healing she had performed after Ostagar, she went more slowly and carefully, the process taking longer than it usually would. After about twenty minutes, when the inky purple bruises had faded to pale blue and the child's breathing had deepened and steadied, she sat back, breathless. Feeling almost as though she were drowning, Flora took several large gulps of air and started coughing.

"Here." The elf offered her a water pouch and she took it, taking a small swallow before handing it back gratefully.

His wife bent over the child, staring wide-eyed at the faded bruising and the steady, even movement of the chest. Tears came to her eyes, and she let out a choked sob.

"Our son,  _vhenan._ Look, his breathing is better!"

The man stared at Flora, who beamed back at him, pulling her gloves back on.

"We- we don't have much," he began, fumbling in for his coinpurse. "But I will give you everything we can spare."

Flora's smile quickly fell from her face, and the elven man bowed his head, humbly.

"I'm sorry! Take it all, please. You saved our son; no cost is too high."

He held the coinpurse out to her, trembling. Flora recoiled as though he had offered her a Darkspawn head on a platter.

"No! No, no- I didn't mean that!" she breathed, physically putting her hands behind her back to distance herself further from the desperate offer. "I don't want anything. I would  _never_ charge for... for this."

"You will take no payment?" asked the woman, uncertainly. " _Ma serannas."_

Flora clambered to her feet, still shaking her head.

"You can repay me by leaving tomorrow," she replied as she turned to leave. "It's not safe here."

"Who are you?" spoke the elven man suddenly, staring at her strangely.

" _Flora!"_  she called over her shoulder as she turned to leave.

She had only taken a few steps when a woman rushed up to her, her eyes wide and panicked.

"You're a healer? Please, my mother is injured."

Flora spent the next hour moving from fire to fire, grateful for her oversized coat as the night grew colder. She fixed the old woman's ruptured spleen, and healed a clumsily stitched sword wound. One man had a fractured pelvis after falling from a cart, and it took almost half an hour before she was satisfied that the bone had been set correctly. As she knelt before the clearly embarrassed young man,  _illicit hugging in the Potions store_ came into her head and she had to stifle a giggle.

"I don't know why you're smiling," snapped the man as his wife gave an evil grin. "There's nothing down there worth laughing at."

" _Nothing's_  the right word," muttered his spouse.

Flora pictured First Enchanter Irving glowering at her, and forced herself to calm down.

The last person who sought her aid was a soldier, her age or slightly older. With trembling hands and averted eyes, he reached out to touch her elbow.

"Please," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "My friend- he was at Ostagar. One of the Darkspawn arrows got him in the back as we were fleeing."

The ruins of Ostagar came back to her in a rush: the terror she had felt on the Tower of Ishal balcony, the horror and helplessness that came afterwards.

_Men who were far better suited at summoning armies than she, bloodied and broken on the field. Ostagar, lurking behind her closed eyelids, never far from her waking mind. Would she ever be able to escape that doomed valley?_

"Mage?" The young soldier stared at her, clutching his helmet beneath his arm.

"Sorry," she mumbled, following the soldier back to a fragment of the once great King's army, huddled beside a broken wagon.

A lieutenant in soiled uniform, cradling a recently amputated arm, sat on a barrel. The injured soldier was hunched over on his knees, shuddering, face pressed against the wooden cart.

"It's blighted, lass," murmured the lieutenant, opening an eye to look at her. "It's gone under the flesh. Too late for the poor bugger. I recruited him too. Can't help but feel guilty."

He reached for a half-drained bottle and took a long swig. Flora glanced at him for a moment, before dropping to her knees behind the young soldier.

"Could you- his shirt?" she asked the boy who had come to find her, peeling off her gloves and stifling a yawn. As the shirt was eased off, the injured soldier gave a moan of pain. The arrow wound was deep but would not have killed him alone. The infection had indeed gone into the flesh- black veins of taint snaking down the length of his back, cumulating in a seething mass of green-black pus in the wound itself.

The smell was pungent enough to make the lieutenant gag from several feet away; but Flora had smelt gangrenous flesh before and had long since hardened herself to it.

"I'm Flora."

She leaned forward, whispering in the injured youth's ear. He let out a moan, barely comprehending her words.

"I'm going to help you, but you have to try and keep as still as you can for me, please."

* * *

 

Meanwhile in the room, Alistair heard the tavern keeper give the last call for drinks, and his patience wore through.

Scrambling to his feet, wincing at his stiff limbs, he glanced over at the still reading Morrigan.

"It's been too long. I'm going to find her."

She waved a hand, clearly uninterested.

Alistair descended the stairs and wove his way through the slumped, intoxicated patrons. Stepping outside, grimacing slightly as the night air penetrated his linen undershirt, he turned his mind over as to his warden-sister's whereabouts.

It did not take him long to recall their arrival at Lothering, late that afternoon.

_Trudging up the hill towards the Chantry, passing through huddles of desperate refugees who had fled the ruins of Ostagar. She had asked, are there none here to help?_

Irrationally proud of himself for deducing her location so quickly, he set out across the small bridge. The Chantry was dark now, night prayers having finished an hour ago. Descending into the sprawling camp, he went from group to group until he found one woman willing to offer assistance.

"Red-haired girl? Wearing a big coat? She's with them soldiers, Bert knows where they are."

The pressure of the small gold ring on her finger, which always stayed cool no matter how hot she was, helped Flora to keep focused.

_Inhale. Draw the poison out. Take the taint into yourself._

_Exhale. Knit the ruined flesh left behind._

_Inhale. Breathe the Blight into your mouth, feel the sourness under your tongue. Tastes like the Joining. Remember Jory and Daveth? Don't forget them. You promised._

_Exhale. Don't get sloppy. Your tiredness is nothing compared to this man's pain. He will die if you make a mess of this._

She had fallen into a rhythm; her head bowed forward, the collar of her coat turned up against the cold. The injured soldier twitched and let out the occasional tormented groan, but he was doing his best to keep still.

_He wants to live, Flora. He wants to live so badly. Don't you dare let him down. You're tired? All you've done today is walk. He was in that valley. He faced the Darkspawn horde and returned. He needs to survive._

_But I'm so tired._

For a brief moment she felt only Blight and golden mist intermingling in her mouth and gasped for air, putting a steadying hand against the injured man's shoulder. He grunted and she winced, quickly pulling back.

_**Just breathe.** _

"Sorry," she murmured,  _inhaling_ once more.

Alistair found the soldier's small camp after some time had passed, Bert's directions lacking a certain precision. He approached the broken cart cautiously, saw the one-armed lieutenant sitting upright on a barrel, staring fixedly forward. A bottle rested by his side, forgotten.

At first he could not see her, then realised that she had her back to him and was wearing an oversized coat. He had mistaken her for one of the young soldiers at first. He approached quietly, as another man turned anxiously to see who was coming.

The injured youth was leaning forward, Flora kneeling behind him with her hands spread over the pallid skin, her mouth inches from a clearly Blighted wound. Alistair's first instinct was to shout for her to move away from the tainted flesh. He just about managed to restrain himself and simply stood there, tense and silent, not wishing to distract her.

The youth's back was pallid and sweaty, but clear. The last remnant of the taint was the throbbing black mass, pulsating in the arrow wound. Flora pulled her head back for a moment, closing her eyes and slowly expelling all the air from her lungs.

Then she opened her eyes and dropped her head to the man's back, her lips brushing the wound, and-

_Breathe it in._

_More. Keep going._

_Almost, almost- remember; he wants to live!_

_**Inhale.** _

Flora recoiled suddenly, her face contorting. She turned away from the soldier and dropped onto her hands and knees, retching as though she were about to be sick.

Alistair stepped forward swiftly, grabbing the lieutenant's bottle and crouching down, putting his arm about her shoulders to steady her.

"Here, drink," he murmured, holding the bottle to her lips. She took a swig, then spat it out over the earth.

"Ugh, poison."

"It's ale." Alistair held it up to her once more, insistent. "It'll clean your mouth. Come  _on_ , Flo."

She did as he asked, grimacing. He held the bottle for her, watching her like a hawk until she had rinsed her mouth thoroughly. Spitting the liquid out onto the earth, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve and turned to look at her handiwork.

The lieutenant had risen from his barrel, eyes wide. The young man who had found Flora was pale and trembling as he gripped his friend's arm. The man's back was clammy and cold, but now only freckles marked the pale skin. The arrow wound was still there, red and ugly, but free from infection.

The injured youth raised his head, blinking as if awakening from a dream.

"Where am I-?" he mumbled, as his companion clutched him tearfully.

"Don't move."

Flora, wincing slightly as she pushed herself back up onto her knees, spread her fingers around the wound.

"Flora… " started Alistair, but she shot him a severe look from the corner of her eye.

"Never leave a job half done," she mumbled, passing her fingers slowly over the wound. The last of her energy manifested in erratic spurts of golden mist, sealing the wound over with bright pink flesh.

"Sorry," she muttered, hanging her head as her sore hands dropped to her lap. "That'll scar."

Alistair crouched beside her, tilting her chin up and peering into her face anxiously. She opened one reddened eye and stared blearily at him, yawning.

"Flora?" he murmured, giving her a little shake. "Stay with me, my dear."

The injured boy's friend was embracing him, grinning through his tears. The young soldier himself looked bewildered, clarity quickly returning.

"What happened?"

The lieutenant eyed Flora, with a mix of awe and belligerence.

"I don't have nothin' to offer ye as payment," he said, in somewhat ashamed defiance. She smiled up at him, Alistair's arm keeping her from slumping forward.

"Tha'ssconvenient," she mumbled, her words running together. "I only… I only accept  _nothing_."

At the end of the sentence, her head dropped onto Alistair's shoulder. He gazed down at her, then let out a sigh under his breath.

"Can't help ourselves, can we? Come on."

Sliding his arm beneath her knees, he clambered to his feet. Flora's head lolled backwards, her hand dangling limply. Her ponytail, falling loose from where she had tucked it into her collar, trailed like a dark red banner.

The splash of colour against her drab overcoat caught the lieutenant's eye and he frowned suddenly.

"The men back at Ostagar told me about a young Grey Warden lassie wi' hair the shade of Antivan port, and an uncommon gift for healin'," he said slowly, looking up. Alistair held the softly snoring Flora in his arms, his face like carved stone.

The lieutenant turned his gaze to his two young soldiers. They were cousins from Denerim, who'd been some of the first to volunteer when King Cailan had called for recruits. The one struck by the arrow was peering over his shoulder, twisting his head in vain to try and see his former injury, while the other was laughing, tears of relief clinging to the ends of his lashes.

"Ah, get on with ye both. I won't say nothin'," the old soldier said, shaking his head with a heavy sigh. "I saw as many Grey Wardens fall in that valley as did our men. No matter what Loghain says, I can't see you as traitors."

"Thank you," Alistair said quietly, turning to leave.

Back at the tavern, after negotiating the stairs and navigating the intoxicated bodies snoring in the upstairs passage, Alistair kicked the door to their room open with slightly more force than intended.

If he had been hoping to startle Morrigan he was disappointed; she merely looked up from her book and gave them a cursory glance.

"Oh, dear! Is she dead?"

"No!" hissed Alistair as Flora yawned, looking up at him in confusion.

"Why are you carrying me?"

"Would you rather I left you to sleep it off in the refugee camp?" Alistair retorted, gripping her awkwardly while kicking the rug over itself. Carefully, he lowered her onto the doubled-up rug, propping her up against the wall.

She yawned again, eyeing him sleepily as he went to shut the door. He then retrieved one of the cooking pans and a water pouch from the tangle of utensils in the corner of the room. Returning to crouch beside her, he tilted her head back and held the pouch to her mouth.

"Here, rinse.  _Don't_ swallow," he instructed, holding the pan out for her to spit into. As Flora gargled obediently, Morrigan groaned and rolled over to face the wall.

"Again. Come on, Flo," he cajoled, as she eyed him belligerently. "We want to last thirty more years, not thirty more days."

She spat out into the pan once more, yawning. Alistair removed the pan and slid it to the far side of the room with his foot, returning the pouch to her so she could drink. As she did so, he exhaled slowly, feeling the tension drain from his bones.

"How are you feeling now?" he asked, eyeing her. She shrugged, lifting her fingers to touch her mouth. Her lips felt swollen and tender to the touch. Alistair reached out and caught her palm, bringing her hand close to his face and squinting at it.

"What happened to your fingers?"

Her fingertips were reddened and shiny, as if she had pressed and held them to a cooking pot. Flora gave another little shrug.

"Too much energy," she mumbled, her chin dropping to her chest. Alistair sighed, releasing her hand gently and rising to his feet.

"Well, I think it would be a good idea if we all got some rest."

Morrigan let out an exaggerated sigh, slamming the book shut and leaning over to blow out the candle. Alistair, who had been heading to the door in order to lock it, promptly crashed into the pile of utensils. Morrigan let out a malicious cackle as she heard him mutter a curse under his breath.

"Oh, and don't even think about fiddling with my eyes while I sleep like you do to this poor imbecile."

"Don't worry, I'd have no issue slaughtering you if you became an abomination, witch," retorted Alistair, returning to sit down on the floorboards next to Flora. Morrigan arched her eyebrows at the ceiling.

"Trust me, Templar; any demon strong enough to dominate  _my_ will would be powerful enough to squash you like a gnat before you could even retrieve your sword."

Flora had fallen asleep hunched over against the wall, the coat bundled around her. Alistair leaned over and carefully did the top button up, fastening the collar around her chin.

Sitting beside her, his back against the wall, he gazed up at the small window. The sky was hazy with cloud, veiling any stars from view. Only the moon shone through, like a bright and all-seeing eye of some ancient god. An old elven storyteller, whom he had known as a child in Redcliffe, had once told him that the ancient elves used to worship the sun and moon as gods. Although he knew it was blasphemous, he quite liked the idea of a god who was constant and visible, unlike their vanished Maker, conspicuous in His absence.

"Sorry," he muttered to the shadowed room, Chantry habits still instilled within him. "Don't strike me down with lightning."

He felt pressure on his left side, looked down and saw that Flora's head had dropped onto his shoulder. He paused for a moment, then carefully lifted his arm to settle it around her narrow back.

_This is permitted, Revered Mother Silba,_ he thought to himself as his mind recalled the wizened sister who had terrorised him for five years in the Chantry.  _There's about six inches of coat between my arm and her body._

"So, Alistair, I had a question." Morrigan's voice drifted out of the darkness from her lofty position on the bed. Alistair grimaced, sighing inwardly.

"Yes?"

"Are two Wardens allowed to lie with one another?"

Alistair, who had been mentally preparing himself for every insulting question possible, had not been expecting this one. He spluttered into the shadows, mind racing.

"Well, it's… it's not forbidden. As far as I know. It's not something that the Warden-Commander and I ever discussed. Why?"

He snorted to himself at the thought of bringing up  _out-of-hours prayertime_ to Duncan, then wondered if he would ever be able to think of Duncan again without the accompanying wave of grief.

"It doesn't seem very appropriate for an order as ancient and solemn as the Grey Wardens," commented Morrigan archly, gazing up at the ceiling eaves.

Alistair gave a one-sided shrug, trying to avoid jostling the lightly snoring Flora.

"I don't see how it would detract from the Wardens' purpose," he countered, keeping his voice low.

"What if a Warden had to choose between ending the Blight, or saving the life of the person he loved? What then?"

Alistair fell silent, thinking this over. As the pause dragged on, Morrigan smiled wickedly into the darkness.

"Ah, there's my answer."

One facet of Alistair's Templar training was developing the ability to wake himself up at periodic intervals during the night. This was one of the main reasons why Duncan had initially assigned him to watch over Flora at Ostagar.

Aware that she had exhausted herself and was thus more vulnerable, he woke every two hours and checked for the three impending signs of possession. Every Templar knew them intimately; the increased heartbeat, skin feverish and clammy, and the white iris.

Sometimes Flora woke when he gently nudged at her eyelid, or when he pressed a finger to her wrist to take her pulse. Most of the time, she was drowsy and compliant. When she was exhausted, she stayed asleep throughout.

He woke four times in total to check on her, and she slept throughout. He was grateful, aware that they had a long day's travelling facing them.

_Wherever they were heading,_ he thought, leaning his head back against the wall. His fingers idly stroked the rough wool material of Flora's coat, which was ugly but warm.  _Could be in any number of directions. Orzhammar, perhaps. Or to the Eastern Forests to see the elves._

However, Alistair knew where he wanted to go. Loghain's action in making himself regent was tantamount to declaring civil war. Alistair, who both disliked and was confused by the complexities of the Fereldan governmental system, did not wish to find himself entangled in politics when his full attention ought to be saved for the Blight.

_Arl Eamon will know what to do. And Redcliffe is a few day's ride from the Circle Tower, so we can get the mages afterwards. Do you approve, Duncan? It sounds like a plan._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAWKE CAMEO!


	19. New Allies

Chapter 19: New Allies

Alistair was woken by weak sunlight streaming through the window, dust particles idly drifting through the rays. His limbs felt heavy and stiff, and as he opened his eyes to gaze up at the wooden beams, he experienced momentary confusion as to his exact whereabouts.

After a moment, he realised that he was lying flat on the wooden floorboards, which would account for the stiffness. He blinked, vision clearing, and saw that he still had his arm around Flora's shoulders. She was huddled up inside the huge coat, snoring lightly. The bed was empty and there was no sign of Morrigan.

Alistair coughed to hide his awkwardness, and nudged Flora awake while simultaneously edging away from her.

"Flo? Time to get up."

Flora grumbled, rubbing her eyes with her sleeve and rolling over facedown onto the rug. She let out a moan against the threadbare material.

"No, it's not true!"

"It is true. Come on, lazybones." Alistair clambered to his feet and grimaced, his body paying the toll of a night spent on floorboards. Flora wrapped her arms around her head and mumbled something incoherent.

"We can get some breakfast downstairs…?" he cajoled, knowing that an appeal to her stomach usually triumphed when her mind was unwilling. Sure enough, she sat up and pulled a face, yawning, before peering over the edge of the bed.

"Where's she?"

"Maker knows, but I'm hoping she'll stay there. Hey, what happened to your  _face_?"

Flora frowned, reaching down for one of the tin cooking pots and inspecting her reflection in its dented surface. Sure enough, a large and ugly bruise had formed over her temple in variant tones of purple and black.

"Oh," she said, recalling the events of the previous night. "Someone threw a tankard at my head. I think they wanted me to conjure ale for them."

Alistair stared at her in dismay for moment, eyeing the spread of the bruise over her forehead.

"What? Can you – fix it?"

Flora yawned and tipped her head to one side, loose strands of hair falling away. Golden energy already illuminating the lines of her fingerprints, she brushed two fingers gently over her temple in a circular gesture. The bruising immediately began to fade as the swelling below shrank.

"Is it gone?"

"Almost," he murmured, watching the purplish black pale to blue, then disappear altogether.

"There we go. Clever girl."

She nodded, then eyed him expectantly.

"Breakfast?"

They edged down the upper passage, avoiding the slumbering patrons, before descending into the tavern. It still bore signs of the previous night's desperate revelry; even the innkeeper himself looked distinctly worse for wear as he slumped behind the bar.

Some dedicated drinkers were already halfway through their first pint of the day, and a small group of knights were huddled in the corner. After establishing that they were not in Loghain's black and gold livery, Alistair retrieved their remaining coin and ordered cooked goose eggs and bread. The tavern keeper raised his head just long enough to take the money and shout the order through to his long-suffering wife in the kitchen.

As they waited, Alistair retrieved a square of unfolded parchment from his pocket, spreading it over the bar. It was a crude map of Ferelden, inked with only the most major cities and thoroughfares.

"We're in Lothering," he announced, then remembered that the legends on the map meant nothing to her. He dropped a finger on the small village's location.

"Here's Denerim, the capital. I don't think it's a good idea to go there yet, not if Loghain has declared himself regent. This is Orzhammar, where the dwarves are."

Flora eyed the map, recognising the shape of Ferelden. "Where's Herring?"

Alistair gazed at the northern coast, then shrugged.

"Not important enough to be on here. Sorry," he added, as she glowered at him. "It's near Highever, isn't it? Well, Highever is here."

Flora gazed at the map, trying to work out which crudely inked inlet belonged to her own home. After a moment she shrugged, giving up, half-listening to the conversation of the group of knights. "What about the elves?"

"They're in the Brecelian Forests to the East, over here. I don't know what kind of reception we'll get there. The Dalish aren't particularly fond of  _shems._ "

"Hey, you said you were from Redcliffe?" she interrupted, eyeing the group of knights in the corner. "That's where they're returning."

Alistair peered around at the group, focusing on the livery they wore. On closer inspection, he saw the familiar grey tower perched upon a red precipice.

"They're Arl Eamon's men," he breathed, his eyes lighting up.

He headed over towards them, not realising until he drew closer that they were slump-shouldered and dejected.

"Ser Donall? You probably don't recognise me," he began, as the oldest raised his face in weary greeting.

Immediately the bearded man's expression changed to one of incredulity, then pleasure.

"Young Alistair, by the Maker! It  _is_ you, isn't it?"

Alistair nodded, beaming. The old knight, smiled, his face so crossed with lines it was though he was looking through a trellis.

"Ah, but it's been- what? Ten years?" Ser Donall peered up at him through rheumy eyes. "Weren't you packed off to the Chantry?"

Alistair nodded, taking a seat on a bench facing the men. The other two soldiers raised their gloves in greeting, before returning to their tankards.

"Yes, by Lady Isolde. She was never my biggest fan," commented Alistair, half rolling his eyes. "I don't blame her. I caused a lot of trouble."

"Food's here!" Flora called from the bar as the innkeeper's wife slammed down two plates ill-temperedly.

"I won't be long," he replied, at which she shrugged and picked up a fork. Alistair turned back to the men, noticing their crumpled tunics and leather packs.

"Have you been travelling?"

Ser Donell glanced sideways at one of the other men, before letting out a muted sigh.

"Yes, for several weeks now," he replied evasively, his eyes sliding past Alistair. "But, look at you! Twice the height, and with a lovely lass. You've done well for yourself, my boy."

Alistair and the other knights turned to look at said lovely lass, who was trying to ram half a loaf of bread down her throat. Ser Donell coughed and averted his eyes tactfully.

"Ahem, anyway. What is your business in Lothering, young Alistair? Not on the run from the Chantry, are we?"

It was Alistair's turn to slide his gaze sideways, pausing.

"I- I'm just on an…errand," he said lamely, and there was an awkward silence, all parties aware of the hesitation and half-truths hanging in the air.

Flora, eavesdropping shamelessly, decided to intervene. Sliding off the stool, she picked up the cooling eggs and wandered over, sitting on the bench beside Alistair. Despite her dishevelled hair and battered coat, she beamed at them with such winning charm, her grey eyes clear and open, that the old knight could not help but return her smile.

"Hello, I'm Flora."

"Hello, child."

"It's all my fault, I'm the wicked woman who has misled him from the Chantry," she intoned, handing Alistair his plate as he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her.

"Well, who wouldn't follow a pretty face like yours?" replied Ser Donell gallantly. Flora rewarded him with a smile, hoping that she did not have any crumbs in her teeth.

"I want to see the village where my beloved grew up," she continued blithely, as Alistair nearly fell off the bench beside him. "He tried to convince me that he was raised by wolves."

The beloved gave a helpless shrug, face fixed in a rictus grin. Ser Donell's shoulders slumped a fraction more, the old knight seeming to shrink in on himself.

"I'm afraid you won't like what you find," he said, lowering his tone. "The Arl is unwell."

Alistair's brow furrowed as he gazed at the ageing captain. One of his retinue, a dark-haired younger man, gave a slight cough. Flora glanced at him absentmindedly, then blinked and stared, her attention caught.

"He's not well? What's wrong with him?"

The old man's gaze darted evasively once again. "A fever of some sort."

Alistair grimaced, raising a hand to his head. It was at this point that Flora nudged him in the ribs, tilting her head slightly but pointedly.

He had spent enough time with her during the past month to become relatively accustomed to her nonverbal cues; his eyes slid surreptitiously in the direction of her canted chin. After a moment, he discerned her meaning.

"Well, we must be off," Alistair said, rising casually and offering his arm to Flora. "Coming, dear?"

Flora rose to her feet, gawping when the knights also rose politely. Recovering, she took Alistair's arm and smiled winningly.

* * *

 

After a brief exchange of farewells, Alistair and Flora headed to the stairs. In the upstairs passage Alistair groaned out loud, avoiding the slumbering drunks.

"I can't believe I didn't see it before," he muttered, cursing under his breath.

"Who doesn't see a giant gold griffon badge when it's two feet from their nose? Alistair, that's who! I  _am_  an idiot!"

"I remember seeing it all over Loghain's tent," mumbled Flora, her mouth full.

He turned around and stared at her. She was busy eating his bowl of eggs as she followed him.

" _Really!?"_

"People are starving out there!" Flora retorted indignantly, jabbing her fork vaguely towards the wall. "I'm not going to waste food."

Alistair groaned, then pushed the door to their room. A moment later, he frowned.

"Didn't I lock- "

A woman in a green hooded cloak stood in the middle of the room, a bow and arrow slung across her back.

Alistair's fingers automatically reached for the hilt of his sword, while Flora struggled with the dilemma: to keep hold of the bowl, or to prepare to shield?

"Who are you?!" demanded Alistair, withdrawing his sword an inch from its scabbard.

The woman lowered the hood of her cloak to reveal her face. She seemed familiar, and almost immediately they recognised her as the young Sister from the Chantry.

"I am Lay-Sister Leliana." Her accent was heavily Orlesian, as was her posture and the styling of her leather tunic.

Considering the threat over, Flora returned her attention to the bowl of rapidly cooling eggs. Alistair eyed the woman, suspiciously.

"Are you sure you're not just Morrigan in surprise? No, never mind," he continued as she frowned at him in puzzlement.

"I am on a divine mission," Leliana informed them, her blue eyes sparkling with determination.

"The Maker gifted me with a vision, and from this vision I have derived purpose. Your arrival at Lothering cannot be a coincidence; I am to accompany you."

"Accompany us where?" asked Flora, the fork hovering halfway to her mouth. A beatific smile spread across Leliana's face, and she let out a contended sigh.

"To help you defeat the Archdemon, of course. He has tasked me with this! I shall be much rewarded by Him when we achieve victory."

"Watch out for the fanatics; they're always the ones who stab you in your sleep," Alistair muttered in Flora's ear. Flora shrugged a shoulder, bringing a fork to her mouth.

"At the moment we have an army of three, and one third of that keeps disappearing," she mumbled, swallowing the last mouthful of eggs. "I don't think we can turn down any assistance."

The second silver candlestick bought them two packhorses, to which they strapped the tents and camping supplies. Leliana, as a lay-sister, was also able to requisition some salted meat from the Chantry stockroom. This warmed Flora to her almost immediately.

* * *

 

They departed Lothering without fanfare, heading north on a narrow trail that ran alongside a wide, slow-flowing river. After some time, they came to a fork in the road. To the west lay the tall marble-white spine of the King's Highway, an ancient structure which looped around Lake Calanhad. To the east was Main Way, a similar construction which led straight to Denerim without diversion.

Alistair, grudgingly back in full Templar mail, spread out the map against the horse's flank. He glanced up at Flora, who was eyeing the horse itself with some trepidation. Leliana was kneeling beside the road, murmuring silently with her hands clasped.

"So, which direction?"

Flora bent her head over the map beside him, trying to decipher it by the shapes and markings, rather than the illegible text.

"What's a regent?" she asked, abruptly, squinting down at Lake Calanhad. She recognised the tall tower etched near its Northern coast as her former Circle, Kinloch.

"Like a king, but not a King." Alistair paused briefly. "Someone who's in charge until they can find the next poor sod foolish enough to take the job."

"And Loghain is this  _not-King_ , in Denerim, which is here?" She jabbed her finger at the map, recalling the location from earlier.

After Alistair nodded, Flora shrugged her shoulders. "Well if Loghain is east, we should go west. Let's go where you said, Redcliffe."

Alistair gaped at her, hazel eyes widening.

"Wait, we're actually following  _my_  idea? Scribe! Scribe! This is a historic moment: preserve it for posterity!"

Flora pulled a face at him and took the map. Carefully folding it up, she tucked it inside her shirt alongside the treaties. Leliana rose to her feet, sensing the mood change.

"I have called for the Maker to bless us as we embark upon our journey!" she called, flashing them a slightly-manic smile. Alistair stared at her for a moment, then nudged Flora.

"It's your turn to walk with her," he muttered darkly. "I had nine years of that in the Chantry, I can't take any more."

"Just like Andraste, we too stand in the face of unspeakable evil, with our Maker's Love to guide us!"

Just then, there came a voice from behind them.

"Do my ears deceive me? I thought I heard the insane ramblings of a Chantry mouse."

"Oh, this is going to be interesting," murmured Alistair as he and Flora turned to face Morrigan.

She was standing just behind them, looking as non-plussed as they had ever seen her. Accompanying her was a behemoth of a man, at least seven foot tall. Bare chested, his skin was a dark ashen tan and his eyes were small, round and red. A sweeping of white hair clung to a square, unamused face.

Alistair let out a soft groan under his breath while Flora stood beside him, gaping.

"Flo, shut your mouth. He's a Qunari," he muttered, elbowing her.

"Yes," added Morrigan, who appeared to have preternatural hearing. Pointedly ignoring Leliana, whose beatific smile was growing rather forced, she strolled towards them. The small animal bones in her neck rattled with each step.

"You said we needed allies, so I found you one," Morrigan explained, her dark painted lips curving upwards maliciously.

"If we happen to run into anything with a natural resistance to my magic, I'd rather not be wholly dependent on the idiot Alistair to defend us," she continued, with a supercilious smile.

Leliana, whose sunny expression had clouded over, clutched her prayer beads and raised her eyes to the heavens. Morrigan snorted.

"What's the matter, priestess? Uncomfortable with one who doesn't follow your particular brand of blind idolatry?"

"Quiet, she-witch," rumbled the Qunari in a voice like the grinding of rocks. "I am accompanying you as penance; because the Qun dictates it so. Not out of my own preferences."

Flora, whose only knowledge of the Qunari was that they usually featured as the villain in common Herring legend, continued to stare. Alistair let out another sigh, wishing that Duncan was there to offer his far wiser perspective.

"Penance for what?" he asked, cautiously. The Qunari shot him an impassive stare.

"Murder."

Alistair threw up his hands and turned his back, striding several feet away before exhaling loudly.

"This keeps getting better and better! Thanks, Morrigan.  _Excellent_ new ally you've found us."

"The poor creature was in a cage," muttered Morrigan, gliding closer to him. "It would have been needlessly cruel to keep him there for the Darkspawn to consume."

Alistair groaned, shaking his head from side to side. Leliana was once again on her knees on the grassy verge, eyes shut and hands clasped.

"It's out of the question," he said, bluntly. "We're meant to be the saviours of Ferelden _,_ remember? Us, good. Darkspawn,  _bad._ Murderers, also bad!"

Meanwhile, the wary Flora had edged closer to the vast man. He looked down at her, his strange red stare impassive.

"What's your name?" she asked, tentatively. He glared down at her with contempt.

"I require a weapon."

"Your mother named you that?" replied Flora. She started to giggle, then thought better of it.

"I'm Flora."

"I did not ask."

Morrigan and Alistair, still standing beside the horse, watched Flora's tentative attempt to communicate with the stoic giant. Morrigan glanced at the young Warden, then snatched up a small pebble from the road. With unerring aim, she flicked it forwards. Flora yelped, clapping a hand to the back of her head. Turning and seeing Morrigan with her hand still raised, she scowled darkly before continuing her attempt at conversing with the silent Qunari.

Alistair glared at Morrigan, who was brushing the dust from her fingers.

"Stop being mean to Flora."

"Imagine, fool, the pebble was an arrow. Perhaps, a gift from Loghain. An assassin would find plenty of hiding places among these trees."

Alistair glanced at the sparse woods surrounding the grassy track, and grimaced inadvertently. Morrigan pressed the advantage.

"The more in our party, the better your chances for survival. Both of you."

"Grey Wardens historically care not from where aid comes," chimed in Leliana, who had perked up at the prospect of possibly being the first lay-sister to convert a Qunari to the Chant. "During the Third Blight, Warden-Commander Aubedey ordered that the jails of Denerim be set loose and that their inhabitants join the Order."

Alistair groaned, feeling a muscle in his jaw begin to twitch.

"Fine! Fine. We'll take him."

"Nobody is taking me anywhere," inserted the Qunari monotonously. "I am assisting the slaying of the Archdemon."

"What's your  _name?_ " demanded Flora, only to be ignored once again..

The strange band of companions turned west, towards the King's Highway and Lake Calanhad. At one point Morrigan vanished, disappearing for several hours in the afternoon. The Qunari, after ransacking their supplies looking for an adequate weapon, fashioned a large club from a fencepost and carried it across his shoulders. He had not spoken a single word since their initial meeting.

Leliana had first fixated on Flora, chattering nonstop in her ear about her favourite canticles of the Chant. Flora had listened patiently for several hours, used to being lectured from her years in the Circle.

When Leliana realised that she would not get much intellectual discourse from Flora, she quickened her step to catch up with Alistair.

Ever since Morrigan had warned him about the possibility of danger, his head had been swinging constantly back and forth, surveying the environment. It remained unchanging; low fields and sparse woodland, and yet now he saw assassins behind every tree trunk.

"Alistair!" Leliana chirped in her almost exaggeratedly Orlesian trill. "You used to be a Templar, no?"

"I never took my vows," he replied, a feeling of impending doom coming over him as he realised her purpose.

"Ah, but you still are loyal to the Chantry,  _yes?_ Doesn't your heart swell with the Maker's love when you think about the glorious task He has set for you?"

Alistair moaned inwardly, casting a pleading look at Flora over his shoulder.

"I thought I had escaped this when Duncan conscripted me," he muttered under his breath. Flora was preoccupied trying to retrieve some salted meat from the saddlebag, while the horse continued forward.

To her dismay, they did not stop for lunch. The anxious Alistair wanted to escape the woods as quickly as possible, and nobody else seemed particularly inclined to rest.

They continued to walk, the path slowly sloping down as they entered the massive valley that dominated the geography of western Ferelden. To the west, the silvery peaks of the Frostbacks reared upwards; while the low rolling hills of the Bannorn stretched to the north and east.

Flora, whose knee had started to ache as they reached the crest of the slope, leaned against her staff. She stared down at the smaller lake that branched off from Calanhad's main body, navy waters reflecting the watery afternoon sun. There were no towns on this part of the lake, only a few clustered houses clinging to the shore.  _Fishermen's huts,_ she thought to herself and felt a pang of homesickness.

"Flora?" Alistair was halfway up a tree, squinting around at their immediate surroundings as though he were waiting for something.

"Eh?"

"We'll be at Redcliffe by midday tomorrow. This looks like a good place to make camp."

There was an unspoken question in his tone, and she nodded gratefully. Dropping down from the tree, he joined her over by the horses, and together they began to unload the camping supplies.


	20. At Camp

Chapter 20: At Camp

Alistair watched Flora as she dropped a heavy bundle of canvas and poles onto a patch of dry earth. He realised that the last time he had set up camp was with Duncan, travelling back from the Circle tower together. As she returned to take the second tent, he met her beside the horse's flank. She was slightly red in the face.

"How have we ended up being the only ones setting up camp?" she hissed at him, gesturing to their companions.

Morrigan had vanished mid-afternoon, while Leliana was kneeling with her eyes closed in prayer. The Qunari was standing on the brow of the hill, gazing down at Calanhad's tributary without comment.

Alistair shrugged, helping her to detangle the second tent from the stirrups. He carried over the cooking utensils, marking out a good spot for a fire with his boot.

Flora watched him curiously as he began to set up the first tent, expertly propping up the centre poles with small rocks, draping the canvas over the frame, then weighting everything down. She brought over the bedrolls, setting them out neatly on the damp grass beneath the sloping canvas.

"Flo?"

They were in the middle of methodologically putting up the second tent, when Alistair paused. She looked up at him, her body draped in canvas like a king's robe.

"Yes?

"I'm glad you're doing this with me," he said, realising as the words came out how vague they sounded. She shrugged, steadying the front pole as he tied the frame together.

"It's easier with two people. Otherwise it falls down."

"No, I mean- I'm glad you didn't die at Ostagar too. I wouldn't like to be doing this alone."

His words sounded foolish to his ears; but she didn't laugh, instead considered them thoughtfully.

"Would you still do it, if I had died?"

"Do what?"

"Use the treaties. Travel around and try to build an army."

He gripped one end of the canvas and she rotated slowly, letting him unwrap it from her shoulders.

"Yes," he said after a few moments, lifting the canvas and draping it over the frame. "I would. I couldn't just run away. Even if I was the last Grey Warden."

They both dropped down on their respective sides of the tent, pegging the stiff material out into the damp earth.

"Why does it have to be a Grey Warden?" Flora's voice was muffled as it filtered through the canvas. Alistair finished first and sat back, brow furrowing.

"For what?"

"Killing an Archdemon?"

"I don't know. I was only in the Wardens for a year. I think only Duncan and the seniors knew."

Alistair crawled around to Flora's side and helped her push the last peg into the earth. She pushed stray strands of hair from her pink face, unbuttoning the coat.

"So we don't actually know  _how_  to kill an Archdemon?"

He went to the horse and retrieved the last bedroll, spreading it out inside the second tent.

"I think you just have to kill the dragon in the normal way- stick swords in it until it dies. But if a Grey Warden does the sticking, the Archdemon inside it dies too."

"Why?"

Alistair shrugged at her as he returned upright.

"I was a junior Warden! They don't allow junior Wardens into the circle of knowledge."

"Oh," Flora said, clambering to her feet with a grimace. "Maybe they should."

Noticing the wince, he was instantly alert, coming to her side.

"Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, frustrated with herself.

"It's just my knee. I didn't heal it well after- after Ostagar. I wasn't focused. I'll be fine."

He gazed at her for a moment. She looked back at him, her grey eyes suddenly clouding over. He stared into her anxious face, knowing that she was in the same place as he. The evening seemed to close in around them, the skies drawing close and darkening.

_On top of the Tower of Ishal. The beacon blazing above_ _,_ _Fereldan's army burning below. The rain coming down hard, turning earth to mud. The Wardens overwhelmed, waiting for reinforcements that would never come. A signal ignored, a King sacrificed._

Flora roused herself first, shaking her head. She reached out and patted his elbow.

"Let's get dinner going, I'm starving," she moaned. Alistair shook his head, blinked as if awakening from a dream.

"You're always starving. It's a good thing you get a lot of exercise," he retorted, matching her light-hearted tone. She stuck her tongue out at him, marching over to the cooking area he had designated earlier.

The Qunari emerged from the trees as if on cue, cradling an armful of branches. The branches appeared to have been not so much chopped as torn limb from limb.

With a sour look at the two Wardens, he dropped the pile with a cascading thud.

"I will do no more," he announced to the air.

"Are you sure you can't do just a  _little_  more?" wheedled Alistair, putting on his most charming expression. The Qunari stared as if Alistair had just suggested he become the next Divine.

"I don't understand."

"Like you  _could_  have placed those logs in the cooking area, just this short distance further… rather than literally right next to the tent. As if you wanted to burn it down."

The Qunari blinked at him impassively for a moment.

"Will this be  _your_  tent?"

Alistair looked somewhat perturbed, while Flora laughed. The large man turned away without a word, casting a soundless red glare towards the woods.

"Flora!" grumbled Alistair, frowning theatrically at her. "You're supposed to be on  _my_  side."

She knelt down beside the wood pile, ignoring the twinge from her knee, and began to arrange the logs.

"Alistair," she chided, just loud enough for him to hear. "You know I'll be on your side when it matters. Brother-warden."

"Sister-warden," he replied, grinning reluctantly as he squatted down beside her.

A moment later, Leliana emerged with bow in hand, waving two rabbits triumphantly.

"The Maker has been generous!" she called out, beaming. "He smiles upon our enterprise!"

The next moment, she had squatted down beside them, blooded fingers tucking strands of short orange hair behind her ears.

"Maybe one of those was Morrigan," Alistair said hopefully, gesturing at the rabbits. The next moment Leliana had withdrawn a vicious looking blade from the inside of her leather jerkin. It gleamed brightly, reflecting the sun as it sunk beyond the Frostbacks.

Alistair almost fell into the fire he was building.

"Do you bring that to morning prayers in the Chantry?"

Meanwhile, Flora was beaming in recognition.

"We use that kind of knife to gut fish back home," she said fondly, lost in memories. Alistair shot her an appalled look.

"Ah, men are so happy to stick the sword in once and claim mastery," mused Leliana as she slit the rabbit open from neck to groin in a single expert slice. "Yet it is  _woman_ who truly knows how to dismember a creature, how to take it apart so that it is unrecognisable. Who truly claims the kill, I wonder?"

Alistair gaped, as Flora's smile slowly faded. He put his mouth beside her ear, waiting for Leliana to start on the second rabbit before speaking.

"I don't care how inappropriate our priestess thinks it is," he muttered through her hair. "We're sharing a tent. I refuse to bunk with a Qunari who wants to burn me alive, and this woman is clearly touched in the head."

Flora nodded mutely, watching Leliana unravel the creature's innards with a grimace.

* * *

 

Some time later, when the sun had slipped fully below the horizon, Morrigan reappeared. The temperature had dropped with the sun, and a chill breeze rustled the few remaining leaves.

The hedge-witch had a bundle of grasses and sticks beneath her arm, clearly intending on creating her own little camp. Leliana was humming quietly to herself as she fussed around the remainder of the rabbit, the Qunari had already taken his share off to the edge of the woods to eat alone.

Alistair was staring into the flames, lost in thought and uncharacteristically quiet. Flora, chewing her last piece of rabbit, watched Morrigan as she dropped a branch and let out a curse.

"I'm going to see if she needs any help," she mumbled, swallowing before scrambling to her feet.

"Prepare to come back with a flea in your ear. Or  _as_  a flea," Alistair called after her, temporarily roused from his brooding.

Flora approached Morrigan with some trepidation. The woman was panting slightly, having created a basic shelter from various branches and foliage.

"Do you want to borrow my coat?" offered Flora, eyeing the expanses of tan exposed skin with some concern. Morrigan shot her a withering look.

"I would rather die. May I enquire as to the purpose of this visit?" she asked, lip curling. Flora shrugged, fastening her top button beneath her chin.

"Do you need any help with… this?" she asked, glancing around. Morrigan scoffed, seating herself regally on a scarlet cloak retrieved from her pack.

"Why would I need help from  _you_? The most pathetic excuse for a mage I ever saw. 'Tis tragic, really. Laughable."

When Flora smiled, Morrigan frowned slightly.

"I thought you had a modicum more brains than the straw-haired idiot. You realise that I just  _insulted_ you?"

"Yes," Flora replied mildly, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering as a particularly cold breeze skirted the ridge. "Goodnight."

When she returned to the campfire and sat down, Alistair glanced up again.

"What did she say?"

Flora shrugged, holding out her hands towards the fire. "Thanks for the offer, but she's fine?"

Alistair snorted, rolling his eyes at her. "And I'm the Empress of Orlais."

"I've seen her at court!" piped up Leliana, fingering her prayer beads. "She's very beautiful, and loves her gossip."

They were quiet for several minutes, then the priestess looked up. Her blue eyes flashed eagerly as she gazed at them in earnest.

"So, who  _are_  the two Grey Wardens who will save Ferelden from this Blight? You know I will write a great epic poem about you both. Starring Alistair of Redcliffe, and Flora of- where?"

"Herring," offered Flora, drawing up her sore knee. Already having removed her boot, she rolled the leg of her beeches up over her bare calf, peering down at the sore joint in some perplexity.

Leliana frowned slightly, tilting her head in a classically Orlesian manner.

"Ah, is that not the name of a…fish?"

"Yes," said Flora patiently, rubbing her fingertips together to coax forth the golden glow. "It's also the name of my home. It's a fishing village on the north coast."

Leliana looked at her coyly, a smile curving at the corner of her mouth.

"Come now, don't lie! Those are some finely hewn cheekbones for a fisherman's daughter."

Flora shrugged slightly, frowning down at her knee. The pain had lessened somewhat, but a dull ache persisted.

"I did a bad job of this," she said out loud, scowling.

Alistair, who had looked away instinctually when Flora had rolled up her trouser leg, felt vaguely stupid. Forcing himself to look at her calf – which was perfectly slender and normal - he cleared his throat to hide his embarrassment.

"You know, back at the monastery we would heat up stones and place them on whatever part was sore," he offered. "You know, after formations or drill. It's not  _super potent magical healing energy_ -"

Here, Alistair waved his fingers around mysteriously. "But it did help to take the edge off the ache."

Flora looked around for a stone; not finding any, she held out her hand to the fire. When it was warm, she moved it to her knee and pressed her palm against the joint.

"Does that help?"

"Yes, a little. Thanks."

"Anytime, Flo."

* * *

 

That night, Flora heard the Archdemon speaking for the first time. It had grown louder and more powerful since it's triumph at Ostagar. Flora had been immersed in a Fade dream; envisioning herself back in the Circle Tower at Kinloch. First Enchanter Irving was shouting at her to find a book, she was trying to explain that she couldn't read the titles, and then she heard  _it_.

There were no discernible words, just a low and incessant drone, throbbing with intelligence and malevolence. The sound crawled into her ears and burrowed into her brain; though she tried to block it out, the sound was now impossibly  _inside her head._ Then blazing before her were a pair of vast and malevolent eyes, burning with primal fire and as ancient as the Frostbacks. The pupils contracted as they focused on her and she let out a cry of fright.

"Flo? Flora?" Alistair's voice was low and urgent, penetrating through the fog and pulling her like an anchor through the Veil, back into the world. Flora woke under canvas and had no idea where she was for a moment. She was only aware of someone shaking her roughly, hard enough to make her teeth rattle in her head.

She blinked and saw Alistair hunched beside her, his hazel eyes standing out stark against his pale, fine-boned face. When she focused on him, he released her shoulders, staring down at her.

"Flora?" he said again, uncertainty catching in his throat. Flora coughed and sat up, hitting her head on the damp canvas. She could feel her heart thudding against her ribcage, fast and frantic. Alistair held his water pouch to her and she took it, her hand shaking so much that she splashed half of it down her shirt. He reached out and steadied her wrist gently, letting her take a gulp.

"Did you hear the Archdemon?" he asked, when she appeared to have calmed down slightly. She nodded mutely, her lower lip unsteady. Her hair was sweaty, her shirt clammy and damp against her skin.

"I saw it," she whispered and he raised his eyebrows, taking the water pouch away and sealing it before she could spill it.

"I never saw it. It obviously thinks you're special!"

His attempt at humour did not go down well with Flora, who rolled over onto her stomach and hid her face against the bedroll.

"Sorry, Flo. I'm not… I'm not very good at this." He reached out and patted her back awkwardly, feeling the heat of her skin through the clammy shirt.

"I promise, you'll learn to mostly block it out. Even  _I_ learnt eventually."

She sniffed, head buried in her arms. Her shoulders shuddered and he heard her muffled voice. It was half-upset, half-outraged, more nineteen year old girl from Herring than Grey Warden.

"It  _scared_  me!"

He hesitated for a moment, then tentatively rubbed his palm up between her shoulder blades, then down her spine to the base of her back. Growing more confident, he continued to rub her back gently, hoping that it would stop her from crying.

"Ssh, shh," he murmured awkwardly, wondering if he was making things worse.

As he stroked her back, his fingers brushing against her untidy braid, she gradually quietened down. Her shoulders stopped trembling and for a moment he thought that she might have fallen asleep.

The next moment she rolled over, her eyes reddened and hair dishevelled, then sat up and hugged her knees. Alistair stared at her anxiously, exhaling in relief when she half smiled at him.

"Sorry," she mumbled, looking down at her bare feet. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"If I didn't have my incredibly manly reputation to think of, I'm sure I'd be blubbering every five minutes," he offered kindly, and she smiled at him properly, wiping her nose on her shirt sleeve.

"I'm used to ignoring demons in my dreams," she mumbled after a moment, reaching up to tuck several thick ropes of hair back inside her messy braid. "I'll learn to block out an Archdemon."

Although her tone was an attempt at lightheartedness, a shadow fell across Alistair's face when she said this. Flora gazed at him, remembering his white-faced terror when she had first awoken.

"What's the matter?" she whispered, anxiously. He shook his head, mutely, turning his face towards the half-open tent entrance. The dying embers of the campfire were just about visible, reddened sparks drifting heavenwards.

"I thought for a moment you'd been possessed," he muttered, averting his eyes from her. "Your heart was racing, you were hot. It terrified me, I thought I'd have to- "

He broke off abruptly, lying back down on the bedroll with a long, unsteady exhalation. Flora paused for a moment, then curled up on her side, facing him. He stared at her, the shadows saturating her features into monochrome, dark red hair tangled around her pale face. The freckles on her nose stood out starkly against her skin.

"It was just a nightmare," she whispered, trying to smile. "Please don't kill me for having a bad dream."

Alistair groaned, putting his hand to his head. "Don't even jest about it, Flo. I… I don't even know if I  _could_  anymore. I don't know."

He recalled one of his old Templar instructors, striding back and forth across the monastery courtyard as he lectured them about protocol when guarding mages in Circle tower. Templars were strictly forbidden from forming any kind of personal connection with the mages in their custody; in case they failed to do their Chantry-bidden duty if the moment ever came.

"You could ask the Qunari to do it, I'm sure he wouldn't mind," mumbled Flora, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Or Morrigan."

Appreciating the sentiment, Alistair half-smiled at her, although the thought was still too fresh in his mind to allow for jest

"Don't let me face the Archdemon alone," he muttered, throat constricted despite his lighter tone. "You know I'm an idiot, I'll just ruin everything somehow."

Flora searched his face for a moment, saw the hazel eyes shadowed in doubt and fear.

"Back in Herring," she whispered, shifting herself into a more comfortable position on the bedroll. "We have a story about a brother and sister who were out fishing when they ran into a pirate-ship full of  _Par-Vollan_  Qunari. To avoid capture, they both jumped into the sea and turned into fish."

"Herring folk are talented," commented Alistair, with a slight, wry grin. Flora smiled at him, and continued with the story, which had been told to her many times.

"So they didn't lose each other in the current, they tied a rope between their tails. No matter how strong the waves were, they were able to stay together. And not even the tide could part them."

She paused, and Alistair looked up. "What happened to them?"

Flora shrugged, her teeth flashing in the shadows as she grinned.

"Don't know. Probably got caught by my dad. But if they were, they got caught together. Anyway…" she reached out, stretching her arm across the space between them and taking his hand.

"We are brother and sister wardens, aren't we? Why shouldn't it work the same way."

Flora squeezed his fingers in hers tightly as he stared at her, not knowing what to say. Her fingers, slender and warm, curled against his own calloused ones.

"This is our fish rope," she whispered, resting her cheek against the bedroll. "You won't lose me if you hold on tight, brother-warden."

He gaped, but kept hold of her fingers without a word. She smiled into the darkness, closing her eyes and pulling the coat up over herself with her free hand.

Alistair gripped her fingers tightly and slept more soundly in the four hours before dawn than he had done in the entirety of the previous week.

 


	21. Alistair's Strange Homecoming

Chapter 21: Alistair's Strange Homecoming

As the sun crept up over the Bannorn hills and the inside of the tent gradually lightened, Alistair woke well-rested, his fingers still tangled within Flora's.

He turned his head and looked at her face, half hidden against her arm, dark eyelashes resting against her cheeks.  _A dutiful Templar is meant to stand guard over a sleeping mage, especially after a restless night._  This was what Alistair told himself, although the words did not quite ring true to his own ears. Despite this, he watched her sleep for another half-hour, clutching her fingers tightly between his own.

As the sun crested the low hills, Leliana thrust her head inside their tent with an expectant grin. When she saw them sprawled on separate bedrolls, with fingertips alone in contact, her face fell slightly. However, she was well-trained and recovered quickly from the disappointment.

" _Good morning, Wardens!"_ the lay-sister sang out brightly, blue eyes sparkling like twin turquoises. Flora sat bolt upright in shock, wrenching her hand from Alistair's. She hit her head on the canvas, sodden with morning dew.

"Aah!"

Alistair groaned, sitting upright and running a hand through his rumpled hair in an attempt to flatten it.

"Don't you have morning prayers to be doing or something?"

Leliana smiled sweetly at him.

"Do you want to accompany me down to the lake to wash?" This question was posed to Flora, who was grinding her fists into her eyes. "We don't want to risk the  _menfolk_ taking advantage!"

As a yawning Flora lurched after Leliana, Alistair emerged from the tent and called after them in outrage.

"Do you mean me? Taking advantage? Don't you mean  _him?_ "

He gestured at the Qunari, who was seated beside the smoking remains of the campfire, sharpening a branch with one of Leliana's blades.

"I'm the  _least_  likely person to take advantage!" Alistair continued, hazel eyes wide and indignant. "I was raised in a  _monastery_. Women scare me!"

From her own makeshift camp beneath the trees, Morrigan gave a mocking laugh.

* * *

 

Some time later, Leliana bounded back up the bank towards their encampment, the brisk morning breeze ruffling her cropped hair around her ears.

"Did you have a refreshing dip, priestess?" called out Morrigan, leaning against a tree trunk and idly fiddling with her nails. Alistair, who alone was packing the camp back into the two horses, glanced over at Leliana.

"I love bathing in Nature and seeing the beauty of the Maker's creation all around me," enthused Leliana, a radiant beam crossing her face. Morrigan scowled in distaste, while Alistair struggled to single-handedly stuff the voluminous folds of canvas through the straps of the side saddle.

"Where's Flo?" he asked, Morrigan's assassin comment from last night surging to the front of his mind once again.

"Ah, she was just behind me."

At that moment Flora tottered back into camp, clutching a large blanket around herself, eyes wide and shocked. Her dark red hair fell in a sodden mass, reaching to halfway down her back.

"It's c-colder than the Waking Sea in that lake," she complained through chattering teeth, clutching her wet linen clothing in one hand and the blanket in the other.

Leliana, whose water-treated leathers were already dry, smiled sweetly and threw her hands out to encompass the rolling hills and nestled woods within.

"Doesn't it just make you wonder at the Maker's glory?"

"No, it makes my head want to fall off," muttered Flora darkly, glancing around the dismantled camp. "I feel like an ice-packed fish."

Morrigan gave a loud sigh, sauntering over to the smouldering remnants of the campfire. She flicked her dark hair over her shoulder and rubbed glowing fingers together.

"It would be unfortunate for you to catch some condition of the lungs, girl, and leave us only the fool to slay the Archdemon," she commented lightly as a gout of primal fire sprang up from the dead embers, sending a rush of sparks upwards.

"Ah, so you  _are_ a mage then," said Alistair brightly, slinging the last of the pots onto the horse. "I was beginning to wonder when we'd see some spells!"

Morrigan turned on him with a cat-like glare, nostrils flaring.

"I can demonstrate some on you, if you wish," she hissed and Alistair retreated hastily, waving his hands. Flora was busy spreading her clothing around the flames, clutching the blanket around her with a hand.

"Ah, I'm actually fine. I believe you!" He glanced around, saw the Qunari sat impassively with his back to them.

"Shall we…. go down to wash, Qunari? Give the ladies some privacy?" he asked, raising his eyebrows pointedly. The Qunari shot him a frown.

"I see no women here,  _bas._ "

Alistair blinked for a moment, then raised his hands in defeat. "Fine, fine. I'll be back."

When he had disappeared down the sloping bank, Flora knelt, pulled off the blanket and started to towel her hair dry beside the arcane fire. Morrigan observed her archly, leaning against the horse's flank.

"How does someone who eats like a hog maintain a figure like that?" she queried, raising her eyebrows. "The amount you consume on a daily basis, 'tis most disturbing. I've never met such a fearful glutton."

Flora shrugged, bowing her head and rubbing the blanket briskly over her sodden ropes of hair.

"I think healing takes up a lot of energy. And it was eighty eight steps down to the kitchens in the Tower. Which I used to visit. A lot."

Morrigan rolled her eyes, snorting. "What a surprise- even the  _reason_  you are slim is related to food."

Flora shrugged, clawing the damp mass of hair into a ponytail on top of her head. "I'm a growing girl."

"You're a  _man_ ," interjected the Qunari as he made the finishing touches to his improvised weapon. Morrigan, Leliana and Flora all stared at him as he sat with his back to them, squinting off into the treeline.

"Clearly, we are  _not_  men," pointed out Morrigan as Flora began to pull on her smallclothes. "Turn around and see for yourself."

The Qunari curled his head around as Flora was reaching for her linen shirt. She gave him a little wave; he turned back around impassively.

"You state that your purpose is to fight the Darkspawn. Thus you are warriors. Only men are warriors."

"Qunari logic," whispered Leliana, yanking the ties on Flora's oversized shirt tighter. "It is pointless to argue with their  _Qun_."

Flora, who had no idea about Qunari beyond the fact that their dreadnoughts used to raid the northern coast, gave a shrug.

When Alistair had returned, creeping into camp with a precautionary hand over his eyes, their strange little party set off on the western road towards Redcliffe. This path took them over the Asharn ridge, which would then lead them down into the main Calanhad basin. Although the road was high and exposed, the day was unseasonably warm; autumnal sun crisp and bright.

"It's hard to believe on a day of such Maker-created perfection, the Darkspawn could be massing," Leliana whispered, clutching the bridle of one packhorse as they negotiated a narrow section of footpath.

* * *

 

After several hours, they reached the final descent. The iron-rich soil which gave Redcliffe its name was more evident on this part of the ridge. Exposed ochre-shaded boulders lined the side of the path as it clung to the side of the cliff, winding its way down to Redcliffe village. Lake Calanhad, stretching out before them in its full-sized glory, glistened in the midday sun.

The village itself appeared small, clusters of stone buildings gathered around the base of a waterfall; with more wooden sheds constructed precariously on walkways over the water. Several piers and jetties, surrounded by bobbing fishing boats, reached out into the lake. As they passed a lazily rotating windmill, Castle Redcliffe came into view before them.

Stark and imposing, it stood in a highly defensible position on an exposed rock promontory. The only visible way to access the vast grey walls seemed to be across a narrow stone bridge, which spanned the high space between promontory and mainland.

"Castle Redcliffe is famous in Fereldan lore," piped up Leliana, who could never resist a chance to show off her knowledge. "The first line of defence against Orlais, no force has ever taken Ferelden without first taking Redcliffe. Currently presided over by Arl Eamon Guerrin. He's married to an Orlesian, you know."

Alistair grunted, his eyes shadowed.

"Trust me, I know."

He had been uncharacteristically quiet since they had left camp, responding to any questions with short, one-word responses. The most he had spoken was when requesting that they stop at the village before visiting the Castle. The unspoken agreement was that Morrigan and the Qunari would remain there during Alistair's reconciliation with the Arl and his family.

Now as they began to descend down into the village itself, Alistair hung back on pretence of adjusting his boot.

"Flora," he hissed, gesturing at her pointedly. "Come back here a moment."

Flora, who had been half-heartedly defusing a growing argument between Morrigan and Leliana over the legitimacy of the Chant, dropped back gratefully with a mumbled excuse.

Combing fingers through her still damp ponytail, she peered up at him. He paused, took a step forwards, then raised his hand to his head before coming to an abrupt stop.

"Are you alright?" Flora asked cautiously, eyeing him with some trepidation as she paused beside him. He cast her an anguished look, his teeth grinding together.

"Look, Flo. I've got something to tell you."

She blinked at him, shifting her staff to the other shoulder. He groaned, bringing his hands to his face.

"Maker's breath, this is ridiculous. Right, I'm just going to come out and say it."

"Alright," she replied with increasing wariness. In her experience, sentences which began with  _Right!_ were rarely pleasant.

He stared at her, his hazel eyes boring into her pale grey ones.

"You know, I said that my mother was a serving girl at Redcliffe Castle?"

"Eventually, after you said you'd been raised by wolves," Flora responded, gazing up at him curiously. This was a new type of hurt from what he had shown after Ostagar- this seemed to be an old frustration, rising to the surface once again to cause fresh anguish.

"That's true. But I said that I… I didn't know who my father was. That was a lie. I'm sorry."

"Was it Arl Eamon?" asked Flora, having heard the speculation from the other wardens. Alistair let out a short, ill-humoured bark of laughter.

"I wish it was. That's what everyone thought, but… No."

He took a deep breath, raising his eyes upwards. The rest of the party had noticed their absence now and had paused on the trail ahead, looking back towards them.

"The old King, Maric, once stayed at Redcliffe Castle to visit his wife's family. Queen Rowan was the sister of the Arl."

Flora nodded, vaguely recalling the name. The inhabitants of Herring were generally more concerned with tides and the fish harvest, than with which noble rear sat on the throne.

Alistair groaned, then visibly forced himself to continue. "While he was there, he… lay with a serving woman, one of the old Arlessa's maids. He left her with child."

Flora blinked at him, expectantly, not yet grasping his meaning. Alistair closed his eyes, fingers tightening on the packhorse's bridle.

"The woman died in childbirth, but the King learnt of the boy, and asked Arl Eamon to watch over him. I believe Loghain might have had some influence there, too. Anyway- "

He stared down at her clear grey eyes, the freckles on her nose standing out against her pale skin. He could see realisation starting to dawn on her.

"That boy was me.  _Is_ me. I'm King Cailan's half-brother. My full name is Alistair Theirin"

Flora took a step backwards, bumping against the dangling utensils strapped to the side saddle. Several pots and pans fell to the reddish earth. She stared at him, mouth dropping open, eyes wide.

"You're the son of the King?"

Morrigan, with her preternatural hearing, let out a shriek of mocking laughter. A moment later, they heard Leliana gasp as the witch whispered to her.

Alistair groaned, returning his gaze to Flora. She was mouthing like a fish out of water.

"Please, Flo. I've had this hanging over me my entire life. I don't want it. I'm still just a bastard."

His eyes pleaded with hers. She gazed at him, her eyes moving over the high, wide brow and the chiselled jaw.

"I said you looked like Cailan," she said, after a brief pause, recalling when they had eavesdropped on the ramparts at Ostagar.

"It's been kept a secret from most people," Alistair muttered, retrieving the fallen utensils. "The Arl knows, as does his brother. The King's Council in Denerim."

"Did Duncan?" she asked, recalling the complaints of favouritism from the other Wardens. After a moment, he nodded tightly.

"If Cailan is dead, doesn't this mean you're going to be King?" she asked, eyebrows rising. Alistair nearly fell over, gaping in shock.

" _No!_  No, I don't want that. Anyway, there are others far more qualified than me. Queen Anora could remarry. Arl Eamon is much more suitable. He would be a good King."

Flora peered at him for several seconds, then took the last pot from his fumbling fingers and strapped it onto the sidesaddle. He gazed at her, wincing slightly.

"Flo, are you angry with me? I'm sorry that I kept it a secret. I just- it's not something I can help. I don't want it, it just makes everything…complicated."

After a moment she smiled, her grey eyes moving earnestly over his face.

"We can't help who we were born," here, she shrugged, self-conscious. "How can I not understand that?"

He exhaled, surprised at the amount of relief he felt. She grinned at him, retying her ponytail on top of her head.

"So, do you want us to call you Prince Alistair now?"

" _No!"_

* * *

 

On the journey down into the village, there were a few arch comments from the rest of the party. Morrigan couldn't restrain herself from cackling hysterically at the prospect of Ferelden under a fool's dominion. Leliana was reworking the first verses of the epic she was composing to reflect Alistair's change in circumstances.

Alistair found himself warming more to the Qunari. The man had only made a single suggestion: that Alistair submit himself for re-education, since he so clearly was unsuitable for the position he had been assigned.

Flora, a true Herring girl for whom royalty, princes and Kings were only abstract concepts with little relevance to real life, had already dismissed the revelation. To Alistair's immense relief, she spent the remainder of the descent into the village interrogating him about the variety of fish inhabiting the Lake, and the types of net used by local fishermen.

"Please, spare us the debate over salt-water versus freshwater breeds again," snarled Morrigan as they crossed over the bridge into the main village. "If I transform you  _into_  a fish, will that help you overcome this ridiculous obsession?"

Although it was midday and relatively mild, the village itself seemed deserted. Watery sunlight bathed an empty marketplace, the jetties and piers were devoid of fishermen. As they walked past various stone outbuildings, Leliana pointed out the hastily nailed wooden boards over windows and doors. An eerie silence hung over the village like a pall. Their two packhorses were visibly unsettled, eyes rolling and ears flattened.

"Well, this is certainly a worthy diversion," commented Morrigan, acerbically. "What a charming place."

"Is this how you remember it?" ventured Flora tentatively, clinging to the reins of one shifting creature to stop it from bolting. "Calm down, horse."

Alistair shook his head, a frown creasing his forehead. He strode over to one building, attempting to peer past the boarded up window.

"It's dark inside. I don't know what's going on," he grumbled, perturbed that his homecoming had not begun as he had envisioned.

"Let us stable these beasts before they flee," announced the Qunari, eyeballing the unsettled horses. Alistair nodded distractedly, gesturing to a two storey building resting atop a slight slope.

"There's a stables at the back of the tavern."

Finding no boy to take the horses, they left them inside the stable with their reins wrapped around a post. Alistair glanced at Flora, perplexed.

"I don't understand. It's Tuesday. That's market day, not  _vanish off the face of Thedas_ day."

Flora shrugged at him, equally confused.

"Let's see if there's anyone in here," she suggested, as her stomach let out a pointed rumble. Alistair followed her inside the tavern, which at first appeared deserted.

After a moment, a defeated-looking young woman with trembling hands came to meet them.

"Welcome, travellers," she mumbled, her eyes averted. "May I get you a drink?"

"Make sure you've got coin to pay her first!"

The half-slurred voice came from a darkened corner table, the source being an unshaven man in mismatched armour. He was slumped back in his chair with two equally ill-equipped companions. The table before them was cluttered with empty tankards.

The man who had spoken shot the barmaid a baleful glare.

"The world's ending, and she's charging us for our final drinks!"

"Come now," replied Alistair, forcing lightness into his tone. "Don't be so pessimistic. The Blight hasn't overwhelmed us yet."

The drunken man let out a bark of laughter, slamming his fist on the table and making the tankards jump.

"Blight? Who cares about a  _Blight?_ "

"Well, everyone should," retorted Alistair, nonplussed. Flora approached the table tentative but purposeful, her grey eyes catching their gaze.

"What's happening here?" she asked softly. "Where is everybody?"

Her voice roused the snoring man from his slumber. He let out a long belch, eyeing her defiantly. Flora waited patiently for him to finish, her face impassive.

"Darlin', you'd better get yourself out of here," said the first man eventually, taking pity on her. "When night falls, we'll all be doomed."

"Why?" she asked, sensing Alistair behind her. The man sighed, picking up a tankard by its handle and draining the last scant drops.

"That's when the gates to the Castle open-"

"And the dead pour forth," finished the man who had belched, his eyes small and fearful in his mottled face.

Flora glanced up at Alistair, who had gone a shade paler.

"Where's the Arl?" he asked, his voice strained. Both men shrugged.

"Maker knows."

"Did you say the  _dead_ come out?" repeated Flora, her mouth hanging slightly. The man sighed, returning his gaze to the bottom of his empty tankard.

"I did, lass. I should leave now, if you're able. They carry off pretty girls like you back to the Castle."

"They could try," replied Flora mildly, with more bravado than she actually felt.

Alistair put a hand on her shoulder and she turned to him. His face was taut, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

"Could it be Darkspawn?" she whispered, casting a glance over her shoulder at the trembling barmaid. Alistair gave a helpless shrug.

"I don't think so. There's no Deep Roads entrance here that I know of. And he said they're coming from the  _castle."_ He broke off anxiously, his brow furrowed.

At that moment the door to the tavern flew open. Leliana stood in the doorway, her face grim.

They accompanied her back to the stables, where a slender young man was shifting from foot to foot, hands twisting in the folds of his tunic.

"This is Tomas," explained Leliana, shifting her bow to the other shoulder. "Go on, boy. Tell them what you told me."

"Bann Teagan has requested that all travellers with the capability to fight come to see him at the Chantry," muttered the boy, his eyes at their feet. "The village urgently requires aid."

Morrigan, who had been leaning with her arms crossed against the stable fence, shook her head.

"'Tis not our duty to help," she said, impatient. "It does not assist our cause. Let them deal with their own problems."

"I agree with the  _bas-saarebas_ ," growled the Qunari, arms crossed over his muscular chest. "I agreed to assist in the defeat of the Archdemon. Not in the defence of a village against its own problems."

Leliana glared at them both, her eyes cold and blazing.

"The Maker demands that those who are capable of giving help, should always offer aid where needed!"

This was the wrong thing to say to the two dissenters, neither of whom followed the teachings of the Chantry. Morrigan let out a snort of laughter, raising her amber eyes to the heavens.

"Why doesn't the Maker smite these monsters Himself, since you allege He is so capable?"

Seeing Leliana about to retort, Flora cut across her hastily.

"We'll come and speak to Bann Teagan."

* * *

 

In the end, it was only Leliana, Alistair and Flora who accompanied the young man down to Redcliffe Chantry. After escorting them to the closed front doors and rapping smartly, Tomas withdrew with head bowed.

Alistair pushed open the door to the Chantry with some trepidation. Several dozen haggard faces turned to him, pale and suspicious. Small groups of people were clustered in the stalls, surrounded by various objects – cooking pots, bundles of clothing, leather bags. There must have been nearly a hundred people housed inside the main hall. The raw scent of fear rose up from the masses, almost tangible in its suffocating thickness.

"Do you know Bann Teagan?" whispered Flora, disconcerted by the stares and hostile silence. Alistair nodded slowly, recalling the man's face.

"He's the younger brother of Arl Eamon. I used to look after his horses at the Castle stables."

They did not have to search for the Bann; he had heard the door open and was heading towards them down the main aisle. Teagan was a tall, well-dressed man in his middle years, with a handsome, if prematurely lined face.

Cautious hope crossed his features as he took in the sword, bow and staff.

"I am Bann Teagan, brother to the Arl. May I ask your names?"

"You probably don't remember me," Alistair said, a little self-consciously. "The last time we met, I was covered in mud and holding a chicken."

The Bann started slightly, narrowed his eyes. He cast his gaze over Alistair, taking in the hazel eyes and dirty blond hair, but settling on the fine-boned, arrogant face.

"Alistair? I don't believe it- it must have been a decade!" A genuine smile rose to the Bann's weary face as he strode forward, gripping Alistair's elbows. "Good to see you, lad. I only wish it were in happier times."

Alistair's face shadowed and he glanced around at the huddles of villagers clustered within the Chantry.

"What's going on? The market is deserted and there's men getting drunk in the tavern talking about the  _dead_? We ran into some knights at Lothering that said the Arl was ill."

The Bann sighed, stepping back and closing his eyes briefly, casting a quick glance at the early afternoon sun streaming through the stained glass.

"Ah, so you've heard of our troubles. I'm afraid it's all true, Alistair. The Castle has been sealed for a week, admitting nobody. I have pounded on the gates, shouted at the walls for hours, and received no reply."

"And at night?" asked Flora, her eyes wide. The Bann glanced at her, mild curiosity mixing with his frustration. He took in her fine-boned face and common accent in a single moment, brow furrowing.

"The gates open and the dead stream forth to attack the town. I fear we shall not withstand a fourth night of attacks."

"Are they the dead, or Darkspawn?" Leliana chimed in, her fingers caressing the pommel of the dagger at her waist. Bann Teagan gave a helpless shrug, his eyes shadowed.

"I can't see how it would be Darkspawn, seeing as the Castle is isolated. But if it is the  _dead –_ there is some dark magic indeed involved."

Alistair groaned, raising his fingers to his temples. "Why is it  _always_  magic?"

From somewhere behind them, a child broke out into high pitched cries of fear; quickly hushed by its mother. The Bann, several nights of hard battle writ on his face, looked over the huddled, desperate villagers.

"Eamon said that you'd joined the Wardens," he said after a pause, forcing a smile. "So, there is a Blight then? Our little problem must seem minor in comparison."

Alistair nodded silently, his brow furrowed as he attempted to reconcile his memories of Redcliffe with the horrific reality. A husband and wife broke into argument behind them, the wife begging in low, urgent tones.

Flora stepped forward, and bowed her head. Previously reticent due to the presence of a noble, urgency now overcame propriety.

"I'm Flora," she explained to the stone floor, before raising her eyes tentatively. "We can help you defend the village tonight. I think there'll only be three of us, but… we've fought Darkspawn before. And, ah, bandits. Vicious ones."

Alistair shot her a grateful glance, and Bann Teagan exhaled with audible relief.

"Thank you, child. Any help would be gratefully received."

"The Maker will shine upon my bow tonight!" murmured Leliana, a brightness falling on her face at the prospect of the upcoming battle. Bowing her head, she withdrew to a side chapel and sunk to her knees in prayer.

"The mayor, Murdock, is the one organising the village defences," Bann Teagan explained, a hand resting on the wooden Chantry rail. The man appeared exhausted; a gauntness to his cheeks that looked recent.

"Bann Teagan, why don't you get some rest?" Flora suggested politely, smiling at him. "We'll speak to the mayor and see if we can help with anything."

The Bann withdrew gratefully, effusive with thanks, and Alistair and Flora navigated their way back past the groups of frightened villagers. They emerged, blinking, into the sunlight, Flora still enthusing about meeting the Arl's brother.

"I can't believe I met a  _Bann_ ," she breathed, eyes wide and earnest as she peered up at him. "I remember our local Bann came to Herring once and we prepared for a whole week. I didn't get to see him though, my dad took me out in the boat."

If this last part sounded odd, Alistair didn't notice. He was gazing at her, preoccupied. They paused on the Chantry steps, watery sunlight filtering through the lake's constant veil of cloud.

"Flo, thanks for…. this," he said finally, making an impotent gesture. "I know it's not our main priority at the moment."

"It's still important," she retorted, glancing around the deserted market stalls for any sign of the mayor. "This was your home. Even if it wasn't, it's still important." She shrugged, glancing around at the deserted marketplace. "I know you'd do the same for Herring."

Alistair opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated. For a moment he remembered the first time he had seen her: clutching a half-eaten loaf as she stumbled in front of the Tranquil, almost as if by accident. Her indignant face, waving the bread around to emphasise her point as she argued, with the maleficar's dagger pointed at her breast. It had been her willingness to sacrifice as much as her skill that has drawn Duncan to her.

Flora eyed him, with a slight frown.

"Do I have something on my face? Food in my teeth? What?"

"No, Flo," he said after a moment's pause. "Let's find this Murdock."

They finally located the mayor at the eastern entrance to the village. He was swearing under his breath as he hammered a pointed stake into the red earth at an angle, finishing an improvised barricade across the dusty road.

Stepping back with a grunt of satisfaction, the bearded man dropped his sledgehammer and turned to face them. His expression was guarded, eyes narrowing as he took in Alistair's Templar armour and Flora's staff.

"Returnin' an escaped apostate to the Circle?" He jerked his chin in the direction of the lake, where Kinloch Hold stood many miles to the north. Alistair shook his head, gesturing up at the stark outline of the Castle.

"Bann Teagan told us about what's happened," he started. "We want to help with the defence of the village."

The mayor's guarded expression eased somewhat as he leaned on the handle of the sledgehammer.

"Aye, that's a bad business." His eyes followed Alistair's raised finger up to the vast stone keep. "Locked up tight as a whistle, no one seen in the Arl in weeks- and then these creatures pouring out at night."

"Are they really the  _dead_?" ventured Flora timidly, wondering how they compared to the Darkspawn. Murdock shot her a quick glance, raising his greying eyebrows.

"It's magic, it is," he said sombrely, eyes focusing on the plain wooden staff at her back. " _Evil_  magic. There was rumours of a blood mage at the Castle before the Arl got sick. Wouldn't surprise me if they had something to do with all this."

He shot an accusing glance at Flora, who gazed back impassively.

"Arl Eamon would never harbour a blood mage!" interrupted Alistair indignantly.

The old mayor glowered at him, eyebrows bristling.

"I'm only going by what I've heard, ser knight. And I thought you was here to help, not to rabbit on."

Alistair nodded, chastened.

"Is there anything we can do now, before nightfall?"

"Success lies not in chance, but in  _sufficient preparation_ ," intoned Flora, recalling one of the favourite sayings of senior mages at the Tower.


	22. Preparing for the Onslaught

Chapter 22: Preparing for the Onslaught

For the rest of the afternoon, they assisted in the construction of Redcliffe's defences. Alistair heaved pointed stakes over to the northern path to create another barricade. Leliana convinced the Chantry mother to bless several iron tokens, which she distributed around the men of the village. The Qunari silently observed the red-faced Alistair hauling the wooden logs around, expression impassive.

Morrigan had loudly stated that within the Wilds, anything too weak to survive was ordained by nature to die. With a glance around the makeshift defences, it was clear that she believed this policy to apply outside the Wilds too. After she had stated her opinion, she vanished.

Flora had gone to the dwarf mercenary, Dwyn, who dwelt beside the lake and made several futile attempts to appeal to his better nature. The dwarf had ignored her entreaties for assistance, and had actually slammed the door in her face on her final plea. At last, she resorted to purchasing his aid with the last sovereign that they had received for the candlesticks. On her way back to the marketplace, she stumbled across an abandoned barrel filled with lamp oil. Remembering how the mages at the Circle tower used to ignite the evening lanterns with a click of their fingers, she decided to bring it with her.

This turned out to be easier said than done. Halfway up the gentle slope that led up to the village from the lake, she let the barrel slide from her arms with an exhausted grunt. Shoving the barrel onto its side with her knee and rolling up her sleeves, she began to propel it up the bank. The liquid inside sloshed against the iron-bound wood as she used her body weight to propel it forwards.

Beads of sweat began to form on her forehead as she strained ineffectually against the ungainly weight. As she was gritting her teeth and preparing for another lunge forward, the barrel was swept into the air with ease. Flora squinted into the afternoon sun and saw the Qunari standing before her with the barrel propped on his muscular shoulder. He held it there with a single hand, as though it were light as a griffin feather, and gazed down at her impassively, as though she were a beetle he had discovered clinging to the barrel's underside.

Flora stared back up at him, panting slightly from the exertion. Before she could speak, he cut her off abruptly.

"You may call me Sten; it is my rank."

Flora, not knowing how to respond, continued to stare stupidly. He narrowed his strange scarlet eyes at her.

"Why are you gaping at me, as would an imbecile?"

"Sorry." Flora followed in his wake as he strode towards the marketplace, the barrel not impeding him in the slightest. "Why  _did_  you tell me your name, um, rank?"

As they came to the deserted village square, the Qunari set the barrel down beside the abandoned vendors. Conscious of her aching knee, Flora leaned against an empty stall.

"Aiding the village was a foolish but….honourable choice." This was admitted reluctantly, a strain of disbelief running through his voice. "Though we should focus on fighting the Darkspawn."

Flora shrugged, inspecting several splinters which had lodged themselves into her fingertips during her struggles with the barrel.

"It wasn't just my choice. Alistair wanted to as well. Think of it as practise." she mumbled through her teeth as she worked the small shards out. Sten eyed her, shifting the sharpened wooden log back onto his shoulder.

"The bastard prince listens to you. Which I do not understand. Is a prince not one of the ruling class?"

Flora, slightly uncomfortable with this line of questioning, gave a little grimace. She could see Murdock approaching with several of the drinkers from the tavern, bundles of swords in their arms.

"Yes, but he doesn't  _want_  to be a prince."

"It matters not," Sten announced, returning the suspicious stares of the incoming men with a blank look. "It is the position to which he was born. And you are only a daughter of the  _arigena_. It is perplexing why he would pay heed to you."

Flora shrugged, rubbing her fingers into her aching knee.

"Maybe I just have amazing ideas," she muttered darkly, as Murdock approached them.

"What in Maker's name is a  _Qunari_  doing here?" he demanded, eyeing Sten with incredulity. Sten did not deign to reply, so it was left to Flora to hastily explain his presence.

Leliana arrived shortly afterwards with a bundle of sharpened swords, having persuaded the reluctant blacksmith to forsake the bottle for the forge. Her eyes were glittering and she appeared almost excited for the upcoming battle.

"A chance to smite the unholy," she murmured feverishly, fingering the silver Andrastian charm that hung from her neck. "The Maker will smile upon our endeavours tonight!"

Murdock narrowed his eyes at her. Like most inhabitants of Redcliffe, he bore an innate mistrust towards Orlais, their near enemy both historically and geographically.

The sun hung low in the sky. Alistair and some of the knights finished repairing the barricades and came to join them in the marketplace. Murdock, recognising Alistair's experience despite his outward youth, invited him to discuss possible strategy with the others. Even Sten, who it transpired had been a minor commander in Par Vollen, offered the occasional suggestion. Leliana had vanished back inside the Chantry to resume her prayers.

Flora, who had nothing to contribute to strategic discussion, grew increasingly uncomfortable as the tension mounted. It reminded her of that last day in Ostagar, when people had moved around the camp with taut faces and trembling hands. The only one who hadn't appeared nervous was Cailan, bursting with misguided bravado.

_Was Duncan nervous? He hadn't appeared outwardly so._   _But he gave the treaties to me. Why would he do that, if he hadn't at least suspected that something was going to go wrong?_

Reflexively she slid her hand inside her linen shirt. The treaties were still tucked inside, crumpled parchment against her skin.

_Did he know the King was leading him to his death, along with the rest of the Wardens?_

Wanting to banish this thought from her head, she slid off the stall and sidled away from the marketplace without drawing attention. Not trusting her mind to guide her rationally, Flora allowed her legs to guide her back down to Calanhad's shore.

The lake stretched out before her, shadowed in the late-afternoon sun; in a strangely comforting way, it reminded her of the sea and of home. There were several men huddled on the low dock, rods cast out into the navy waters.

Flora drifted towards them, her gaze instinctively going to the buckets to see their catch.

One of the men, a grandfather with a salt and pepper beard, eyed her staff warily as she approached.

"Lass, you'd better get inside the Chantry," he warned her, raising bushy eyebrows. "We're just getting some nourishment for the soldiers before tonight. You don't want to be out here after dark."

"A fine last meal, mackerel," commented the man by his side, grimly. The older one hushed the younger with a scowl.

"Is that what you've caught, mackerel?" Flora squatted beside the bucket, the base of her staff bumping against the dock as she sorted through their catch. "They're a good size."

"Got a couple of nice salmon too. I got those," piped up the younger, who by his similar facial features appeared to be the first man's son.

The grandfather glanced at Flora, who was gazing longingly at the spare rod leaning against the bucket.

"Feel free to join us, lassie, if you'd like," he said after a moment. Flora beamed, immediately ditching the staff and grabbing the rod.

"I've probably forgotten how to do this," she breathed, sitting on the edge of the dock and expertly fitting the line. "It's been years."

Within moments she had cast the line out and, almost immediately, she felt a great weight lift from her shoulders. The older man glanced at her as she exhaled, shutting her eyes tightly.

"Nah, you don't forget something like this. Gets into your blood," he said, softly. "I'm Bardon, and this is my son, Nat."

"I'm Flora," she replied. They didn't ask if she was an apostate and she didn't inform them that she was a Warden. For an hour, they sat in comfortable, companionable silence. Between them they caught a dozen more mackerel, several salmon and a huge river eel. A woman came down to collect their catch, her curious gaze landing on Flora.

"You Flora? Your friend is looking for you."

Nat accompanied her back up to the village, carrying a second crate loaded with fish.

With another glance at the lowering sun, Bardon began to pack up their supplies. He glanced at Flora, who was still sitting on the edge of the dock, her face lost in thought.

"Lass, you should get inside the Chantry," he said softly. "I won't tell anyone that you're escaped from the Tower. My Nat's wife is in there, along with their babe. She'll look after you."

Instead of replying, Flora leaned over the dock and rinsed her hands in Calanhad's frigid water.

"I'm not an apostate," she muttered, drying her hands on her breeches. "I'm a Grey Warden."

Bardon's silence told her that the news from Ostagar had already spread. She glanced sideways at him, warily. He was dismantling the last rod, placing it carefully back in its case. After a brief pause, he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Sorry," he muttered, before gathering his supplies and heading back up the bank.

Flora sighed, taking one last glance at the still waters of the Lake. As she turned round, she almost collided with Alistair.

"Ah!"

"I've been looking for you for ages," he hissed, hazel stare wide and accusatory. "I thought you'd been whisked off to the  _castle of the dead!"_

Although his tone was light, there was a strain in his eyes. Flora shrugged at him in apology, her own soft grey gaze searching his face.

"Sorry," she said, buttoning up her coat against the incoming evening chill. "I was helping to catch dinner."

Alistair gaped at her for a moment, then his shoulders slumped and he sighed.

"No,  _I'm_ sorry." This was muttered over her head, his face turned away.

"Sorry for what?"

"I've done nothing but complain and be miserable since Ostagar," he said frankly, gazing out over Calanhad. "And I keep forgetting that you must be suffering, too. You've only just joined the Wardens, and all you've known is fighting, and- and death. There are good bits too. We get celebrated. There are parades."

Instinctively, Flora reached out and took his fingers, squeezing them between her own.

"I'm fine," she said quietly. "And you're allowed to complain and be miserable. You're grieving."

Alistair's jaw tightened and he looked away from her, though he did not remove his fingers.

"Duncan warned me about this," he said, teeth gritted. "That I should be prepared for anyone in the Wardens to die. But now that it's actually  _happened,_ I- I can't accept it."

Flora thought for a moment, feeling his cold palm against hers.

"I think it's because of the General's betrayal," she said carefully, squeezing his hand with her fingers to try and transfer some warmth. "It makes it worse. When that's resolved, I think- it'll help."

Alistair thought about her words and was surprised to find that they comforted him. He gripped her slender fingers between his and for a moment they stood there in silence, holding hands on the low dock as the sun edged closer to the horizon.

Then Flora's stomach rumbled loudly and Alistair laughed, their hands separating.

"They've made a fire up at the marketplace, they're cooking the fish you- hey, hang on!"

Flora had turned away and started to take lengthy strides up the bank. He followed in her wake, grinning.

"I don't want a parade," she tossed over her shoulder as she honed in on the smell of grilling fish. "I get nervous with everyone looking at me."

"What do you want then?" Alistair asked as his longer stride outpaced hers.

"To go home and see my mum and dad," Flora answered immediately. "Get my dad some new nets."

"You don't want a feast?" he asked her, slyly, watching her eyes light up.

"Yes! I didn't know that was an option! I  _definitely_ want a feast!"

They came into the marketplace, where a fire had been built out of the damaged wooden stalls. The square was crowded, the village defenders seated on the Chantry steps, talking through mouthfuls of fresh fish. The dwarf mercenary, Dwyn, was talking to his men beside a hastily constructed barricade. One of the sisters from the Chantry was moving between the crowds with an incense burner, murmuring under her breath.

They saw Sten crouched next to the blacksmith. Having retrieved a large two-handed sword, he was refining its edge with a whetstone. Although he had seen them enter the square, he pointedly ignored them.

"Have you seen Morrigan anywhere?" asked Flora as they were each handed a portion of grilled fish. They took it to eat on the Chantry steps, where several men shuffled over warily to give them room. As they ate, they became aware of hushed whispers and quick, darting looks in their direction.

"I may have revealed that we're Wardens earlier," confessed Alistair, finishing his portion of salmon. Flora shrugged, swallowing.

"Me too. They don't seem eager to hand us over to Loghain."

"Maybe they're waiting to see what happens tonight."

Alistair glanced sideways at her. The setting sun brought out the red in her braided dark hair, the burnished strands gleaming like copper wire.

The waning light held different meaning to the men of Redcliffe. Several groups began to drift away from the square, taking up positions at the north and east barricades. The oil had already been spread strategically, ready to light at a moment's notice.

"What now?" Flora asked, wiping her mouth on her sleeve and clambering to her feet. The woman who had served the fish edged past them, knocking on the Chantry doors. There was the sound of a wooden bar being lifted, then the door opened just enough to allow her in. A moment later, Leliana slipped out, bow in hand.

"The dwarf mercenary, his men and Sten will guard the eastern entrance with the villagers."

Flora nodded, watching Bardon and Nat arguing at the edge of the marketplace. Bardon was shaking his head, obstinate, while his son appeared to be pleading with him. Alistair also had his eyes on the pair, his brow furrowed. While no-one was looking, Flora quickly withdrew the sheaf of papers from her shirt and slid it beneath a loose flagstone.

"I will position myself on the Chantry roof," interjected Leliana, her face bright and eager. "I will be the herald of the Maker's divine wrath! My arrows will carry holy fire as they deliver heaven's justice!"

"Yes, good for you," muttered Alistair, glancing at the thin sliver of red still visible over the Frostbacks. "Flo, you and I are going with the knights to the main barricade."

A somber atmosphere gathered over Redcliffe as the night drew closer. Those still in the marketplace dragged the wooden stalls in front of the Chantry with trembling hands. As Flora followed Alistair across the square, she came to an abrupt halt, eyes widening.

"Ah, I left my staff down on the dock!"

As Alistair groaned, she scuttled from the marketplace, weaving through the throngs of grim-faced villagers and mercenaries.

"Don't forget your staff when we fight the Archdemon," he muttered as she rejoined him, out of breath, at the main barricade. "How's your knee?"

"It's fine," breathed Flora as she gazed up at the high stone bridge spanning the gap between castle and mainland. "Is that where they'll come from?"

Ser Perth, who led the village contingent of knights, nodded grimly. The sky had deepened to a deep mauve, clouds obscuring the moon. The castle loomed above them, shrouded in darkness, no light visible from any window or rampart.

They waited in silence, the knights tense with their hands on their blades. After some time, a chill rain began to fall from the clouds overhead. One man began to cough, and was unable to stop until another offered him a swig of ale.

Flora, the woollen collar of her coat turned up against the drizzle, clutched her damp staff. Her untidy ponytail, now sodden, hung heavily down her back.

"Needn't have bothered bathing this morning," she muttered to Alistair, who snorted, brushing water from where it had pooled in his pauldron.

They continued to wait, the reddened earth turning claylike beneath their feet as the rain continued. After some time it lessened to a drizzle, the clouds parting to reveal a sliver of glowing moon.

Suddenly, a piercing shriek rent the air above them. Unlike the guttural roaring of the Darkspawn, this sound was higher in pitch and somehow more ghastly. The howl tore through the defenders like a witches' curse. Ser Perth gave a shout, and the cry was repeated at the eastern entrance.

" _Stand ready!"_

The Chantry bell began to peal a hollow warning, the sound echoing throughout the village.


	23. The Dead Assault Redcliffe

Chapter 23: The Dead Assault Redcliffe

From high above them on the bridge, there came a crash of iron against stone.

"That's the gates," breathed one knight, beads of sweat mingling with rain on his forehead. Alistair glanced sideways at Flora. She was quiet, strands of hair plastered over her pale cheeks.

"Maker save us," muttered a second, unsheathing his sword. "Hell is unleashed once more."

The next moment the horde streamed forth across the bridge in a raging surge of flame and arcane mist. The unnatural noises they made could only come from rotted throats and decaying vocal cords.

"They'll split up now," muttered Perth, eyes focused on the seething cloud as it gained the cliff path. "Some to assault us, and the rest to try the eastern path. We have a few minutes."

Flora twisted the gold ring around her little finger compulsively, feeling faintly nauseous. The soldiers readied themselves, swords unsheathed and arrows nocked. The howling drew nearer, with a ghastly joy to it.

" _What?!"_ Perth's exclamation was strangled, dread rising in his throat. "They're not splitting up- the  _whole horde_  is coming to us!"

The cries on the darkened cliff path drew closer, a faint reddened glow illuminating the waterfall bridge ahead.

"We'll be slaughtered," muttered another man, sword trembling in his hand. "We cannot withstand them all."

Flora glanced over at Alistair, her wide eyes containing a question. He stared at her, then gave a slight nod, feeling his stomach constrict.

The next moment, as the howling drew closer, Flora had clambered over the barricade, ignoring the shouts of the men for her to return. She ran towards the bridge, slipping slightly on the mud, staff in hand.

" _Come back, fool!"_  Ser Perth roared after her, raising his voice over the sound of the incoming horde. "You'll be killed!"

He turned to Alistair, who was poised beside the barricade with lips folded.

"What is she doing?!"

"Buying you time," Alistair retorted, tightly. "Get your men up from the eastern road."

Gaping, Ser Perth sent a runner down to the second barricade. A moment later, the seething storm surge of the dead passed the windmill.

Flora, who had almost slipped twice in the mud, reached the wooden bridge seconds before the horde. Without time to think, or to look into the terrible face of the enemy, she thrust her staff upwards.

Golden light sprang forward and a glimmering barrier formed over the bridge. With relief she noticed that the shield was as sturdy as the one she had conjured at Ostagar, and it had taken seconds rather than minutes to create.

The next moment she let out a little squawk of alarm as something thrust against the shield. Gaping, she looked up and saw through the shifting yellow mist the distorted faces of the enemy. They must have been human once, but death had transformed them behind recognition. In a way they were more horrific in appearance than the Darkspawn, since they still retained faint glimpses of humanity. A full set of teeth flashed at Flora from one, she saw a glimmering gold earring on another. A third had a few wisps of blonde hair clinging to a fleshy skull. Fingers twisted into claws, more bone than flesh, scrabbled at the golden shield.

Flora felt the barrier buckle slightly, reflecting her loss of focus as bile and fear rose up in her throat. The horde surged forward, sensing weakness. They attacked as an unthinking, relentless mass, clawing over each other to press to the front.

_**Focus.** _

She held the staff up, forcing her mind to concentrate on the energy coursing through her hands. The barrier held, and the dead howled in frustration and outrage. Several attempted swarming around the bridge, only to fall shrieking to the rocks below. She felt the first warnings of fatigue, a deep sigh at the back of her brain.

"Pull yourself together, Flora," she muttered to herself, sternly. "You're fine."

Back at the main barricade, Dwyn and the mercenaries had just arrived, panting. Sten arrived at their rear, eyes alight at the prospect of the upcoming battle. The archers dipped their arrows in lamp oil and prepared to light them on the standing torches. Fifty yards ahead they could see the gleaming golden barrier covering the bridge, and Flora's slight silhouette before it, staff thrust upwards.

Ser Perth gestured to Alistair.

"Tell your mage we're ready," he growled, shield raised beneath his chin. Alistair raised his fingers to his lips and gave a whistle, his eyes fixed on the slender figure at the bridge.

"Don't set her on fire," he muttered, watching the archers take aim.

Flora heard the signal and exhaled in relief, eyeing the horde. They were milling on the other side of the barrier, no longer pressing against it in a swollen mass. Carefully, trying not to make any sudden movements, she lowered the staff. The barrier stayed in place, but dimmed a fraction. She kept her hand held towards it as she backed away, her boots sinking into the mud. The further she drew back from the barrier, the more transparent the shield grew, until it began to flicker and wane.

It was too much to hope that this would avoid attention. One creature, the remains of a steward's waistcoat clinging to its exposed ribcage, turned to look at her. For a moment, girl and monstrosity stared at one another, a building's length apart.

Then Flora dropped her hand and spun around, running as fast as the slippery path would allow. The barrier disintegrated with a shower of golden sparks as the horde surged forward, letting out a collective bestial howl of triumph.

Flora hurtled down the sloping path, ignoring the twinges from her knee, towards the main barricade. She felt a rush of heat as a volley of blazing arrows flew over her head, embedding themselves in the unholy mass behind her. Before her, she could see the moonlight reflecting off the gleaming pool of lamp oil spread in front of the barricade. A man with a torch was poised above it, staring at her as she headed towards him.

"Light it!" she shrieked as she ran towards him, waving her arms. The fastest of the dead were only yards behind her, she could hear their guttural snarls at her back. "Light it, light it,  _light it!_  "

The man lowered the torch to the oil, it ignited almost instantly into a roaring wall of fire. Flora put up her hands and shielded herself as she fell through the flames, feeling no more than a brief sensation of warmth. She landed on palms and knees, sprawling in the mud beside the stakes. Then someone was hauling her roughly to her feet, and she looked up to see Alistair brushing sparks from her damp coat. There was no time for words: the horde came straight through the fire, shrieking as their ravaged flesh was set alight.

"For Redcliffe! For the Arl!" bellowed Perth, as he launched himself towards the enemy. Sten followed, chanting a Par Vollen battle hymn in a deep baritone as he cleaved several rotten skulls from shoulders.

The dwarf mercenary Dwyn was next to join the fray, battle-axe raised. Flora pulled her arm free and, clutching her staff, clambered up several precariously stacked crates. Alistair raised his shield and drew his sword, plunging head-first into the melee.

It was a bloodied and ugly fight, the dead slower than their living counterparts, but relentless and untiring. Those defenders with shields were able to thrust them into twisted faces, knocking loose jaws and disorientating the enemy. The dead were mostly unarmed, fighting with tooth and claw. A few bore swords branded with Arl Eamon's seal. Alistair saw one as he withdrew his sword from an exposed ribcage, and felt a lurch of dread.

Perched on the crates, Flora focused her shields on the more vulnerable villagers. Yellow bursts of light erupted around the confined battlefield, deflecting a rusted sword edge, protecting a man who had fallen. Sometimes there were those who fell too quickly for her to react, such as the knight who had called for the Maker's protection before the battle. He fell, gaping like a fish, a blade drawn across his throat. A villager tripped, stumbling into a swarming mass who tore him limb from limb in seconds.

Staring at the bodies in the bloodied mud, it dawned on Flora for the first time that she could not save everybody. Suddenly furious, she took out her anger on a corpse who was attempting to scale the crates. Her staff came down on its fleshy skull with a solid smack; it fell back with a snarl.

Alistair meanwhile had taken out a half-dozen of the enemy alone. Having fought isolated Darkspawn groups for a year, he had more experience in the brute force tactics used by such mindless creatures. Using his shield to block a Redcliffe sword wielded by a mutilated once-man, he sliced a second undead from throat to rotten belly. Sensing something behind him, he spun around and flinched as a rusted ax embedded itself in a golden barrier, inches from his face. He lunged forward, the shield shattered, and he plunged his sword into the creature's throat.

"Thanks, Flo!"

Still perched on the crates, she raised a hand to acknowledge him, simultaneously transferring the shield to a villager cornered beside the barricade.

Suddenly, there came a shout from within the village, behind the main fighting. Nat rushed up, his eyes wide and panicked.

"They're coming up from the lake!" he yelled, his voice strangled with fear. Ser Perth paused, his eyes searching the battlefield.

"Dwyn, go!"

The dwarf, bleeding from a half-dozen claw marks, shouldered his battle-axe with a grunt.

"Not my men alone," he growled as his remaining mercenaries gathered around him. Ser Perth glanced up at Flora, who gazed back down at him anxiously.

"Take the barrier mage," the knight said after a moment, with a quick nod at Flora. She was already scrambling down the crates, staff in hand.

Alistair caught her eye for a brief second and then she was gone, following the dwarf and his mercenaries back towards the village square.

Her knee throbbing more insistently now, Flora ran after the surprisingly agile dwarf. He still had six men remaining from his company of eight, and Flora found herself feeling a glimmer of hope.

"Down by the dock," gasped Nat, hovering at the Chantry steps. "Pa's down there!"

Remembering the kind old man who had promised not to reveal her as an apostate, Flora ran a little faster, ignoring the twinges.

They arrived at the top of the bank to see Bardon and several other villagers fighting with desperation on the dock. There were at least a dozen of the dead already massing on the low wooden jetty, with more crawling up from the water.

Dwyn raised his crossbow and fired off several bolts before lifting his battle-axe.

"Cover me, mage!" He charged down the slope with a growl, his mercenaries in close pursuit. Flora followed, raising her staff through a wave of exhaustion.

The fighting was brutal and ugly, but the skill of the mercenaries quickly came to dominate. Dwyn dispatched three corpses with a single swing of the axe, protected by a shimmering barrier from the bared claws of a fourth.

There came a sudden, human cry of pain from the dock. Flora spun around, seeing Bardon trapped at the end of the jetty, clutching a bloodied sleeve. Several of the dead had cornered him, one had lunged forward and taken a vicious bite out of his arm.

Slipping on bloodied grass, Flora slid down the bank and ran to the wooden jetty. The planks shifted beneath her feet, emitting a pained creak. Behind her, she could hear the forces from the main barricade coming through the village square.

"Get back, lassie!" Bardon managed to mumble, scarlet seeping between his fingers as the three corpses advanced. "I'm an old man, I've lived enough summers."

Flora ignored him, bringing her staff down onto one of the creature's heads in desperation. "Hey!"

The stench of rotten flesh was nauseating even to Flora, who was inured to gangrene. The three corpses turned to her, their hanging faces contorted. Flora took a step backwards, then Bardon's face twisted in warning. His mouth began to form a cry and then Flora felt something entangle in the back of her coat. A sinewy arm with unnatural strength knocked the staff from her hand; it fell into the dark waters of Lake Calanhad with a muted splash. One of the smaller creatures was on her back, scrabbling with hot teeth and claws. She heard Bardon shouting and twisted out of the heavy coat, wrenching her arms free. Losing her balance, she stumbled backwards towards the three other creatures.

The next moment she felt an agonising blow between her shoulder blades as hooked claws sliced through the thin linen shirt. Flora, unused to such sharp and sudden pain, let out a shriek and fell to her knees. Seconds later the dock gave a protesting groan, and the section of jetty collapsed underneath them. She fell into the waters of Lake Calanhad with the undead snarling on top of her.

The water was frigid and pitch black. She knew enough to keep her mouth shut despite the shock, but the cold disorientated her. Her staff was somewhere on the bottom of the lake, and the dead were swarming above her. Even now they were still reaching for her, empty eye sockets blazing with arcane fire, cavernous mouths unhinged. Despite herself she let out a gasp, and took an inadvertent gulp of icy water.

Then the corpses above her were engulfed in a bath of flame, hot enough to heat the water around her. They barely had time to emit howls of rage before their charred and blackened figures went limp, floating on the surface of the lake. The next moment, the head of a ravenwood staff was thrust down into the water. Flora reached up for it. As soon as she tightened her grip, the staff pulled her upwards. Breaking the surface and seeing the ragged wooden edge of the remaining dock, she heaved herself up onto it with a groan.

"Tsk, tsk," commented a familiar, mocking voice. "I leave you alone for a few hours, and this is what happens."

Morrigan folded her arms across her chest, raising her eyebrows superciliously. Flora knelt before her, teeth chattering, her back feeling as though it too were on fire. Glancing to the side, she saw a gaping Bardon standing on the end of the dock, which had survived the collapse of the mid-section.

"Th-thank you," Flora managed to mutter, squeezing her eyes shut, too frightened to investigate the severity of her own wound. Morrigan looked up, seeing the other villagers and knights streaming down the bank.

"Ah, all the fun, 'tis over. I think I'll skip the celebrations," she murmured acerbically.

Flora opened her eyes and the woman had vanished; she saw only the cheering mercenaries and Dwyn retrieving his crossbow bolts from the still corpses. She closed her eyes again, terrified of the pain that racked her, far worse than anything she had ever felt before.

Then she heard a distraught Alistair calling her name, his tone frantic. She opened her eyes as he crashed down onto the dock beside her. His face was stark white with fear as he gripped her shoulders, still in full armour.

"Maker's Breath- Flo, what's wrong? Where are you hurt? Tell me!"

She hunched over and he saw the tatters of the linen shirt clinging to her shoulders. Fumbling with his gauntlets before discarding them, Chantry-induced propriety gone, he moved the bloodied, shredded material carefully from her back. She trembled as his fingers moved tentatively over her bare skin, tears emerging from beneath her eyelashes.

After a moment, Alistair let out a long, low exhalation. Flora's voice shook as she summoned the courage to speak.

"Am- am I going to  _die_?" she breathed, her fingers clutching the remnants of her shirt against her chest.

"No. Thank the Maker." Alistair murmured as he removed his hands from her back, glancing around. "It's just a flesh wound. It's... actually quite _shallow."_

The tears stopped abruptly and Flora swallowed, her brow furrowing.

A Chantry priestess was distributing blankets among the survivors, and Alistair gestured for one to be brought over.

"It's- it's  _not_  serious?"

"No, sweetheart."

Flora blinked, sitting up a little straighter. Now that she was calmer, the pain seemed to melt away.

"Why did it hurt so much?" she asked as Alistair draped the blanket gently around her shoulders, the colour returning to his face.

"The shock, probably. The scratches aren't deep."

"Oh." Flora looked nonplussed, and then a little embarrassed. She glanced around, hoping that no-one else had seen the fuss that she had made. The injured were being transported up to the Chantry by those who had survived, and an atmosphere of exhausted relief hung in the air.

"Scared me half to death, though," said Alistair lightly, reaching out and ruffling her hair to disguise his still-trembling hand.

"Sorry," muttered Flora, experimentally rolling her shoulders. Her back gave a twinge but it was no more painful than her sore knee. With Alistair's help, she scrambled to her feet.

"Are there people to heal?" she asked, glancing towards the illuminated Chantry. Alistair kept his arm around her shoulders for a moment, closing his eyes and offering a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker.

"Sure you're up to it?"

She shot him a look, her cheeks still slightly flushed from embarrassment.

"I'm fine. My staff is at the bottom of the lake though."

* * *

 

The Chantry itself was chaotic. The injured were being laid out in the stalls; those who had not fought were either searching for loved ones or generally milling around. The priestesses were moving between the injured, giving triage to those who might survive, and administering the last rites to those who would not.

Alistair and Flora saw Bann Teagan and Leliana in the marketplace as they headed towards the Chantry. Leliana was flushed as she recounted their daring repulsion of several undead who had attempted to gain the Chantry steps. Bann Teagan, who cradled a wounded arm, was solemn faced.

"Can we speak at your earliest convenience?" he asked Alistair in an undertone, as Flora incongruously dropped to her knees beside them on the stone steps.

Alistair nodded, tuning out Leliana's enthusing as he eyed Flora. She was scrabbling in the dirt, clutching the blanket around her shoulders with one hand. Finally, she rose with a grunt of triumph, wielding a bound wedge of papers.

"Forgot which stone I put them under. Can you look after them till I find some clothes?"

Alistair blinked in astonishment, then realised that she was handing him the Grey Warden treaties.

"I didn't want them to get damaged in the fighting," she explained earnestly. "My Circle dismissal papers are there too."

"Clever girl," he said admiringly, looking down at the sheaf of papers. The Kinloch dismissal papers were on the top; he could see the careful handwriting of First Enchanter Irving spelling out  _Flora Chastity Cove, of Herring._ Below, the illiterate young mage had signed her name with a lopsided  _X_.

Unexpectedly, Alistair felt a surge of affection towards his sister-warden as he followed her inside the Chantry.

_Comradely affection, naturally,_ he told himself as he watched her beg a lay-sister for some spare clothing, using her most mournful expression.

He held up a blanket as she changed her tattered shirt and sodden breeches for a spare Chantry robe, averting his eyes towards the vaulted stone ceiling. After removing saturated leather boots, the barefoot Flora immediately went to the nearest stall. Sinking to her knees beside a groaning man with a mangled leg, she took a deep breath and bowed her head to the wound.

"Talented girl, your friend," murmured a voice from behind a stone pillar. Alistair startled, turning around.

"Bann Teagan, I almost swung for you! I thought you were a corpse," the young Warden complained, removing his fingers from the pommel of his sword. Bann Teagan laughed without humour.

"I may well be one tomorrow night. This cannot be allowed to continue, Alistair. So we have survived the fourth attack – so what? We have lost another twenty men. No, this has to end."

Alistair turned to look at the older man, sensing purpose in the Bann's voice.

"What do you suggest?"

Teagan looked over to where Flora had finished with the mangled leg and had moved onto a broken arm. He lowered his voice, dark eyes intent and serious.

"There is a secret passage to the castle, that only the family know of. Would you and your mage accompany me there tomorrow? Whatever happens, I must see Eamon."

Alistair nodded, his eyes drifting to the high glass window above the altar, where the vast, shadowed Castle was just visible, perched on its stone promontory.

"Maker, of course we will," he said, his voice somber. "I need to speak with the Arl too."

The Bann shot him a thoughtful look, but said nothing.

Well into early morning, Alistair watched the hours candle burn down. Leliana performed two sets of prayers, while assisting Chantry sisters offering comfort to the villagers. Flora, who had fought stubbornly through her exhaustion, stinging back and sore knee, finally came to admit defeat after her seventeenth patient.

"I need to rest for a bit," she mumbled reluctantly to Leliana, clutching hold of the back of a wooden choir stall to keep balance. Leliana nodded earnestly, linking her arm through Flora's to keep her steady.

"The Chantry Mother has loaned us her office for respite. Are you limping?"

"No," lied Flora, hobbling along beside her as they approached the side chamber. Leliana shot her a side-long frown.

"You shouldn't tell untruths in our Maker's House," she chided, nudging open the door. Alistair was resting in his quilted tunic on the Chantry Mother's silk rug, half-dozing on several cushions. His armour and bloodied sword were piled haphazardly on the desk, stains already seeping into the polished wood.

A scowling Leliana took his sword and leaned it against the wall, before speaking to a yawning Flora.

"Don't forget yourself," she whispered, shutting the door quietly. Alistair pushed himself up on his elbows, preparing to tell Flora about the Bann's request.

He stopped abruptly as Flora, facing away from him, shrugged her arms from the robe sleeves. The dress fell to settle around her waist, the folds of fabric settling on her hips.

"Help me with my hands, I can't see," she mumbled to Leliana, who was standing beside her.

Flora's slender bare back, marked by the three jagged claws, burnt itself into Alistair's mind. Immediately he clapped his hands over his eyes, then put a cushion over his face as an additional barrier.

"Flor _-a_!" he hissed, his indignant voice muffled through the thick fabric. "Give me some warning next time! The Chantry sisters said I'd be struck by lightning if I saw a woman naked."

Leliana rolled her eyes, helping to direct Flora's hands as she groped over her shoulder blindly.

"I'm  _not_  naked!" retorted Flora, equally indignant, the healing mist surging between her fingers. "And I didn't know you were awake."

"All done," piped Leliana, shooting Alistair a dirty look. He lowered the cushion, opening one eye with trepidation. To his relief, the Chantry robe was back up around Flora's shoulders; she was scowling at him while tucking loose strands of hair into her untidy ponytail.

He shot her a winning smile, shifting over on the rug.

"Ah, you remind me perfectly of my old Chantry Mother, glowering at me in that robe. Come and feel this, I swear it's far more comfortable than our bedrolls."

He patted the carpet, giving her a conciliatory smile. As Leliana headed for the armchair behind the desk, Flora padded over to the rug and sat down beside him. Her eyes widened and she immediately rolled onto her side, pressing her cheek against the soft fibres.

"This is the softest thing I've ever felt in my life," she whispered, rubbing her entire face against the material.

"Orlesian silk-weaving," added Leliana, with patriotic pride. "They make the finest quality textiles in all of Thedas."

The lay-priestess leaned across and blew out the candle on the desk. The room fell into muted shades of grey and black, the only light coming from a narrow glass window, high on the wall.

Flora rolled over onto her back, resting her head on a cushion as she gazed up at the tiled ceiling. Alistair looked at her fineboned profile, the high cheekbones and tilted nose silhouetted against the shadows.

"Flo?"

She replied with a yawn, turning over to eye him curiously. He paused for a moment, feeling the same churning dread he had experienced earlier on the shore.

"I saw you fall in the lake under the creatures," he said quietly, swallowing the nausea. "I thought you were going to die. If the hedge-witch hadn't been there- "

Flora was silent, her grey eyes still and focused on him.

"Promise me that won't happen," Alistair muttered, feeling faintly foolish as he heard his own words. "I can't- I don't know what I'd do."

"Promise you to what? Not die?" Flora repeated with some incredulity, then paused. She saw the raw hurt of Duncan's death in his stare, the grief still close to the surface.

With a small shrug, she flashed him a half-smile.

"Alright, I promise."

They fell silent for several minutes, the rain resuming outside. Flora stretched her fingers across the rug tentatively, and met his hand reaching for hers.

"Fish rope," he murmured, wrapping his fingers around hers. She smiled at him through the darkness, feeling exhaustion creeping over her.

"'Night, Alistair."

"Sleep tight, Flo."


	24. The Arl and the Abomination

Chapter 24: The Arl and the Abomination

Alistair was so tired that he slept through the night, ignoring the urge to wake up and perform the usual possession checks on the sleeping mage next to him. On waking in the morning he was disorientated and slightly stiff; the carpet not being as comfortable as first impressions suggested. He grimaced, opening one eye. The carpet beside him was empty.

He sat upright with a frown, blinking the sleep from his eyes. Then he saw Leliana cross-legged and bright-eyed in the chair, smiling at him as she figured the silver Andrastian charm around her neck.

"Maker's blessings on you this fine morning," she chirped at him, blue eyes sparkling.

Alistair grunted, rising to his feet. "You know what they say: any day without the undead beating down your door is a good one. Where's Flo?"

"Your warden-sister is in the main hall, checking her patients. Do you two always sleep holding hands? It's adorable."

The Chantry was quieter that morning, many of the villagers having returned to their homes to repair the damage. Only those too exhausted or injured to move still lay in the pews. The lesser ranking Chantry priestesses moved around with pails and scrubbing brushes, cleaning bloodstains from between the flagstones.

Flora, whose boots and breeches had dried out, had been given a linen shirt by one of the villagers. Her still damp hair was bundled untidily at the side of her neck, leaving the collar of the shirt wet.

"Keep still," she whispered, leaning over a man with a deep, scarlet burn across his chest. As she began to exhale, a shadow fell across the pew and she sensed someone standing behind her. The golden mist drifted across the man's mottled skin, and she worked her fingers through it as if she was kneading bread. As she coaxed the energy across the burn, it gradually began to seal over, pink new skin replacing charred flesh.

"Very impressive," commented an earthy, aristocratic voice behind her. Flora waited until she was sure that the burn was fully healed, then clambered to her feet and turned around. Bann Teagan was standing at the entrance to the pew, a makeshift sling supporting his bloodied arm.

"Thank you," replied Flora automatically, averting her eyes to the flagstones. She was aware that her status as a Grey Warden meant that she had no obligation of fealty to anyone; but her upbringing as the daughter of a poor fisherman prompted her to show deference to anybody with a title before their name. The sole exception to this was Alistair, whose position she couldn't quite comprehend and so chose to ignore.

"You don't need to be humble with me, child. Redcliffe owes you and your friends a debt of gratitude," said the Bann gently, lowering his head to catch her eye.

"Did Alistair speak to you last night?"

"I didn't get the chance." Alistair, who had hastily pulled on his Templar mail, joined them. "Flora, breakfast."

He tossed her an apple he had taken from a fruit bowl in the Chantry Mother's study. She caught it, immediately taking a large bite.

Bann Teagan patiently explained the plan once more. Flora listened, then gave a little shrug.

"That sounds like a good plan. When will we leave?" She felt a slight twinge of worry, remembering her staff at the bottom of the lake. One of the Chantry sisters began to parade the aisles with a swinging incense burner, purifying the air in preparation for the morning service.

"As soon as possible, ideally." murmured Teagan,

Flora nodded, then eyed his injured arm.

"Do you want me to fix that?" she whispered as the priestess' clear voice rang out across the main hall, reciting the opening verses of the Chant. Bann Teagan removed the sling, with a grimace of pain.

"I'd be grateful."

Flora rolled back his torn sleeve delicately to reveal a jagged claw mark across the forearm, the edges green and stinking.

"Looks infected," muttered Teagan, with a grunt of frustration as Flora rubbed her fingers together, summoning the golden most. "Is that a problem?"

"Not for Flo," drawled Alistair lightly, as Flora lowered her mouth to the Bann's muscled forearm and inhaled, drawing out the poison. As she bent her head over his arm, fingers knitting the wound with small motions, the man studied her curiously.

"Your face seems familiar," he said after a moment, his brow furrowing as he gazed down at her. "There's something about it that reminds me of-… I cannot place my finger on it."

Flora, grimacing slightly at the foul aftertaste of infection which clung to her tongue, gladly took a sip of water from Alistair's pouch.

"I doubt you've ever met my mum and dad. They never leave Herring," she informed him after rinsing her mouth.

"Hm," said the Bann, eyeing her thoughtfully.

* * *

 

They headed up through the village, past the half-destroyed barricade and over the waterfall bridge. Leliana had remained behind to offer spiritual comfort to the survivors, but Sten had manifested just past the blacksmith and suggested that he accompany them.

"The passage starts in the old mill." Teagan gestured up at the wooden structure, perched precariously on the edge of the cliff ahead. "It comes out in the dungeons. Meant as an escape route for the family."

Flora slipped on the damp clay path and grabbed at Sten's arm to keep herself upright. He permitted this, but shot her a disapproving expression.

"Are you intoxicated?"

"Yes," muttered Flora, defiantly. The Qunari, who had no concept of sarcasm, eyed her disapprovingly.

"How unwise."

Flora opened her mouth to retort, but was interrupted by Bann Teagan's exclamation of surprise.

"Isolde?!"

A woman was approaching them, appearing from the far side of the mill. She appeared to be in her late thirties, with fading golden hair artfully arranged on her head and a rich, fur-trimmed gown. Her wealth and breeding cast her as an incongruous figure on the muddy path, clay clinging to her delicate silk slippers.

Alistair groaned under his breath.

"Brilliant; my biggest fan," he muttered darkly, as Flora cast him a curious look.

As the woman rushed to meet Teagan, she collapsed in his arms with a cry of relief, deep lines of worry etched on her face. When she spoke, it was with an affected Orlesian accent.

"Oh, Teagan! I am so glad that you are alive. You must come back to the castle with me."

Teagan stepped back, holding the woman by her elbows and searching her face.

"Isolde, what's happened? Where is Eamon?"

Isolde's lower lip trembled, her pale blue eyes silently imploring.

"A- a blood mage has poisoned the Arl!" she breathed, her voice trembling like a plucked lute string. "He has trapped us all in the castle. Please, Teagan. You must come back with me."

Her eyes drifted over the three who stood behind the Bann, one confused, one resigned and one impassive. Her pale gaze rested on Alistair first.

"Alistair?" she breathed in shock, and he held up a hand in greeting, his own eyes averted.

"Hello, Isolde."

If the Arlessa felt any guilt about the way she had treated Eamon's ward in the past, it was not betrayed in her tone. She merely wrinkled her nose, one haughty eyebrow rising. Looking straight past the stoic Qunari with a faintly appalled expression, her eyes settled on Flora. Flora stared back, too confused by the situation to show her usual deference to the titled. She also had difficulty in understanding the woman's accent, which was far stronger than Leliana's.

"Teagan, who is this…girl?" the Arlessa commented, her pale gaze flashing back to Teagan accusatorially. Teagan groaned, his own eyes returning once more to the vast, silent bulk of Castle Redcliffe.

"They're here to offer help, Isolde. Did you come though the passage?"

"No," she explained, a tremor in her voice. "He- the maleficar – allowed me to come and get you through the gates. Only you, Teagan! He will kill us all, including Connor, if you bring others."

Flora was desperate to speak. Although she knew that her position as a Warden granted her status, this awareness had a lifetime of experience at the bottom of the social hierarchy to contend with.

Finally, she raised her hand, eyes lowered to the muddy path.

"It seems a bad idea for the Bann to go alone," she muttered, wondering if –despite the situation – she could still be placed in the stocks for insubordination.

"If there's a blood mage, I can shield the Bann from him. I can shield both of you," she added, hastily.

Isolde shook her head hysterically, a strand of pale gold hair escaping its silken net.

"No! It must only be Teagan!"

Alistair scowled, his lips folded tightly in disapproval as he stared at the finely dressed woman.

"Isolde, isn't it enough that the Arl is in danger? Are you trying to get both brothers killed?"

Teagan raised his hands placatingly, glancing over at a red-faced Isolde.

"Enough!" he said, sharply. "I will return with you to the Castle."

Brushing off her tearful gratitude, he turned to the Wardens and the Qunari.

"If you three take the passage, you can join us there. Alistair, do you remember your way through the castle?"

Alistair nodded.

The Bann led the way inside the ground floor of the decrepit windmill. Kicking aside some grain sacks, Teagan gestured to a dust-covered trapdoor in the wooden floor.

"I'll see you in the Castle," he said grimly, nodding at Flora and the silent Sten.

They could hear the Arlessa's tearful voice arguing with Teagan's, drifting off into the distance.

"So that's the woman who made your life a misery?" Flora wondered, as Sten used his greatsword to lever the trapdoor open.

Alistair nodded, peering into the darkness below with some trepidation. The top few rungs of a ladder were just visible, before descending into cobwebbed shadow.

"Unlike a fine wine, she hasn't mellowed with age," he muttered, swinging himself onto the ladder. "You scared of spiders, Sten?"

The Qunari stared at him with barely concealed hostility. Alistair half-smiled, before descending into the darkness.

Flora watched Alistair's blond head vanish into the shadows, before edging herself onto the ladder with some trepidation. Hearing the ancient wood creak and recalling the dock giving way beneath her the previous night, she peered up at Sten.

"Um, maybe wait for us to be off before you get on?" she suggested delicately. He made no response, but simply glared.

Flora clambered down, rung by rung, the rungs damp beneath her fingers. The square of light above her head grew smaller as she descended. The wood also grew more mildewed as the smell of Lake Calanhad rose up around her.

"There's a missing rung at the bottom. Also, surprise! A lot of spiders. And I mean a lot."

Alistair's voice drifted up from somewhere below her. Flora clung to the ladder and edged downwards. The next moment she gave a little shriek as Sten dropped past her, landing on the passage floor on bended knees with a grunt

"I tired of waiting," he muttered to Alistair, who was gaping at him in the darkness. Flora scrambled off the ladder, and immediately bumped into someone.

"Ah! Who's that?" she bleated, only to get overpowering silence in response. "Oh, sorry, Sten."

In almost pitch darkness, Alistair fumbled around, his gloved fingers brushing through cobwebs.

"I wish we had your staff," he muttered to Flora, recalling how they had negotiated through the Tower of Ishal with its light.

The next moment, Flora had held up her hand in the shadows. Her fingers began to glow softly, then brightened as the whitegold flame engulfed her hand. She held up the makeshift 'torch', the shifting mass of energy casting brilliant beams of light on the mildewed walls. Alistair patted her on the back, proudly.

"Who needs a staff, eh?" he commented, heading off down the ochre stone passage.

"I wouldn't mind one," muttered Flora darkly, recalling Isolde's tearful claims of blood magic and poison.

They made their way down the passage, snaking through the red rock of the cliff. The dampness of the lake seeped up through the absorbent soil, turning the dusty earth to clay. At times, the way was so narrow that Sten had to turn sideways and inhale to fit himself through.

"Don't worry," said Alistair kindly, glancing over his shoulder at the silent but quietly enraged Qunari. "If you get stuck, I promise to bring you food twice a week. Or once a week if it's a busy one. You know how it is, right?"

The Qunari made no reply. The next time that the passage proved too narrow, he simply shoulder-barged through the clay, sending a shower of earth onto their heads.

"Don't bring the castle down on us," Alistair said hastily, as Flora brushed dirt from her hair and sneezed.

* * *

 

After a short time, they came to a cobwebbed door. Flora held her glowing hand to the handle. There was no visible keyhole, only an iron ring set into the mouldering wood. She twisted the ring tentatively, leaned against the door. It gave way several inches, then stopped abruptly.

"I think there's something behind it," she murmured, rattling the handle. Suddenly Alistair grabbed her elbow and pulled her to one side, as Sten lunged past and slammed his bulk into the rotten wood. The door splintered and the crates which had been stacked against it went scattering across the damp flagstones.

A dank passage, half-lit by torches, lay before them, with small cells branching off to either side. A hunched figure shuffled away from them at the end of the corridor, features obscured by shadow.

Flora and Alistair glanced at one another, before edging forwards, Flora extinguishing her hand as she lowered it.

"Hello?" called Alistair cautiously, and the figure stopped. It turned slowly, to reveal a hanging, pallid face with an exposed jawbone. Alistair lifted his shield from his back, raising it and starting forward. At that moment, guttural snarls came from the open cells to their left and right. Two more undead lurched towards them from either side.

Flora flung her hands upward as one lunged towards her at close quarters with a rusting dagger. The shiv lodged in the still-materialising barrier, and Sten swung his sword around with a great bellow. Flora let out a squeal of terror as the blade passed at an angle over her head, cleaving through two wizened necks. The two undead stopped in their tracks, rotten skulls slowly toppling from their shoulders.

Alistair, who had knocked his shield into the first creature's face to disorientate it, efficiently ran it through with a single sword-thrust. As he retracted the blade from its decaying stomach, he glanced over his shoulder. Flora was in the middle of an argument with Sten, the two corpses leaking fluid at their feet.

"You almost chopped my head off!" she protested in outrage, clutching her neck protectively. Sten glared down at her, sheathing his blade on his back.

"If I had wanted to decapitate you. I would have done so," he commented without feeling. "I was in control of my blade."

Flora opened her mouth to retort, but then something entirely unexpected happened.

"Flora?"

It was not Alistair's voice. He had turned and was staring into one of the prison cells, lowering his sword.

"You?!"

Flora recognised the voice in an instant, her eyes widening. Stepping over the leaking corpses, she edged down the corridor, before turning in the direction of Alistair's incredulous stare.

Jowan was standing in the small cell, a pitiful reflection of his former self. His round moon face had hollowed, gaunt features covered with a week's worth of stubble. He still wore the scarlet robe he had been so proud of in the Circle, but it was now shredded and stained. His eyes were outlined with red, while new lines of stress had puckered at the corner of his mouth.

"Jowan?" Flora whispered, gaping at him in astonishment. He blinked at her, his own jaw dropping.

"Flora Cove? Little Flora, it is you! I thought you'd died at Ostagar."

"Hello again, maleficar," murmured Alistair, fingers moving over the hilt of his sword.

Flora gaped for a moment more, before finding her voice.

"You're the blood mage?" she breathed, nostrils flaring in disbelief.

"I can explain- " Jowan started as Alistair withdrew his sword.

"The blood mage who poisoned Arl Eamon," growled the Warden, lifting the sword to the bars. "Explain why I shouldn't run you through right now?"

A frightened Jowan retreated to the back of the cell, knocking over a small stool in his haste.

"Flora, you wouldn't let him kill me!"

Flora folded her arms, scowling.

"The last time I saw you, you had a dagger pressed to my chest," she pointed out. "You tried to kill me!"

"But we were friends for four years before that!" the mage protested, fear swarming in his eyes.

"Until you decided that I wasn't good enough for you," Flora pointedly out, reasonably. "I don't blame you for that, but don't still try and claim that we were friends."

"Flo, let's just kill it and get to the Arl," muttered Alistair, clattering his sword against the the bars impatiently. Flora put a hand on his arm, stepping closer to the cell.

"Jowan, what are you doing here?"

"The Arlessa hired me to tutor her son. He was showing signs of magic, she wanted him to learn how to suppress it."

"Connor's a mage?" breathed Alistair, with a slight frown. "He must have inherited it from her side of the family, I know there's no magic in Eamon's ancestry."

"Then when he learnt I was here, General Mac Tir contacted me. Asked me to poison the Arl. He said it was for the good of Ferelden."

"How could that possibly be for the good of Ferelden?!" demanded Alistair with an incredulous laugh.

Jowan cringed, reaching to right the small stool before sinking down upon it. He hunched there, defeated, seemingly aged a decade in the past month.

"He's a war hero," the blood mage said bleakly, with a slight shrug. "I didn't question his orders."

"Jowan, can I heal the Arl?" interrupted Flora, aware that Jowan had full knowledge of her capabilities. He shook his head, shoulders slumping.

"Maybe at the beginning- but not now. The poison's taken too deep."

Alistair exhaled, turning away and raising a frustrated fist to his temples. Flora glanced over her shoulder, grimacing.

"Jowan," she muttered, aware that Alistair was quickly losing patience. "What are all these…corpses everywhere? What else is happening?"

"If that's also something to do with you- " hissed Alistair, hazel eyes flashing with anger. Jowan groaned, his head hanging even lower.

"The boy, Connor. He-he's been possessed. I tried to free him, but I couldn't. Now he's been summoning all of these undead."

Flora fell silent, appalled but understanding. Possession was a risk all mages knew only too well, the danger drilled into their heads from their first days at the Circle.

"Bas saarebas" murmured the Qunari from behind them.

Alistair, who had been trained as a Templar and also understood the consequences, let out a low groan.

"He's an abomination?" he said slowly, returning the sword to its sheath. "Maker's Breath."

Just then, from somewhere above them on the main floor of the castle, came a loud crash and the sound of a woman screaming.

"The stairs are this way," muttered Alistair, shooting a venomous glance at Jowan. "We'll deal with you later."

* * *

 

Flora and Sten followed in Alistair's wake, taking a narrow stone staircase out of the dungeons and coming out into servants' quarters. Alistair kept his sword unsheathed, peering around each doorway before entering. The castle appeared deserted; they heard no sound after the scream. More disconcerting than the emptiness was the impression that people had simply disappeared partway through their normal routine – laundry had been left out to dry, a wooden bathtub was full of stagnant water. Brooms were propped hastily against walls, as if their owners were anticipating a quick return. Passing through the kitchens, flies were swarming over week-old meat.

Alistair guided them out of the servants' quarters through an unobtrusive doorway, into a far more luxuriant corridor. Flora gazed around, awed by the hanging tapestries and elaborate stonework. The symbol of Redcliffe- a grey keep high on a red peak- was emblazoned everywhere.

"This is where you grew up?" she asked, through a mouthful of carrot. Alistair glanced at her over his shoulder.

"Did you take that from the kitchen? And yes. When Isolde wasn't conspiring to keep me in the stables."

"It's nice," commented Flora, eyeing a carved bust of an elderly man, perched on a stone pedestal. "I should get one of these for my dad."

They came to a halt outside a pair of large double doors. From within, they could hear a woman's soft sobs, accompanied by the manic giggling of a child. Alistair unsheathed his sword, looking as though he had forgotten how to use it.

"Maker, I don't think I could slay a child," he breathed, his fingers compulsively clutching the gilded pommel. "It's one thing killing darkspawn and demons, but…"

"It is a child no longer, bas," grunted Sten, who already had his greatsword raised in preparation. "The child is as good as dead."

Alistair shot him a look, before taking a deep breath and placing a hand on one of the wooden doors.

"Ready?"

Flora nodded, feeling nervous sweat forming on the palms of her hands. She wished that she had her staff with her.

Visibly steeling himself, Alistair pushed open the door and led the way into the main hall.

The sight that greeted them was almost like something from a farcical dream. The Arlessa was standing beside the fireplace, tears coursing down her face as she sobbed openly. Four guards, blank-faced, were marching on the spot; their boots thudding in rhythmic unison on the flagstones. In the centre of the hall, Bann Teagan was performing contortions that would have been the envy of any Orlesian jester. After competing an impressive set of handsprings, he began an energetic jig; although the only accompaniment was the now-hysterical laughter from the boy standing beside Isolde.

"Please, Connor, stop! Let him go!" she begged, her voice trembling as she cringed beside the fireplace. The child ignored her, turning instead to face the doorway.

"Ooh, more guests!"

The boy's voice was still high and childish, he could not have been more than nine or ten years. And yet there was a dark undercurrent to his voice, a distorted echo that reverberated in the stone hall.

"Look, Mother. Some unexpected visitors have come to play," the child said, with the strange duality of tone. "Welcome to my castle."

The Bann, temporarily freed from the forced contortions, slumped to his knees with a groan.

"Connor, please. Come back to me! Fight it!" begged Isolde, reaching a shaking hand towards what once had been her son.

The boy ignored her, advancing across the main hall. Sten raised his sword, but before he could react, the massive weapon was wrenched from his grasp. It flew vertically up to the ceiling and embedded itself within the wooden eaves. The Qunari gaped, and the boy tutted at him in disapproval.

"That's no way to treat your host. I don't like you."

The child's eyes, irises a milky white, moved dismissively over Alistair and swept up and down Flora. Immediately, a wicked curving smile crept across the boy's face.

"Now this one, I do like. Look, Mother! Half your twice, and at least twice as beautiful."

"Are you talking to me or Alistair?" Flora mumbled, trying to hide how appalled she was.

"I'm surprised you haven't ordered her executed yet," the boy continued. "I know how jealous you get. Come here, pretty girl."

He raised a hand. Flora immediately brought up the gleaming barrier between them, the shield of magical energy deflecting the abomination's attempt at mind control. Immediately, Connor let out a snarl of rage, the demon's voice growing louder.

"You don't want to play? Fine! Uncle, get rid of our unwanted guests."

Isolde let out a moan of protest as the Bann sprung to his feet once again, drawing his shortsword and lunging towards them. Simultaneously, the four guards closed in, blades drawn.

Alistair raised his shield to deflect Teagan's blow, using his sword to counter rather than to attack. Sten, without a weapon, used his bulk to tackle one of the guards. They crashed to the stone floor, where the huge Qunari proceeded to slam the man's head against the stone several times.

Flora, face grimaced with concentration, tried to keep up the shield around Alistair while simultaneously preventing another guard from bringing a hand ax down between Sten's exposed shoulder blades. Although she was proficient at healing with her hands alone, her barriers were far more powerful when channeled through the staff.

Teagan swung his shortsword towards Alistair's neck; Alistair countered the blow with a grunt. In the background, he could hear Isolde weeping, pleading with her son to stop. Protected by the golden barrier, he reluctantly used his own blade on a snarling guard's throat. Several yards away, Sten was proceeding to choke the life from another mind controlled victim, massive hands wrapped around the man's throat. Unlike Alistair, he displayed no remorse in the killing.

The Bann made another blind attempt to lunge at Alistair; who side-stepped the blow and struck the man with the flat of his blade, sending him crashing to the floor.

The third guard took advantage of Flora's exposure and launched himself with mindless strength into her. She fell backwards onto the flagstones, too shocked to cry out. The guard raised a dagger high and brought it down; she rolled to the side just as the blade crashed down to the stone.

The solid impact jarred the weapon from the guard's hand; Flora began to scramble to to her feet, but then felt metallic fingers closing around her ankle. The next moment she had fallen down again, felt a heavy weight on her back and the man's feverish breath hot against her neck.

Then the pressure was lifted, she looked over her shoulder to see Alistair lifting the guard bodily from her and shoving him against the table. The next moment, he had sunk his sword into the man's stomach.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a little boy's voice, lost and confused.

"Mama? What's happening?"

The fourth guard came to an abrupt halt, dropping the polearm he had been wielding. Bann Teagan, slumped on the floor, raised a hand to his head. Sten's sword fell from the ceiling, landing with a heavy clatter.

Isolde let out a shuddering gasp, reaching out to her son.

"Connor, my son! Please, you must try and fight it."

"I-I can't," whispered the boy, his voice high and frightened. "I try, but I'm not strong enough!"

Suddenly, the timbre of his voice changed. Pupils which had temporarily darkened once again reverted to the milky white of demonic control.

"You aren't playing fair!" the boy screamed, the harsh undertone returning. "I hate all of you!"

The child ran from the room, shoving his way through the double doors. For a moment there was a heavy silence; broken by Teagan's soft grunt of pain as he raised a hand to his head. Isolde rushed to his side, avoiding the bloodied bodies of the slain guards.

"Teagan!"

With her help, the Bann slowly rose to his feet. Alistair withdrew his bloodied sword from the stomach of the unfortunate guard, his face grim as he reached down to haul Flora up.

"You alright?" he murmured, and she nodded, her eyes wide. Although there had been some cases of demonic possession at the Circle, the Templars had dispatched victims efficiently before they could demonstrate their power.

"Isolde, Connor is an abomination," said the Bann heavily, as the Orlesian woman's cheeks paled. "I don't know what other options we have."

"No!" breathed Isolde, backing away and bumping into the table. "You cannot kill my son. He is in there still, I know it!"

"Why not ask the bas saarebas in the cells?" pointed out Sten. "He seems to be the root of the problem. I still think the creature needs to be slain."

"The blood mage," clarified Alistair as Bann Teagan looked up with a frown.

Flora, kneeling beside the unconscious guard, was busy working her fingers over his fractured skull.

"His name is Jowan," she muttered, the golden mist surging up from beneath her fingernails. "He might have a suggestion."

"Fine," said the Bann heavily, gesturing to the only guard left standing. "But if he attempts anything, I won't hesitate to slay him on the spot."

By the time the Bann returned, dragging a handcuffed Jowan behind him, Flora had mended the man's broken fragments of skull. Jowan stood, hunched over beside the fireplace, light illuminating the hollows of his sunken cheeks.

"The easiest way to kill the demon is to kill the child," he muttered, as the Arlessa let out a moan of dismay. The Bann glanced at Alistair, who gave a helpless shrug.

"Is there no way to reverse a possession?" the older man asked, putting a comforting hand on Isolde's shoulder as she began to sob once again.

Jowan started to reply in the negative, then paused. The Arlessa seized on the hesitation.

"Speak!" she demanded, eyes flashing. Jowan sighed heavily, head bowed.

"A mage could enter the Fade and confront the demon there. If the demon was slain in the Fade, the child would be unharmed."

Isolde's cry of relief was almost pitiful. Eyes flashing with renewed hope, she turned to Bann Teagan.

"There is hope for Connor! How do we do this?"

Jowan did not reply for a moment. The Arlessa repeated the question, her voice rising hysterically at the end.

"It requires blood sacrifice," the mage said at last, his gaze directed to the flagstones. "Complete blood sacrifice."

There was no doubt as to the meaning of his words. Alistair turned away in disgust, wiping his blade on the tablecloth.

"Not more Maker-damned blood magic," he muttered. There was a heavy silence.

"I will do it," said Isolde after a moment, dropping her gaze to the flagstones. The Bann let out a grunt of disbelief, shaking his head vehemently.

"Isolde, no!" His green eyes were wide and staring. "You cannot."

Isolde turned to him with her velvet-clad shoulders slumping. For a moment there was quiet, broken only by the laboured breathing of the unconscious guard. Flora eyed Jowan, curiously. She knew him better than anyone else in the room, could see the tension in the lines of his newly hollowed jaw. After seeing him slice off the ear of the woman he had professed to love, she also knew that he was selfish enough to try and facilitate the death of the main witness to his crimes against the Arl.

"And what's the other way?" she said suddenly, shooting Jowan a beady stare.

His dark eyes moved towards hers, then quickly darted away, and they both knew that she had caught him out. He sighed, bowing his head. The Bann gazed between them, his eyes alight with a glimmer of hope.

"If you have enough mages and sufficient lyrium, possession can be reversed," he said, reluctantly.

Alistair blinked, brow furrowing in perplexion. This drastically contradicted his Templar training, which had insisted that once a mage had fallen under possession, they were irredeemably lost.

"The nearest Circle is a day's ride from here," he said, glancing over at Flora. "They'd have lyrium. We could bring mages."

"It would be better to kill the bas saarebas now and be done with it," muttered Sten darkly.

"Alistair, would you be willing to do this?" asked Teagan, his dark eyes falling on the young Warden. "I know this family has no right to make demands on you, after…after the way that you have been treated in the past."

The Bann shot a look at Isolde, who was now slumped in a chair beside the fireplace. Alistair shook his head, a grim half-smile curving the corner of his mouth.

"The Arl was like a father to me," he said after a moment, as Isolde turned her face to the flames. "I would not see him wake to find his son dead…nor his wife."

The Bann nodded tightly, glancing over at Flora. She smiled anxiously, then they all cringed as a loud crash came from the floor above.

"The horses still live, I saw them as we entered," murmured Teagan, as the sound of heavy furniture being thrown against the wall echoed from the ceiling.

Quickly, against the sound of the upper floor's destruction, a plan was drawn up. Sten and Leliana would remain in Redcliffe to assist the villagers in the defence against future assaults. Flora and Alistair, taking the fastest horse from the stables, would take the northern road which skirted the edge of the Lake. At Kinloch Hold, they would seek the assistance of the mages.

"We can obtain their help against the Blight at the same time", muttered Alistair in Flora's ear, as she nodded, slightly pale at the prospect of more riding.

Bann Teagan accompanied them down to the abandoned stables while Isolde ventured upstairs to check on the location of her son. Sten had already departed the castle via the underground passage, returning to the village to inform Leliana of the plan.

Located in the corner of a rear courtyard, the stables had been Arl Eamon's pride and joy. They were spacious and sturdy, protected from the cold winds that circulated the Lake by the high walls of the castle. The horses had been left with plenty of feed and a full trough of water, and seemed ambivalent about the absence of their keepers.

"Feels strange to be back here after so long," murmured Alistair, running his hand over the wooden gate. "Isolde used to keep me here as much as possible."

Bann Teagan glanced at Alistair, his handsome, patrician face contemplative. The older man watched the young warden as he moved from stall to stall, practised eyes running over each horse in turn. Selecting a strong bay mare, Alistair retrieved her tack from the pegs and began to expertly saddle her up. Flora, who had found an old woollen coat abandoned in the straw, was eyeing the horse with some trepidation.

"Alistair," the Bann said after a moment, a slight strangeness to his tone. Alistair finished adjusting the stirrups and looked around. The Bann had an odd look on his face, his pale green eyes deep in thought.

"You know what Cailan's death means, don't you?"

At first Alistair made no reply, instead swinging himself up into the saddle. He reached down a hand to help a nervous Flora scramble up. Only when she was tentatively perched behind him did he respond to the Bann.

"Yes, I'm aware. All the old men on the King's Council weeping. Letter of commiserations to Queen Anora. Big fancy funeral," he replied lightly, nudging the horse gently with his heel. "My dear, you'll have to hold on tighter than that. I promise I won't get the wrong idea."

Flora scowled at his back, but gripped his sides a little more firmly.

Bann Teagan sighed, stepping back to allow them to pass.

"Maker watch over you on your journey," he murmured quietly, as Flora glanced up at the upper windows of the castle with unease.

"We'll return as quickly as possible," she replied, her legs clamped rigidly to the horse's flanks.

* * *

 

Leaving the suffocating atmosphere of Redcliffe Castle behind them, they rode through the newly opened main gate and across the stone promontory to the mainland. Alistair, who had once been employed as a stable boy for the Arl, had chosen their mount well. The mare was strong and hardy, a Free Marches specimen bred for endurance in addition to speed.

They took the high path along the cliff, Redcliffe village visible beneath them, huddled on the shore of Lake Calanhad. Flora stared down at the small stone buildings, hoping that they could rebuild their defences in time to face the next attack. Teagan had seemed to think that the coming night's assault would be less serious, although she wasn't sure how he could assume this.

"The route is simple," Alistair called over his shoulder, the wind snatching the words from his mouth. "We just follow the lake road north."

Before he could spur the horse onwards, a hail from the lower path halted them. Panting and red-faced, clearly having run up from the village, Nat approached the horse. He was holding something at arm's length, keeping it as far from himself as possible. Flora recognised the object from a distance, her mouth dropping.

"Here!" Nat panted, holding it up towards her. "We trawled the water beneath the dock 'till we found it."

Flora took her staff back, beaming from ear to ear. Nat flushed pink, averting his eyes to the reddish clay.

"Thank you," she breathed, slinging the staff onto her back. "I was sorry to have lost this."

"I-I also have a message," the fisherman's son continued, his cheeks deepening to a rich scarlet. "She says that she'll meet you at the Tower."

"Who will? Queen Anora? The blessed Andraste herself?" drawled Alistair, then grunted as Flora nudged him in the ribs.

"You know who he's talking about," she muttered against his shoulder, and he let out a sigh.

"I do know. I was just hoping she'd flown back to the Wilds."

"I'm glad she didn't," said Flora with a little shiver, recalling the pale limbs of the corpses as they thrashed in the water above her.

Alistair clicked his tongue and the mare gave a whinny, launching herself forwards towards the north, and Kinloch Hold.


	25. Return to Kinloch Hold

Chapter 25: Return to Kinloch Hold

From his years in the stables, Alistair knew the best ways to coax speed from a horse. The northern road wended and wove its way along the low hills of the eastern Bannorn; never straying too far from the vast expanse of Lake Calanhad. They covered over two thirds of the journey during that day, the Maker seemingly blessing them with clear skies and mild temperatures.

As the sky began to darken, the path itself began to deteriorate. Edging precariously close to the crumbling cliff-face, in some places the road was half blocked with debris. Alistair slowed their mare to a walk, shaking his head.

"It's getting too dangerous. We'll have to stop for the night," he called over his shoulder to Flora. Hunched over behind him, she nodded, stiffness seeping through her bones.

Alistair turned the horse's head away from the northern road and prompted her down a narrow sidetrack.

"There's a village down here, too small for the maps," he added, recognising the unusual stone walling denoting the surrounding field boundaries. "Duncan and I stayed at the inn there once."

Flora, limbs stiff and knee aching, mumbled something incoherent against his mail-clad back. Alistair turned the mare away from the lake and they headed inland.

The village turned out to be little more than a hamlet, a group of stone buildings huddled at the base of a low hill. Night had drawn in by the time they pulled up outside the only two-storey building; a young stable lad taking their mare.

"Don't be too put off by the regulars," Alistair murmured to Flora as she slid down from the saddle with a grimace. "They aren't used to strangers. Used to give me and Duncan some awfully funny looks. Can't imagine what they thought."

He led the way inside the inn, which was –as predicted – dominated by locals. They sat hunched around small wooden tables, clutching their tankards in companionable silence. Their eyes passed over Alistair as he entered, having seen him before, and settled on Flora, following in his wake. Several of the younger residents sat up slightly, their eyes narrowing with interest.

However, once they had ascertained that the stick she was leaning on was actually a staff, initial interest quickly blurred into suspicion. Alistair's Templar mail dissuaded them from voicing complaint, so they resorted to scowling at Flora's back as Alistair negotiated with the innkeeper. She felt the heat of their glares between her shoulder blades, but was accustomed enough to the prejudice of others.

Alistair was perplexed as he led the way up the stairs, spinning a crude key around his fingers.

"I don't know why he gave us the smallest room," he complained, shouldering open the corresponding door. "You couldn't swing a rat in here."

Their allocated room was indeed tiny, with a small fireplace and a single, narrow bed. The floor space in front of the fire was taken up by a lumpen bedroll.

"Because of me," mumbled Flora, shrugging off her coat gratefully and feeling her knee give a twinge of protest. She took her boots off, then untucked the linen shirt from her breeches.

"But smaller means it'll be warmer though."

Someone had already set the fire in the grate. Alistair unbuckled the outer layer of his armour as Flora nudged at the fire with the iron poker, coaxing the flames higher.

"It is funny seeing you do that," commented Alistair as he settled down beside her in the quilted vest he wore beneath the mail. "I'm just used to seeing mages click their fingers and summoning fire on cue!"

Flora, sitting beside the fire, began to roll the leg of her breeches up over her sore knee.

"Sorry to disappoint you," she said amiably, angling the sore joint towards the fire. "I can't change what I was born as."

Alistair reached out and ruffled her hair affectionately, like an elder brother.

"I didn't mean it like that," he murmured, watching her fingers spark as they moved over her knee. "You know you're my favourite type of mage. The type that doesn't blow anyone up."

"Only on Tuesdays," Flora pulled a face at him, then scowled as she sat back, staring in perplexity at her leg. "I don't understand why I can't stop this from hurting. How can I heal a shattered skull and not a sore knee?"

It was the first time that her magic had let her down, and she was both confused and indignant.

Alistair, who had been averting his eyes towards the flames in an attempt to avoid looking at her slender calf, glanced down.

"Sometimes, back at the Castle, the knights pressed the horses too hard," he said quietly, removing his leather riding gloves a finger at a time.

"Afterwards, when the knights had gone, the horse's legs would swell up. We used to rub their fetlocks to ease the pain."

Flora stared at him as he held his palms out in front of the fire.

"Is that where you learnt about the heat?" she asked, resting her chin on her uninjured knee. He nodded, stretching his fingers as close to the flames as was possible.

"Do you- do you mind?" he asked her tentatively, his hazel eyes searching her face. When she shook her head mutely, he reached across the space between them and gently placed his fingers on her knee.

Alistair had intended to maintain a string of chatter to hide his nerves, but as his lean fingers worked the sore muscle, he found himself unable to form the words. Instead, he focused on his own calloused fingers as they moved over her skin. He swallowed, the inside of his mouth inexplicably dry.

Flora rested her chin on her hand and watched him, aware that he was nervous and feeling irrationally guilty.

"Sorry," she mumbled, tilting her head to stare into the fire instead. "Pretend I'm a horse or something."

"You've certainly got the appetite of one," Alistair murmured, and Flora snorted.

His comment weakened the strange tension between them; and Flora began to wonder out loud what fare the innkeeper would provide for dinner.

After telling her not to raise her hopes too high, Alistair went downstairs and retrieved a loaf of bread and some cheese. Flora was more than happy with this, and they split the food between them in companionable silence. Eating together was part of a familiar routine, one that had first begun on the rainy ramparts at Ostagar. Flora, who barely stopped to chew her food, inevitably finished first. She would then stare mournfully at Alistair, who would then linger over the remainder of his own meal, a malevolent look in his eyes. Occasionally, he would take pity on her and share his last few mouthfuls.

Later, as Flora was sitting in bed and wrestling with her hair, she brought up what had been on her mind since night first fell.

"I hope Redcliffe is alright," she mumbled, pulling her fingers through the tangled, mahogany strands in an effort to separate them. "Maybe I should have stayed behind and Leliana could have come with you."

Alistair gave the fire one last shove with the poker, then settled back on the lumpen bedroll.

"I wouldn't know what to say to the mages at the Tower," he said frankly, watching her shove her hair into an untidy bundle at the side of her neck. "I know I'd end up doing something stupid. Maybe I'd accidentally persuade them to join the Archdemon instead."

Flora snorted in an unladylike manner, slithering down onto the hard pallet mattress.

"I think you've got the better deal down there," she mumbled, rolling over onto her side and pulling the blankets up to her chin. "'Night, Alistair."

"'Night, Flo."

* * *

 

_A head, hanging low and ugly, scaled and horned, ancient. Intelligent eyes, blazing with hatred. The swarm seething in its mind's eye, awaiting the next voiceless command._

_A village, its soldiers long departed, defenceless. Refugees huddled around campfires. Many injured. Crying children, vulnerable elderly. Then the Chantry bell begins to ring. The swarm arrives and the screaming begins._

_It doesn't take long. The bell keeps ringing, though soon no one is left to hear it._

_The wicked eye blazes in triumph._

Flora awoke violently, her mind acting in self-defence and pulling her forcibly back through the Veil into the waking world. She sat bolt upright in the dim room, the fire burnt down to embers in the grate, then realised that she couldn't catch her breath.

_Drowning_.

Inhaling unsteadily, feeling her throat closing in panic, she tried to clamber to her feet. Her legs caught in the thin blanket and she half-fell from the bed, landing with hands and knees on the floorboards.

Alistair awoke when he heard the thud, immediately alert, fingers reaching for his sword. The dim glow from the embers illuminated Flora as she hunched over on the floor at the foot of the bed. She was half-tangled in the blanket, and her shoulders were shuddering as she gasped for air.

For a horrible, reflexive moment Alistair thought that she had been possessed. Ignoring his sword, he reached for her shoulders.

"Flora? Flo?"

Flora looked up at him, her grey irises reflecting the dim glow from the embers, and he realised that she was just badly frightened. She tried to speak, but her throat was still too constricted to allow words through. He put an arm around her, feeling her narrow shoulder blades through the thin linen shirt.

"Breathe," he muttered in her ear, keeping his arm clamped around her tightly. "Don't try to speak yet."

She nodded like a puppet, eyes wide and staring, stray strands of hair escaping the leather tie and falling around her shoulders. Alistair put his other arm around her and held her properly. Reflexively she leaned against his chest and he rested his chin on top of her head; bringing up a hand to stroke her hair clumsily, soothing her like he would have done a frightened horse. He could feel her shaking, teeth chattering in her head like they'd done when Morrigan had pulled her out of the lake. He tightened his grip, closing his own eyes against the involuntary guilt.

_This is a result of the taint_.

"Ssh," he muttered against her hair, knowing that he could not say that it wasn't real.

"Lothering," Flora whispered against his quilted shoulder, her voice hoarse. "Lothering's gone."

He drew back slightly and she raised her face to his, dampness clinging to her eyelashes.

"What do you mean?" It came out sharper than intended, but she didn't flinch.

"I saw it," she mumbled, bowing her head again. Alistair felt a surge of helplessness and frustration swelling up inside his gut; his fingers dug into her arms until she let out a muted sound of protest. He immediately loosened his grip, pulling her against his chest and impulsively kissing the top of her tangled head in apology.

"Sorry, Flo," he murmured against her ear.

They remained together in silence for another hour, both acutely aware of being the last two Wardens in Ferelden.

Eventually Flora raised her mouth to his ear, her voice hoarse.

"Alistair?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"What happened when the Templars and Mages tried to get along?"

Alistair drew back and squinted at her through the shadows in confusion.

"What?"

"They kept going in Circles."

Alistair gaped at her for a moment, and she gave a helpless shrug, the corner of her mouth twitching. He let out a little snort of incredulous laughter.

"Did you just come up with that?"

"No," she replied, blinking up at him innocently. "Sten told it to me."

This time he let out a proper bark of laughter, and she smiled back at him.

Resolutely, he lay back against the bedroll, keeping his arm around her shoulders. She huddled up beside him and he placed his chin on top of her head. His free hand sought hers in the darkness, sliding his fingers between her own to clasp them tightly.

"Forget fish rope," he murmured against her hair. "Fish _full-body restraints._ The Archdemon'll not have you again tonight."

As the last two Wardens of Ferelden huddled together, Leliana's holy arrow sunk home into the head of the final corpse assaulting Redcliffe's barricades. And, further south, the wind continued to toll the bell of lost Lothering.

* * *

 

The morning sun streamed in through the small, bare window, falling onto Alistair's face. He stirred, absentmindedly wondering why his movement seemed restricted, then realised that Flora was curled up beside him, her head on his chest. His arm was still around her shoulder, her fingers caught in his. One of her knees was bent across his own thigh. Alistair felt a rush of sudden affection for his sister-warden; and brushed his hand over the top of her head.

Flora yawned, grimacing as she stretched. She opened her eyes then realised that the strange texture beside her face was the soft tawny quilting of Alistair's tunic. Stomach lurching, she wondered if she had fallen out of bed at some point; and he had been too polite to wake her.

Then she remembered the Archdemon's terrible stare, the bell pealing mournfully over devastated Lothering. The panic rising like a full moon's tide, and then Alistair's arms around her, reassurance. His murmured kindness like a candle against the gathering shadows.

She rested her cheek against his chest, peering up at him. A lone bird heralded the sunrise outside the small window.

"Morning," she mumbled, and he glanced down at her face, smiled reflexively.

_Admittedly, you weren't expecting your first morning with a girl in your arms to be in this context. But there's no awkwardness, despite the strange circumstances._

"Morning," he replied, and then continued because he couldn't help himself. "You know this means we're married, according to Warden law?"

She laughed at him, sitting upright and yawning again.

"I think my dad was set on me marrying the shipbuilder's son," she countered, giving a little shrug. "He really wants a new boat."

"The Herring version of an arranged marriage," replied Alistair lightly, feeling his jaw tighten inexplicably.

After fitting the Templar mail, Alistair prepared the horse for the short journey to the Circle, which he estimated would only take another few hours of journeying. Flora settled their debt, the innkeeper undercharging in his haste to remove her presence from the tavern. Clutching several apples, she met up with Alistair as he led the saddled-up mare from the stables.

"Ready?"

Flora nodded as he reached out a gauntlet, half-helping and half-hauling her up onto the saddle behind him.

"It'll be strange," she mumbled, passing one of the apples forward. "I thought I'd never go back."

"Have you got your dismissal letter still?" asked Alistair, suddenly paranoid that the Templars at Kinloch Hold would refuse to let her go again once she was inside. Flora patted her chest, feeling the folded papers against her skin.

"They're here, with the others."

It was a clear and crisp morning, a weak winter sun straining to penetrate the thin veil of cloud which always hung over Calanhad. The hills were lower at the northern tip of the Lake, and the path gradually began to slope downwards.

"Flo?"

"No, there aren't any more apples, I've EATEN THEM ALL!" Flora retorted from behind him, defensively. Alistair snorted, shaking his head.

"It's not that. I've- I've a favour to ask."

Flora blinked. "What?"

"I assume we'll be going to Denerim at some point."

She thought on this a moment, then nodded, slightly awestruck at the thought of visiting Ferelden's capital. "Yes, I suppose so. Why?"

"I'd like to- try and find someone while we're there. It's not related to the Wardens."

"An old mistress," Flora nodded. Alistair gaped for a moment, flustered.

"What! No, I- you know I've never- "

"Illicitly hugged someone in a potions cupboard, I know," replied Flora, kindly. "So, who is it?"

Alistair took a deep breath, his fingers tightening on the horse's reins.

"My half-sister, Goldanna. I-I've never actually met her. I heard that she was married and lives in the capital. I just- if all this goes wrong, with the Blight and everything. I want at least to try and do something to help her."

Flora shrugged, amiably. "That sounds like a nice idea."

He twisted around, peered over his shoulder at her.

"Really?"

She nodded, smiled up at him. "Of course. You didn't need to ask."

* * *

 

As they neared the shore, the shape of Kinloch Hold began to emerge, the grey stone tower stark and forbidding as it rose up through the mist on its isolated island. From the outside, the Tower resembled a prison far more than its comfortable interior suggested. The path descended languidly down the side of a hill, ending at the lake's edge. Alistair was familiar with the descent, having last taken it with Duncan the previous month.

A small dock rested on the shoreline, a boat employed by the Circle to transport new residents and assorted guests across the navy waters of Lake Calanhad.

Coming to a halt beside the gnarled trunk of a wind-battered tree, Alistair tied the mare's reins to a branch and looked around for the ferryman. The old man was slumped on a crate at the edge of the dock, dozing lightly.

Adjusting the angle of her staff on her back, Flora approached the ferryman.

"Hello?" she said, then repeated it a little more loudly when the man gave no sign of having heard her. He startled, opened his eyes and peered up at her. A moment later, his rheumy gaze shifted to the approaching Alistair.

"Bringin' a new guest?" he asked, assuming that Alistair was a Templar and Flora his captive. Alistair frowned and shook his head, while Flora patiently clarified.

"Could you take us to Kinloch, please?"

"No." The flat bluntness of the answer brought both Flora and Alistair up short. The ferryman leaned back slightly on the crate, eyeing them with mild suspicion.

They glanced at each other, before Flora spoke up tentatively once more.

"Um, why not?"

"Knight-Commander Greagoir's orders," the ferryman said, chest inflating with self-importance. "Gave strict instructions ain't nobody allowed to leave or enter."

Alistair nudged Flora, his voice dropping to an undertone.

"Is this normal for a Circle? Maybe another maleficar's escaped."

She shook her head, her brow furrowing.

"It's not normal. I don't know what's happening."

The old ferryman eyed her up and down, then leaned back and crossed his arms.

"Now, if you'll excuse me."

His eyelids drifted closed. Alistair stepped forward, raising his voice indignantly.

"We aren't finished yet! Flo?" He held out a hand to Flora, who reached inside her shirt and handed him the bundle of papers. Alistair waved them before the fisherman, triumphantly.

"These are Grey Warden treaties. We're here on official Warden business. By law, you have to allow us access to Circle."

The old man's shoulders began to shake, silently. After a few moments, splutters of laughter began to escape through his tangled beard.

"You two… Wardens?! That's a good one. Best one I've heard all week, in fact."

Alistair looked nonplussed, still thrusting the treaties into mid-air.

"But these papers prove it," he said eventually, his forehead creasing. The old ferryman swung his head portentously back and forth.

"Listen, lad. I could have a piece of paper declarin' myself as the new Empress of Orlais; wouldna' make it so- "

He broke off suddenly, eyeing Flora with some confusion.

"What are you doin', lassie?"

Flora was standing on one leg tugging off her leather boot, before transferring her weight to her now bare foot and removing the second boot. She untucked her linen shirt, then rolled her breeches up to her knees. Both men stared at her.

"We have to get to the Circle," she threw over her shoulder, winding her untidy braid on top of her head as she advanced towards the water's edge. "It looks about half a mile away? I can easily swim that."

The ferryman gaped as Flora handed her staff to a dumbstruck Alistair. Without hesitation, she splashed into the lake and strode forward, eyes widening.

"Aah! Invigorating!"

The ferryman jumped up from the crate, calling after her desperately.

"Idiot girl! It's freezing, you'll drown."

Now knee-deep, she turned around and shrugged at him, teeth beginning to chatter.

"There's a  _B-Blight_. We ca-can't afford to wait! I'm getting the mages' help one way or the o-other."

She set her face towards the bleak outcrop of the Circle Tower and waded another step forward. Finally, the ferryman gave a groan of submission.

"Andraste's Tits! Come back! I'll take you."

Thigh-deep in frigid water, Flora smiled. She had been slightly worried that her own bluff was going to be called. Naturally, as a Herring girl, she was a strong swimmer; but it was very cold.

The ferryman ignored them stoically for the duration of the journey, grumbling under his breath as he laboured over the oars. Alistair was fussing over a triumphant Flora, who sat on the bench opposite him with a blanket around her shoulders.

"What if he hadn't agreed?" Alistair muttered, rubbing her cold bare feet between his fingers. "You'd have been as frozen as a Herring fish."

"Herring fish are always f-f-fresh," mumbled back Flora, through chattering teeth.

No one came to greet them on the rocky outcrop that served as Kinloch Hold's dock. The small hut usually manned by a young Templar stood empty. As they climbed the uneven steps, hewn into the craggy rock themselves, the only sound were the mournful cries of the gulls.

"'Tis awful quiet, I agree," murmured a voice from behind. Morrigan joined them with a jangle of beads as they came to a halt in front of the imposing, iron-clad wooden doors.

Flora smiled at her in greeting, which the witch returned with a supercilious nod. Alistair settled for a small scowl, after grudgingly acknowledging that she had most likely saved Flora's life when the Redcliffe dock collapsed.

"I have been watching this place for some time," Morrigan commented, adjusting a stray stand of silken black hair. "Nobody enters, nobody leaves. I assume that something has gone very wrong inside."

Flora gaped up at the vast doors of her former home, which she had noticed looked far more oppressive from the outside. She glanced at Alistair, who gazed back at her in bemusement.

"Only one way to find out," Flora said eventually with a small shrug, and leaned her weight against the door. To her surprise it gave way, opening up into the stone reception area at the base of the Tower. She remembered passing through the entrance hall with Duncan only a month prior; although it seemed a lifetime ago.

From within someone gave a shout and there was a flurry of movement. Templars began to move across the circular chamber, swords drawn. One of them saw Flora's staff on her back and gave a yell of warning.

"Mage!"

Morrigan had the sense to retreat outside, shoving past a gaping Alistair and placing the door between herself and the Templars. Before Flora could react, a lieutenant thrust out his gauntlet towards her.

The next moment she felt as if all the air had been sucked from her lungs. The edges of her vision blurred and she dropped on hands and knees to the flagstones with a gasp, the breath knocked from her.

Alistair, who had trained long enough as a Templar to recognise a silencing, stepped forwards and threw out his hands.

"Hold!"

The other Templars froze, several with their swords partially unsheathed. There were about a dozen in total, gathered in small groupings around the stone columns. Several more had clearly been injured, propped up near the barren fireplace with bandages around their chests. Dark red flecks were scattered across the flagstones. Alistair recognised one sturdy man with greying hair, striding towards them, as Kinloch Hold's resident Knight-Commander.

Beside him, Flora crouched, eyes wide. She had seen the Templars use their silencing magic on mages before, but had never experienced it herself. It felt as though someone had plunged a bag over her head and held it there – a sudden, suffocating sensation. Her mouth and hands had gone completely numb, like they'd been immersed in ice.

As Flora hunched on the floor, Morrigan peered back around the door with unamused amber eyes flashing.

"Are these idiots under control?" she murmured, mostly for the benefit of the approaching Knight-Commander Greagoir. He shot her a dark glare, instantly recognising her as an apostate. Noting Alistair's mail and not remembering his accompaniment of Duncan the precious month, a grim-faced Greagoir directed his speech to whom he believed was a fellow Templar.

"How has the message reached Denerim so quickly?" he demanded, while Alistair reached down and helped Flora scramble to her feet.

"I'm not a Templar," said Alistair, while Flora swallowed and blinked, feeling gradually returning to her tingling fingers. "We're from the Grey Wardens."

"I'm not," interjected Morrigan, casting an acerbic glance at the huddled Templars.

Greagoir paused, staring at them both. Finally, he sheathed his sword and shook his head. His gaze moved from Alistair to Flora, who was experimentally sparking pale gold energy between her fingertips.

"The lad who came with Duncan," he said heavily, shoulders hunching. "And the lass they recruited. I remember you. I thought you'd all been killed."

Flora lowered her hands and stepped forward. She stared at the wounded Templars, who looked back up at her with shadowed eyes, blood soaking through their linen bandages. Kneeling beside one too weak to protest, she carefully peeled back his bandage and gazed at the cut. It was not large, but pulsed with fresh gouts of blood.

"Maleficar wounds," muttered Greagoir, looking as though he had aged a decade since the last time they had seen them. "Won't stop bleeding."

"We'll see," murmured Flora, inhaling in preparation.

"What happened here?" Alistair asked, his attention caught by the double doors that led away from the foyer into the main passage on the ground floor. As usual, they had been sealed with Templar bindings, but the glowing runes were joined by additional marks of protection, layer upon layer. Greagoir let out a heavy sigh, casting a suspicious glance at Flora as golden healing mist rose from her fingertips.

"One of the Circle mages we sent to Ostagar, Uldred. He returned, tried to convince Irving to support General Mac Tir."

Alistair felt the usual bitter lurch of rage that he experienced whenever someone mentioned Loghain's name. He glanced over at Flora, who was now attending to a second man's lacerated arm. She raised her eyes to him, even as she exhaled over the ragged wound.

"Do you know this Uldred?"

Flora frowned, the name sounding vaguely familiar. The Templar commander sighed, pacing back and forth.

"Blood magic..! Maleficarum have taken over the Tower. The sickness spreads like wildfire; there is no stopping it."

"Was this Uldred a blood mage?" asked Alistair, as Flora clambered to her feet, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. From the door, Morrigan rolled her eyes while shaking her head.

"Only a fool allows magic to control him. These weak-minded simpletons simply cannot resist the temptation of power, can they?"

"He's an abomination," murmured Greagoir, slumping down onto the wooden bench beside the empty grate. "Maker knows what's happening up there now. I have failed in my duty to protect the Circle."

He gave a defeated shrug, seeming more the old man than the Templar now. "I am left with no choice."

"No choice but to do what?" asked Flora, who had gone a shade more pallid, the freckles dotted across her nose standing out against her skin. Greagoir hunched his shoulders, lowering his helm to the flagstones.

"To send to Denerim for additional troops. To perform the Rite of Annulment."

Alistair, who knew full-well what the ritual meant, grimaced reflexively. Flora glanced at him, then over her shoulder at Morrigan. The dark-haired woman gave a faint shrug, raising an artfully plucked brow.

"No, I have no idea either. This particular ritual is unknown to me."

"Everyone in the tower will be purged," murmured Alistair, his voice heavy. "The Circle will be closed down."

Flora stared at him in horror. Although she had never felt accepted at Kinloch Hold, it had been somewhat of a home to her for the past four years. She thought about the young apprentices, the dozens of men and women who studied and strived to master their own natures.

"But there might be survivors in there," she said, her eyes widening. "Is the First Enchanter dead too?"

She remembered that Irving had given her a travel cloak from his own wardrobe when she had left with Duncan. Greagoir gave a helpless shrug.

"We have sealed the doors. I do not know if anyone still lives. We cannot allow any blood mages nor demons to escape."

"There goes our Circle mages," muttered Alistair bleakly, thinking of the treaties tucked inside Flora's shirt.

"Ah, well," said Morrigan brightly, shaking her head. "Then, 'tis off to the dwarves? At least they, poor creatures, are at no risk of becoming abominations."

"Can we just go and see if the First Enchanter is still alive?" asked Flora impulsively, as the witch shot her an appalled look.

"Surely you jest?"

"If he's still alive, and we kill the demon, will you cancel the Annulment?" Flora continued, even as her rational mind protested. Greagoir stared at her, bristled eyebrows shooting towards the vaulted ceiling.

"I cannot allow it," he said after a moment, glancing towards the iron-clad doors leading to the main passage. "It is too dangerous. I've had to seal my own men inside."

Flora reached into her tunic, brandished the treaties in her fist.

"We have the right to seek aid from the First Enchanter of the Fereldan Circle," she said, eyeing him. "Whether he's drinking tea in his office or- or fighting off a dozen abominations. You can't deny us access."

Greagoir sighed, eyeing her.

"You're a stubborn lass, aren't you? My lieutenant always had a soft spot for you, poor sod. Maker knows if he still lives."

"What? So you'll let us in?" Flora asked, as Morrigan gave a laugh of disbelief. Greagoir groaned for a moment, then nodded.

"I cannot allow you back out if I let you through the barrier. Not unless- the situation is resolved. And if the Templar order arrives to perform the Annulment…"

Flora nodded impatiently, sliding her staff from her shoulder and grasping it lightly in her hand.

"I understand."

As they headed to the iron-clad doors, Greagoir glanced over at Alistair, who already had his sword and shield in hand.

"You do understand that the Tower is swarming with Maleficarum and demons?" the Templar commander clarified, incredulity running through his tone.

Alistair nodded, watching the greying soldier take out a vast bunch of keys and begin the arduous process of unsealing the door.

"I'd go happily into the Archdemon's lair if she was with me," he murmured, hazel eyes settling on the back of Flora's head.

Flora smiled sideways at him while Morrigan rolled her eyes, watching the commander step back from the doors. There was an ominous and dense silence from behind them, the oppressive hum of excessive magic in the air.

"I'd rather have an army or two," the hedge witch observed acerbically. "Still, it is not as if any man made building can hold me. Do not expect me to linger if we are surrounded."

Greagoir shook his head, stepping back with a sigh.

"Good luck," he muttered, the keys poised in his hand. "Maker watch over you."

As soon as they stepped through, the Templar commander shut the doors behind them. Immediately they heard the locks being turned, one after the other, and the energised hum of a barrier. Then they were left alone in the dark passage.

"Abominations, maleficar and demons, oh my," murmured Alistair.


	26. Broken Circle

 

"You know, I thought you had more sense than the simpleton," muttered Morrigan to Flora as they headed down the silent passage. "I simply fail to understand why we persist here. Surely 'tis best to forget the mages and head for Orzammar?"

The small receiving rooms off to one side stood open and empty. Flora remembered how she had been brought to one of these chambers to be first given her apprentice garb by a stern-faced Templar, who was indifferent to her frightened tears.

"Most people here aren't like me," she whispered, peering tentatively around each doorway to confirm the room's emptiness. "They're very skilled. I'm sure some have survived."

Alistair glanced over his shoulder at her, but said nothing, lips folded tightly together.

The corridor was eerily quiet; with no sign of activity save for a mouse scuttling beside the wall. The passage curved around until it ended in a spiralling stone staircase. Flora stared at Alistair, who gave a half-nod. Sword in hand, he ventured up the twisting stone steps, with a nervous Flora on his heels. Morrigan sauntered several paces behind them, an artfully arranged bored expression on her face.

Opening the doors to the next floor revealed a very different scene. These were the apprentice dormitories, where Flora had spent most of her four years at Kinloch. The chamber doors were either charred or fractured in two. The signs of short, vicious assault lay everywhere; from toppled bunk beds to blasted books, their fragmented pages scattered like confetti. In the distance, beyond the curve of the stone passage, quiet sobs were barely audible. They could faintly hear a woman's voice, soft and reassuring.

Flora clenched her fingers more tightly around her staff to stop them from trembling, a hard knot of fear pulsing in her stomach.  _This was your idea, Flora,_ she told herself firmly, feeling the reassuring pressure of the gold ring on her little finger.  _Keep your focus. Find the First Enchanter._

As they advanced towards the noise, Alistair drew his sword, pale-faced Despite his Templar training, he had never witnessed an full-blown abomination first-hand, only in simulated practise. Even Connor had only been in the first stages of possession and still retained his human form. Just behind him, Flora raised her staff, wondering whether she was going to be sick.

After rounding the corridor, they came out into a wider stone chamber. This had once been a classroom; the location of many of Flora's failures as instructor after instructor berated her for her lack of ability

Now it appeared more a field hospital than a place of learning. Apprentices of all ages were leaning against stone pillars, some injured and all terrified. Many were weeping quietly. A pretty junior instructor with a burn disfiguring her cheek was trying to soothe several frightened children, huddled in a small group beside a large stone bust. An older woman with a handsome, imperious face was channelling energy into a shifting purple barrier that guarded the passage beyond. Despite several ominous stains marking her pale blue robes, she herself appeared uninjured.

Alistair had faltered on seeing the children, lowering the sword. The young instructor saw him, caught sight of the Templar insignia on his breastplate, and let out a cry of warning.

"Hold! Hold, please!"

The older woman whirled around, raising her staff. The children huddled together more closely, cringing in terror.

"They think us Templars? I am insulted."

Morrigan raised her eyebrows, wandering several feet away to inspect the contents of a half-gutted bookshelf.

The old woman stared at them, her brow furrowing in recognition. Slowly, she lowered her staff, exhaling unsteadily.

"The Grey Warden." She let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. "Wynne, senior enchanter. And I'm afraid you'll not use your treaties here, at least not yet. The Circle has been fractured."

Flora stepped forward, turning appalled eyes at the cringing children. She recognised the woman as one of the senior enchanters who had been present at her Harrowing, who had also witnessed Jowan's desperate folly.

The older woman cast a look at Morrigan and raised an eyebrow, then shifted her penetrative green gaze to Flora, eyebrows rising.

"Of course, you went off with the Wardens, too. Fiona, correct?"

"Flora," mumbled Flora in a small voice, eyeing the shifting purple shield barring the stone passage beyond. "Is- is everyone dead?"

Wynne shook her head, then sighed. Her initial denial became a shrug of uncertainty.

"I know not. Uldred has gone mad; he has spread his poison unchecked on the upper floors. Many have become Maleficarum, more still are abominations. He is summoning something… _horrific._ "

"These idiotic humans," murmured Morrigan, tucking one book into her leather satchel. "Always lusting for power, never understanding that it comes with a price."

"The Templars have sent to Denerim," said Alistair, his voice hollow. "They seek to perform the Rite of Annulment."

Wynne groaned, raising a hand to her head. The young instructor, also knowing what this meant, broke into fresh tears. The children stared up at her in confusion.

"I had feared as much," Wynne breathed. "Still, all is not lost. The Circle is fractured, but not wholly broken. I believe Irving still lives, as Uldred's prisoner."

"If we find the First Enchanter still alive, will they cancel the Rite?" asked Flora, grasping at this small chance like a drowning man clinging to an oar. Wynne thought for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"Despite his position, Greagoir is a reasonable man. He and Irving may not have always seen eye to eye, but they respect one another. It is worth a try."

Flora glanced up at Alistair. He was already looking to her, with a helpless shrug.

"Flo, this is more your area. What do you think?"

"We have to try," Flora replied immediately, although her throat constricted in fear around the words as they came out. Alistair, who knew her response even before she had given it, nodded slightly.

"Why do we always end up fighting our way up through towers full of things that shouldn't be there?" he drawled, making casual reference to Ishal, and Flora half-smiled at him. Morrigan rolled her eyes, sliding another book into her satchel.

Wynne raised her staff to the barrier, preparing to lower it. The young instructor blinked, her eyes widening with confusion.

"Surely you aren't planning on accompanying them, senior enchanter?" the woman breathed, appalled. "You're injured. I saw you fall- you need to rest!"

The older women gave an imperious shake of the head, as the violet light began to flicker and fade.

"I'll not stay here if I can be of use, Petra. You must remain with the others and defend the children."

Petra shook her head, her cheekbone raw and ravaged from the disfiguring burn. Wynne continued to channel energy from the barrier back into her staff, the stone passage beyond coming into view.

"Please, watch over her," Petra implored Alistair as he stepped past her. "She's been badly hurt."

Despite the instructor's allegation of injury, Wynne seemed spritely enough as she strode forward into the passageway, gripping her staff. Behind them, Petra and the other mages raised the barrier once again.

"We need to get to the Harrowing floor," instructed Wynne, her eyes alight with grim purpose. The stone passage, although littered with debris and ominous stains, also appeared to be empty.

"Surely you should be resting, old woman?" enquired Morrigan, tilting her head with a clattering of beads. "We wouldn't want you to throw your back out."

Wynne shot her a dismissive glare. "My skills are honed by age and training – neither of which you possess, so I suggest you do not dismiss me so readily."

Alistair glanced up at the ceiling, exhaling. "How did I end up with  _three_  mages? Wherever He is, the Maker must be laughing His head off."

They advanced along the stone passage. Behind them the quiet sobbing of the children grew fainter, until the only sound were their own footsteps on the flagstones.

Suddenly Alistair paused, stopping abruptly before a doorway. Glancing over his shoulder, he made a silent gesture. Edging forward, quiet as possible, he peered around the edge of the stone. Almost immediately, a fireball the size of a melon blazed through the air towards him. He raised his Templar-runed shield before his face and the scorching missile broke apart on impact, flames licking the edges of his mail.

"Maleficarum!" Alistair hissed, although Wynne and Morrigan were already moving into position beside him.

There was a primal howl of rage from inside, quickly joined by two more. Three blood mages, the whites of their eyes saturated with scarlet and their bodies marked with self-mutilation, rushed towards them. Drunk on their own newfound power, they raised their daggers to perform more blood sacrifice. Several drained bodies lay at their feet.

Three against three, but one side was protected by Flora's gleaming, intangible shield. The fight was brutal and fast, escalating rapidly as the the remaining blood mage drew power from her fallen comrades. Finally she stood alone, her teeth stained red as her mouth hung open. The next moment she had raised a dagger and plunged it deep into the flesh of her own thigh.

Morrigan sent a arc of lightning towards her, the crackling energy seeking the weapon and wrenching it from the woman's blood-slick fingers. The maleficar let out a shriek of rage, her eyes flashing. Morrigan felt her legs give way from beneath her as her knee was sliced open, the slash too sudden to defend against. With a scream of pain, the witch fell. Flora, directing her staff towards Alistair to give him a sheath of light as he charged the blood mage, shot out her fingers desperately towards Morrigan.

_She's too far away._

_**It's only six feet.** _

_Too far!_

_**Reach.** _

Morrigan's expression changed, her eyes darting downwards as golden energy materialised around her wounded knee. At the same time, Alistair plunged his sword deep between the maleficar's ribs.

The room was suddenly very still. The three bloodied bodies of the maleficar lay sprawled across their victims. Suddenly Flora recognised one of the drained corpses as an elf apprentice whom she had shared a room with. Although they had never been good friends, they had both resided at the bottom of the Circle's social hierarchy – a Dalish and the fisherman's daughter from Herring – and formed an unlikely alliance.

Flora dropped her staff with a clatter, raising her previously outstretched hand to her mouth. Morrigan, whose wound was only half-sealed, looked up in irritation.

"Berena?"

Flora dropped to her knees, not minding the pooling blood – as a healer, she had seen her fair share of it. Trembling, she reached out and rolled the girl's slight figure over. The elf was stark white, her lips blue. There was no light in her half-open eyes.

"Berena?" said Flora again, rather stupidly. Logically, she knew that the girl was long dead; still, she bowed her head over the ravaged chest, the golden mist drifting from between her lips.

"Girl, a task has been left incomplete!" hissed Morrigan, enraged at seeing Flora tend to an exsanguinated corpse. Alistair shot her a sideways glare.

"I hope they sacrifice you next," he muttered, stepping forward. Wynne, although loathe to agree with the apostate, cleared her throat.

"Grieve later, Fiona," she said sharply, imperiousness marking her tone. "We must get to the top floor."

Removing his bloodied mail glove, Alistair put his hand on Flora's hunched shoulder.

"Flo," he murmured, too quietly for the others to hear. "I know it's hard. But we have a job to do."

Aware that he was repeating her own words, first used in the dark wake of Duncan's death, Flora turned to him. The corners of her eyes shone, and as a tear rolled down her nose, it gleamed golden.

Alistair caught it gently with a finger, and

it slid down towards his palm.

"My clever little sister," he murmured, eyeing the pink trail of healed skin through the callouses on his hand. "Come on, my dear."

"Tell your so-called  _clever little sister_  to come here and finish healing me!" snarled Morrigan, clutching her throbbing leg through the slit in her skirt. Flora shuffled across the tiles and knelt before the witch, breathing the healing energy onto the half-stitched wound.

Wynne had been keeping an eye out for any approaching maleficar, but grew distracted as she watched Flora's potent exhalation.

"You are talented," she murmured, academic interest ignited despite the circumstances. "I wish you'd come to my attention sooner. Regardless, we  _must not_ linger here."

They made their way towards the third floor stairs, only encountering a lone blood mage, half-insane and howling.

"Blood-drunk," murmured Wynne as a grim-faced Alistair withdrew his sword from the man's guts. "Such a waste; he was a promising young apprentice."

As they traversed the third floor passage, they came across a huddle of frightened mages who had barricaded themselves in the library behind a makeshift barrier of furniture. The distinctive ash piles that marked the demise of demons lay scattered before them.

Morrigan gave a nasty laugh as she eyed the piled tables and chairs, and the cringing instructors behind them.

"Why do you not at least create a magical defence?" she enquired, embers drifting from her fingers.

"We are exhausted!" retorted a male instructor indignantly, his face pale and haggard. "We have been defending ourselves from demons all night. They pour from the upper floors."

Then his expression changed as he saw Wynne.

"Senior enchanter! How is this possible? We… saw you fall."

"I was revived," snapped Wynne, glancing towards Flora. "Come, Fiona. You know how to perform the  _ritual of rejuvenation_ , correct?"

Seeing Flora gape in confusion, Alistair recalled the burst of revitalising energy she had given him when they were fighting the Darkspawn in the Wilds.

"She can. Flo, remember?"

Flora nodded, grasping Wynne's meaning. The old woman raised her staff, but then paused. Flora closed her eyes for a moment, moving her fingers subconsciously, silent and focused.

The mages behind the barrier visibly started, hunched backs straightening, the ends of their staves blazing to life. The man who had spoken let out a gasp, pupils wide and bright. Raising his own hands, a purple arcane barrier rose up around the makeshift barricade, potent and crackling with arcane energy.

"Thank you, senior enchanter," the man said, his tone distorted through the magic field.

Wynne shook her head, glancing sideways at Flora.

"It was not I, I cast no spell," she murmured, curious. "So you can perform rejuvenation with no staff or spoken word?"

Flora nodded glumly, self-conscious. She was sure that Wynne was about to give her a lecture on the danger of untrained, raw magic. Fortunately, an impatient Morrigan interrupted them.

"Yes, yes, she's a gifted healer," the woman snapped, amber eyes flashing. "Let's not forget that she is also utterly useless at any other sort of magic. It appears the task of actually  _killing_ the Archdemon will fall solely to the simpleton, which is unfortunate. Shall we move on?"

* * *

 

They reached the main chamber on the third floor without further incident. It had been here where Jowan had made his final stand, so desperate to escape that he had abandoned his alleged love and revealed himself as a Maleficar. Alistair remembered that Jowan lived still, trapped in the dungeons of Redcliffe Castle among the hordes of undead. He hoped that Bann Teagan had managed to hold the village.

To their surprise, the adjacent stockroom was still occupied. The Tranquil quartermaster, Owain, was sweeping shattered glass from the flagstones.

"Owain!" called out Wynne in disbelief, and the man looked up with an impassive expression.

"Senior enchanter." If Owain recognised Flora as the one who had once shielded him from Jowan's blade, he made no acknowledgement of her.

"Owain, why have you not tried to escape?" implored Wynne, appalled. "You could have been killed."

"I tried to leave but there was a magic barrier in place," the man replied placidly, resting the groom against the wall. "So I returned here to tidy up the stockroom. The mages left it in an awful state."

"The blood mages?"

"I do not believe so. Enchanter Niall led a group to confront Senior Enchanter Uldred. They sought- "

"The Litany of Adralla," breathed Wynne, her eyes lighting up in comprehension. "Of course: the only effective defence against blood magic mind control."

Alistair glanced at Flora, who gave a little shrug, not recognising the scroll. For a brief moment, she regretted spending more time in the kitchen than in the Circle's extensive libraries.

"Come on," snapped Wynne, heading towards the double doors leading to the next staircase. "If Niall has managed to break through, there may still be hope."

"Who put this old bat in charge?" muttered Morrigan, following in Alistair's wake.

The Tranquil picked up the broom again as they left, having spotted more shards of glass beneath a toppled table.

Two more blood mages attempted to ambush them as they emerged onto the fourth floor. Their daggers slid sideways on Flora's hastily cast barrier; Wynne set one alight with a fire spell of such potency that even Morrigan looked on with begrudging admiration. Knocking his shield into the other's face and sending him stumbling back, Alistair finished him cleanly with a thrust to the heart.

"I appreciate you giving them a clean death," murmured Wynne as they continued down the passageway. These had been the Templar quarters, but only the occasional body lay huddled on the flagstones. Then they heard a strange sound from one of the adjoining chambers. Drawing his sword once more, Alistair advanced- but then stopped abruptly in the doorway, gaping.

Within the room, which was bare except for a wooden bed and wardrobe, a creature stood. It was tall but had a woman's form, it's skin the pale blue hue of a drowned man. Clothed only in a strategically placed veil, with chains draped over its breasts, an artful, smiling face was topped with two curving horns.

"A desire demon," muttered Wynne as she raised her staff, entering the room with lifted chin.

"Morrigan, inspiration for your next outfit," murmured Alistair. Beside him, Flora snickered despite herself. Wynne cast them both a look of disbelief.

"Are the children ready to eat?"

It was not the demon who had spoken, but a man pressed against the wall behind it. He was of middle years, clad in the garb of a Templar. The blankness of his eyes revealed ensorcellment, as a rictus smile contorted his jaw.

"Yes, my darling. One moment; there's someone at the door."

The desire demon spoke, and although it's voice sounded ostensibly female, it had the same bestial echo as Connor Guerrin's.

The desire demon turned to face them, dark mauve lips curving up at either side.

"Surely you won't disturb us?" it said, it's strange tone echoing against the vaulted ceiling. "We are merely enjoying one another's company."

Flora stared, eyes wide. She had spent many nights ignoring the enticing pleas of demons in the Fade, but had never seen one manifest in the waking world. Alistair was still gaping, his own gaze averted to the ceiling.

"Let him go, demon!" called out Wynne, her fingers tightening their grip on her staff. The desire demon sighed, the temperature dropping several degrees.

"But he is  _so happy_. I've given him everywhere he ever wanted. A beautiful wife, loving children. Would you deprive a man of his dream, now that he finally has it?"

"It is a false dream you offer him," hissed Wynne, lowering the head of the staff to point at her. "Release him immediately!"

The demon turned back to the trapped Templar, it's face distorting into something hideous even while it's voice remained high and feminine.

"Please, help me, my love! It's bandits! Protect the children!"

The Templar drew his sword, face contorting.

"I will defend our family, my love!"

Alistair glanced helplessly at Wynne as he stepped forward, raising his own shield.

"Wake up, man!" he hissed, deflecting an angry blow. "You've been enchanted."

The bewitched soldier let out a strangled roar and lifted his sword again. Alistair groaned, reluctantly raising his own blade to counter the Templar's blow.

Meanwhile, the desire demon flew shrieking towards the three mages. The suddenness of the movement knocked a still shocked Flora to one side; she stumbled and tripped over a crumpled rug. Morrigan sent a blast of flame towards the demon, who deflected it with a flick of it's clawed hand, spawning several imps. Morrigan darted away from the squealing creatures, batting them off with her staff.

Wynne reached out a hand to haul Flora up, only to cry out in pain as the desire demon cast out a stinging cloud of miasma, the billowing dark smoke burning like acid. The older mage spun away, fighting snaking tendrils of poisonous mist as they sprung from the cloud.

The desire demon parted it's lips, jaw hanging down further than naturally possible, revealing a mouth clustered with long fangs. Seeing Alistair withdraw his blade grimly from the fallen Templar's neck, it let out a shriek of rage. Already knowing who to target, the creature lunged towards Flora, who was still sprawled on her back.

As the demon launched itself on top of her, Flora flung up her hands. The creature pressed against the still materialising barrier, caught within its golden mesh as it manifested. Tangled within the fine strands of energy, it let out a howl. Flora grimaced, turned her face away from the screaming demon, feeling the cold flagstones against her cheek. Hot panting breath, smelling of rancid meat, blew against her ear and she felt a wave of nausea deep in her belly.

She could hear Alistair calling her name frantically, then there was a crackle of energy, almost like electricity. The demon above her began to shriek, and the sound was so bone-chillingly hideous that Flora cringed and closed her eyes, only just keeping her hands held upwards. The demon shrieked and shrieked, there was the sound of blistering flesh and a horrid charred odour. Then there was a sudden silence and the force pressing against the shield evaporated.

A moment later she opened one eye tentatively, and saw Alistair hovering at the edge of the shield. He reached out a hand and spread it against the barrier, perplexed. The corpse of the Templar lay bleeding out several yards away, while all that remained of the demon was a pile of ash.

Wynne lowered her staff, breathing heavily, responsible for the blast of flame which had finally incinerated the demon and put it out of it's misery.

"Well, that explains how you passed your Harrowing so quickly," she said briskly, stepping over the remains of the demon. "Your magic may not hurt living creatures- "

"Or Darkspawn," interjected Morrigan helpfully.

"- but demons are highly susceptible to it. Fascinating," Wynne continued, raising her eyebrows. "I admit, it does perplex me. Anyway, let us continue."

Alistair reached out and helped a still shocked Flora to her feet.

"I bet it'll work on Archdemons too," he murmured in her ear, which was not the correct thing to say. Feeling her stomach lurch at the prospect of facing the dragon itself, Flora tottered after him with wide eyes.

As they progressed through the Templar quarters, more signs of the Tower's demonic possession began to manifest themselves. Pulsating red growths stretched across the walls and clung to stone busts, a stinking dark liquid began to ooze up from between the flagstones. Occasionally, the dismembered torsos of Templar would be caught within the mutated organic growth. Even Morrigan was struck into silence by the horror of it.

Wynne grew visibly angrier and angrier, her fingers white as they gripped her staff.

"This is the work of abominations," she breathed, stepping over a pulsating red mass. "Surely Uldred cannot still be in control of himself."

"Foolish mages, thinking you are so safe in your self-imposed imprisonment," mused Morrigan, cutting a sample of the mutated flesh and tucking it into her pack. "It only means you are trapped inside with the monsters."

Both Alistair and Flora were quiet, sharing the occasional appalled glance.

"How did it escalate so quickly?" Alistair asked as they headed around the curving passage towards the fifth floor stairway. Wynne sighed, shaking her head grimly.

"Uldred must have been converting the affected in secret over the past weeks. I know not when he became possessed; when the attacks started I was helping people into the caves below the Tower. Many still hide there."

"Until the Rite of Annulment- " started Alistair, then broke off with a frown. Beside the flight of steps leading to the fifth floor was an arcane cage. Unlike Wynne's purple barricade, the energy here was dark and shifting, unstable yet potent. A young man in Templar armour was hunched over inside, gauntleted hands clutching at curling blond hair.

As they approached, the man looked up frantically. He looked dreadful; face gaunt and eyes reddened. Flora thought that he seemed vaguely familiar, but it wasn't until Wynne exclaimed  _"Cullen!"_ that she recognised him as the Templar commander's lieutenant.

"Not  _her_  again!" the man groaned, his eyes moving past Wynne to settle on a staring Flora. "Why won't you leave me alone? Stop  _tormenting_  me!"

Alistair blinked at Flora, who gave a small shrug. Cullen glared at her, reddened eyes wild and menacing through the shadowed arcane shield. He struck the barrier with a fist and it gave an almost metallic chime, like the peak of a bell.

"Go away! I know  _she's_ dead! Stop trying to drive me mad with these visions of her."

"This cage- I can't dispel it," interjected Wynne, lowering her staff with a frown. "Poor boy, he must have been held here for days."

Flora gaped, looked at Wynne, then back at Cullen. She took a small step forward.

"Hello? I'm, ah, not dead," she said tentatively. Cullen eyeballed her beadily, his lip curling.

"I won't be fooled,  _demon_ ," the young Templar snarled, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "I know you're sent to shame me, tempting me with the one girl I could  _never have!_ You won't lead me into sin! The Maker has forgiven me my misguided lust."

Flora, now thoroughly confused, continued to blink at him.

"What? Are you sure you're not mistaking me for someone else?" she asked, tentatively. Morrigan, standing at the foot of the stairs, began to laugh in disbelief.

"Really?" she gasped through her cackles. "Oh, 'tis a jest, surely. This clumsy, untidy specimen?  _Her?!"_

"You didn't think I  _knew_  you kept sneaking up to the roof?!" snarled the desperate young Templar, face up against the shifting arcane bars. " _I knew_ but I didn't tell anyone! I covered for you when you stole food the kitchens! Wait- not you, her- "

He trailed off, looking confused. "Usually, the visions have gone away by now," he mumbled, dropping shadowed eyes to the floor. Wynne, seeing that Flora was still gaping unhelpfully, took pity on the boy.

"Young man, we are really here. We can help you. Hold on a little longer- "

"There's no use!" cried Cullen, eyes wide and staring. "It's too late. The Tower is lost, the Circle broken. Everything within must be purged."

Wynne sighed, turning her gaze from him.

"We will return for you," she said, forcing kindness into her voice. "Don't give up."

Morrigan, still laughing unkindly, followed the old woman up the stairway towards the top floor. Alistair, casting a curious look at the crouched Templar as they passed, put his mouth to Flora's ear.

"I bet he wouldn't have said no to some illicit hugging in the Potions cupboard with you," he murmured. Flora, already embarrassed, flushed a deeper shade of red.

"My dad gave me two pieces of advice when I was taken to the Circle," she mumbled back, climbing the stairs behind Morrigan. "Eat well, and stay away from boys."

At the top of the stairs, before the pair of double doors that led to the uppermost floor, Wynne waited for them to catch up. She eyed Flora, curiously.

"Are you hurt? You appear to be limping."

"I'm fine," Flora replied, shaking her head. The morning's ride, combined with multiple flights of steps, was causing her knee to throb dully. Wynne raised her eyebrows, before sweeping her gaze over the rest of the party.

"Ready? I assume we will face Uldred – or the abomination he has become – within."

She pushed open the doors and, weapons raised, the party advanced into the Harrowing Chamber.

Flora had been here only once before, whereas Wynne was intimately familiar with every inch of the ritual room. Yet the space resembled nothing like what either of them remembered. More of the pulsating growths lined the room, even spanning the glass ceiling above. Several mages were trapped within fleshy prisons, some unconscious and others moaning softly.

There was no sign of Uldred, but a vast and terrible creature stood in the centre of a summoning circle, facing them. It was a demon of some sort, tall and spider-limbed, with a vaguely humanoid face half covered with pulsating strands of flesh. When it spoke, it almost appeared to gurgle, the vowels and consonants blurring together languidly. A dark haired man's corpse lay slumped at its feet.

Behind them, the double doors slammed and then sealed together tightly.

"More guests come to join the party?" the demon slurred, reaching out a clawed hand. "I'm afraid entertaining… is so….much….  _effort._ Everything in this world is so….  _exhausting_. Don't you agree?"

Wynne blinked, slowly lowering her staff.

"Now that you mention it, I do feel rather tired," she murmured, stopping short in the doorway. Morrigan, hovering beside her, shot her a scornful look.

"Old woman, you've clearly run out of energy," she commented spitefully, then seemed almost surprised as she too gave a loud yawn. "But I admit, all this adventuring business- 'tis most exhausting."

Flora stared at Morrigan in disbelief, then her head snapped around as Alistair – for the first time in their shared travels – agreed with Morrigan.

"Just a quick nap, Flo," he muttered, sheathing his sword and yawning widely. Flora gaped at him, then jumped in alarm as Wynne slumped to the floor before her. A moment later Morrigan followed suit, her staff falling from her hand with a clatter. She heard the demon's strange dissonant laughter, sounding like water gurgling down a drain.

"Alistair!" she breathed, grabbing his elbow. "Stay awake!"

He smiled at her, hand clumsily reaching for hers.

"Don't worry, we have the fish rope," he mumbled, before crashing to the flagstones with a metallic thud, his fingers wrenched away.

Flora gaped down at him, then backed up against the sealed door, raising her hands. The golden shield rose around her even as she felt a great exhaustion seeping into the back of her head, tiredness bleeding into her brain. The demon had stopped laughing now, it's tone perturbed.

"It is so…much…. _effort_ to resist," it drawled through it's flesh muffled mouth. "Why bother? You…deserve a rest."

Flora shook her head, unable to stifle a yawn.

"I-I don't want to," she whispered, the pale yellow shield flickering around her. She could feel the waves of the Veil licking around her feet, as they always had; she had been running from the incoming tide of the Fade since she was a child and it was second nature for her to ignore its constant pull.

The demon's spell caused a different kind of weariness, a muffled feeling of suffocation that crept into her ears and probed gently but insistently at her mind.

**_Don't let it force you there._ **

**_Let the tide bring you through the Veil._ **

**_Enter the Fade on your own terms._ **

The last memory she had was of the creature's hideous face contorting into a repulsive smile as it watched her slump to the flagstones. Then the chamber receded into the shadows and the tide rose up to claim her, waves crashing over her head as she slipped beneath the Veil.


	27. Don't Breathe! You're in the Fade!

Chapter 27: Don't Breathe, You're In The Fade!

" _You've been asleep a long time," a low, familiar voice said gently in her ear, a kind hand on her shoulder. "I'm not surprised, after last night's celebrations."_

_Flora, still with her eyes closed, grimaced. She was embarrassed that she had slept in so late that the Warden-Commander himself had needed to come and wake her._

_When she opened her eyes, she was sprawled flat on her back on white marble flagstones. Duncan was smiling down at her, the lines around his mouth creasing affectionately._

" _The crowds want to congratulate us. They've travelled all the way to Weisshaupt. Come on, my young sister."_

_Flora clambered to her feet, smoothing down her blue and silver tunic. They were in a vast marble hall, the vaulted ceiling one hundred feet above their heads. Last night's revelries still surrounded them, banquet tables toppled, sleeping men and women clutching empty bottles. Memories came flooding back to her – the dancing, the music. Voices raised in song, long into the night. She beamed, then stretched her arms above her head with a wide yawn._

" _Come on," smiled Duncan, nodding at her. "It's not every day that a Blight is ended, it's been two hundred years since the last one. You don't want to miss your own parade because of a sore head."_

_Flora frowned, eyeing him. Her smile faded slightly._

" _You mean four hundred years," she said, her brow creasing. "You told me on our way to Ostagar. It's been four hundred years since the Fourth Blight. I remember because then Alistair said it would take me four hundred years to learn to ride a horse properly."_

**Good girl.**

_Duncan continued to nod at her, his smile unwavering. "We both had a little too much to drink last night, I think!"_

_Flora scowled at him, stopping beside an upended banquet table, her gaze sharpening._

" _But I wouldn't be hungover," she pointed out, with a glower. "I'm a glutton, not a sot. I'd have overeaten."_

_She looked down at her tunic. The blue and silver stripes were not just crumpled, they were running wildly into each other, jagged and uneven. Flora gave an exasperated grunt, as Duncan eyed her._

**Really?**

" _Really?" she asked, looking up. The clouds of the Fade were growing increasingly visible through the marble vaulted ceiling, which was starting to crumble with every question she asked. A large chunk of stone fell to the ground, crushing a banquet table, which then burst into flame._

" _And that's not how tables work!" Flora hissed, backing away from the Duncan-apparition. It was looking less and less like Duncan every second, the cheeks falling inwards to cling to hollow bone, the eyes gleaming like shining black stones. Flora raised her hands, backing away. The Duncan-figure moved towards her very suddenly, faster than any human, reaching out hands more skeletal than flesh._

**Remember Wynne's words!**

_Flora reached out and clamped her fingers over the creature's sunken face as it lunged for her. Immediately there was a horrific sizzling noise and the creature howled. The golden energy sprung forth from her fingers, sinking into the beast's pallid skin and absorbing into its borrowed flesh. It lurched backwards, yellow light streaming from its cavernous eyes and sunken nostrils, letting out a thin wail of rage. Flora retreated, feeling crumbling stone against her back. The creature took a faltering step forward, then collapsed suddenly. Only Duncan's silverite breastplate was left. The vast fortress had melted away, revealing only crumbled grey stone ruins. Above, the familiar green storm clouds of the Fade roiled and rumbled._

" _And I hate lots of people looking at me," Flora muttered, crouching to place her palm against the engraved griffons on the breastplate as she felt a lurch of sadness. "I'd never want a parade."_

_Straightening, she tilted her face up towards the thundering sky. In the far distance, the floating silhouette of the Black City was faintly visible, suspended in the ether._

" _Well done," said a thin voice by her foot. Flora startled, then looked down. It was a mouse, small and grey. She eyed it suspiciously, recalling her own Harrowing._

" _You're not a demon, are you?"_

" _No," said the mouse as she peered down at it. "I was trapped here by the sloth demon, just like you. It trapped you in this apparition."_

_It began to scamper alongside her as she strode through the decrepit remains of the fortress, which now partially resembled Ostagar. The Tower of Ishal, half-built, loomed off in the distance, mirrored by the Circle Tower on the other side. Flora rolled her eyes, gesturing down at her asymmetrical tunic._

" _It hasn't done a very good job. What is this place meant to be?"_

" _You didn't arrive in the same way as the others did," the mouse said, as she skirted a large chunk of masonry. "It didn't have full access to your memories."_

_Flora snorted, gesturing to the banners and pennants which fluttered from crumbling pillars and archways. The heraldry depicted was of a pale green laurel on a navy background, a large C embroidered beneath it._

" _I mean, everyone knows that the Warden symbol is a griffon," she said scornfully, coming to the edge of the fortress-island and peering down into the miasma. "Where are the others?"_

_The mouse looked out at several other rocky outcrops which hung suspended in the void._

" _They've been trapped here too, by the sloth demon. That's his home, over there."_

_The mouse gestured with a tiny grey paw over to a central island, about a hundred yards away. Flora squinted over at it, frowning._

" _You might be able to defeat it," said the mouse, hopefully. "You didn't arrive here like I and the others did. You have your staff."_

_Flora reached behind her and found that her staff was indeed hanging across her back. She glanced down at the mouse, curiously._

" _Who are you?"_

" _I'm Niall," said the mouse, glumly. "I tried to defeat Uldred. He's responsible for all this, you know."_

" _He summoned the sloth demon?" asked Flora, putting her staff down and lowering herself to the edge of the cliff. She eased herself onto her stomach and peered down into the void. The mouse nodded._

" _And now he's an abomination, and he's turning everyone else into one too. I thought getting the Litany might help, but I didn't even get a chance to use it."_

_The mouse let out a small sigh._

" _I thought this was my opportunity for greatness, to save the life of the First Enchanter."_

" _Is the First Enchanter dead?" asked Flora, sitting upright on the edge of the ledge. The mouse paused, then shook it's head._

" _I don't think so. He's been able to resist so far. Probably not for much longer."_

_Flora thought for a moment, squinting out towards the sloth demon's island. The gulf between her fortress-island and the demon's home loomed vast and formidable, with no discernible bridge._

" _Right, I need to kill the demon, then," she said, using her staff to propel herself to her feet. "How do I get across there?"_

_The mouse let out a small squeak of disbelief._

" _Don't you think I haven't tried? I've been here for days. There's no way. We're both trapped here!"_

_Flora frowned down at the small creature._

" _Don't be defeatist," she lectured, sternly._

**You're here on your own terms, remember.**

" _This is my dream as much as it is the demon's."_

_She lifted her staff, wincing as she felt the two halves of wood shift slightly. The mouse eyed her with suspicion._

" _Is your weapon broken?"_

" _No!" she lied, squinting across at the central island. The mouse leapt onto the base of the plain wooden staff, then clambered up the length of it until it reached Flemeth's magical bond._

" _Fine, it's a little broken," conceded Flora as the mouse let out a squeak of disbelief. "But it'll be fine."_

_The former mage climbed onto her shoulder as she held the staff out experimentally over the void._

**Nothing is real here.**

**Shape your own dreams.**

_The golden barrier emerged from the top of her staff, shimmering out into a flat expanse at her feet. The mist lapped over it, washing over the path like water._

_Experimentally, she leaned out and tapped the gleaming barrier with her staff._

_The wooden pole went straight through the golden mist, swinging into the void below. Flora blinked at it, as did the mouse._

" _I thought that would work," she said, perturbed. The mouse paused for a moment, tilting its head as if listening. For a moment, there was no sound except the soft rush of ethereal winds._

" _You need to have faith in your own abilities," Niall said in her ear, as she withdrew her staff. "You doubt yourself."_

_Flora let out a sigh, gazing down at the shifting clouds below. Idly, she wondered if there was even a bottom to splatter against, or if she would just fall forever._

" _Fine," she muttered, extending her staff once more. "Let's try it. Flora, you one trick pony, you've had plenty of practise at this."_

_For a second time, the golden barrier sprung forward at her feet. The mist rolled over it, like seawater lapping over a shallow causeway, shifting and intangible._

_Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, Flora took a step out onto the barrier. It felt like stone beneath her feet, the golden mists rolling around her ankles. Realising that she was not plummeting to her death, she opened her eyes._

" _Ha!" she said to herself in triumph, then took another step, her staff conjuring more gleaming barrier before her._

_Suddenly, there was a great groaning of stone from over her shoulder. Behind her, the Tower of Ishal was beginning to crumble, vast chunks of stone falling to the dusty ground._

" _It knows something's wrong!" hissed the mouse in her ear. "Quickly!"_

_Flora held the staff before her and began to run, the gleaming barrier materialising under her feet. The golden span arched ahead, towards the sloth demon's island, collapsing into the miasma of the Fade in her wake._

_A high stone wall rose up before her as she neared the rocky shore, she continued to run towards it desperately._

**Nothing is real!**

_As her feet met the solid stone, she swung the staff blindly to the side. The wall exploded to the left, chunks of masonry and cement swept away as if by some great, relentless wind._

_At the centre of a rocky clearing, the sloth demon reclined in a pool of foul-smelling, oily water. It's true form was not the half-twisted magister from the Harrowing Chamber, but a vast shapeless mass of pustular flesh. Boils and throbbing corpuscular vessels covered sweating skin; the only features visible were a small, puckered mouth and a single, lazy eye._

_Flora stopped at the edge of the stagnant pool and gagged at the smell, clapping a hand over her mouth. On her shoulder, the mouse gave a squeak of disgust._

" _Why…. bother fighting it?" murmured the demon, focusing it's lone eye on her. "I tried…to make you happy. Why not….just be content?"_

" _With a parade?!" Flora demanded, her voice muffled through her fingers. "And this weird outfit? You didn't read my memories well at all if there's no fish present in my Fade-dream."_

_The demon opened its mouth to speak and she shook her head, taking a deep breath and stepping forwards into the knee-deep water. The stench rolled up into her nostrils and she almost retched._

" _I haven't come here to speak, anyway" she mumbled, as the creature shuddered. "I don't negotiate - with demons. Ugh."_

_Two pus-covered tendrils emerged from the demon's form, but she easily avoided their flaccid flailing, advancing._

" _What's the plan?" muttered the mouse in her ear and she shook her head._

" _Improvisation?"_

_As Niall let out a squeak of disbelief, the clouds above began to boil, lightning sparking within their midst. The demon inched backwards in the rancid pool, unable to retreat._

" _I can give you….what you want," it tried, in a deep gurgle. "Just let me….try again. You'll never know any different."_

_Flora raised her hands, eyes streaming from the smell._

" _I've said no to demons all my life," she hissed, the golden mist beginning to rise from her fingertips. "I'm not saying yes to you. Oh, you do smell awful."_

_She slapped her hands on the demon's face, her fingers sinking into greasy, spongelike flesh. The demon began to howl, the tendrils flapping more energetically. One of them hit her in the back of her head and she fell forward against the shapeless mass, except this only caused the golden energy to absorb more deeply. Pale light surged along blackened vessels, purifying pustule-ridden flesh, searing the open wounds. Seeping mucus was burnt away, and the stagnant water around them began to evaporate. As the demon howled, it was engulfed in a shifting mass of golden light, it's cries fading away._

_Flora, who found herself on her hands and knees in a burnt-out crater, blinked. Her hair and clothing was drenched in foul matter, but all that was left of the demon was a tiny, maggoty pink thing. It squirmed and wriggled on the dusty earth._

_She reached up to her shoulder, found the mouse clinging there. Lifting Niall down, she sat back and exhaled. She could feel greasy liquid from her hair rolling down the back of her neck._

" _Well, that's put me off my dinner," she muttered, as the mouse stared at the squirming grub._

_There was a sudden hum of energy, and the shape of the mouse shifted and elongated, stretching outwards and upwards. Flora gazed up at a sad-eyed dark-haired man in the maroon robe of an instructor._

" _Niall?" she said, stupidly. He nodded, his features somewhat blurred._

" _Now I can see you properly," he murmured, in a voice that seemed indistinct. "But I don't recognise you."_

" _I was only an apprentice at the Tower," Flora replied, staring up at him. He nodded, the movement strangely jerky._

" _You've done a good job, initiate," Niall replied, softly. "When you return to the waking world, take the Litany and use it to defeat Uldred."_

" _But you're coming back too," Flora said, her brow furrowed in confusion. The man smiled, but his eyes were shadowed and sad._

" _I cannot return to my body, it is drained and there is no life left in it. I have been too long in the Fade; I must remain here."_

_Flora shook her head mutely, her own eyes wide._

" _I could try and heal you," she whispered, but Niall only let out a sigh. The arcane winds whistled around the edge of the crater, while the demon squirmed helplessly at their feet._

" _It is too late for that. Please – could you return my amulet to my mother? She lives in Redcliffe. And tell her…"_

_Here he broke off, gave a bitter laugh, shrugged. "I don't know. She thought I was destined for great things. Tell her I died trying to stop this demon."_

_Flora stared at him, then scrambled to her feet, retrieving her staff from where she had dropped it._

" _I'll tell her you died killing this demon," she said, firmly He stared at her and she smiled at him, nudging the pink maggoty thing with the bottom of her staff._

" _Go on."_

" _Thank you, apprentice," the man breathed finally, returning her smile._

_Flora nodded, clutching the staff tightly and feeling her heart thudding against her ribs._

_With a deep breath, as if knowing it would be his last, Niall raised his foot. His brown eyes met Flora's wide grey gaze, and then he brought his foot down hard on the twitching pink maggot._

_Immediately there was a great crashing noise, and the edges of the island began to blur. A swirling mass of energy erupted in the sky overhead and Flora felt herself sliding as the world tilted beneath her feet. Niall's face distorted and then elongated, swept away by a great surge of arcane energy. The last she heard was his voice, disappearing into the unknown depths of the Fade._

" _Remember the Litany!"_

_She felt herself falling as the ground gave way beneath her, and then there was only darkness._

* * *

 

The first thing she slowly became aware of was the stone floor, cold against her cheek. The then she became aware of someone heaving out dry sobs of fear, somewhere behind her.

"Is she awake- Fiona? Fiona!" This came from a different source and the voice was that of an old man, hoarse and desperate.

Flora opened her eyes, grimaced. The light was dazzling, and it took her a few moments to get her vision back.

" _Fiona_! You need to wake the others."

Swallowing, Flora looked around. She was sprawled on the flagstones of the Harrowing Chamber. The fleshy growths across the walls had shrivelled, dried and leathery. There were still several senior mages caught beneath them, too weak to struggle. One of them she recognised as the First Enchanter.

Blinking, she sat up. Her staff was beside her, along with the motionless bodies of Morrigan, Wynne and Alistair. Several yards away lay the corpse of the demon, charred and blackened, as if burnt from the inside. Flora stared at it, then saw another body lying beside the pedestal. It was the limp form of a dark-haired man, in a torn maroon robe.

Her attention was diverted by Wynne, mumbling and stirring. As if awakening from a restful sleep, the others gradually returned to consciousness.

"Wynne!" hissed the First Enchanter as he saw his colleague and friend lift a hand to her head. "Wynne, rouse yourself, for the love of the Maker!"

"How much did I have to drink last night?" complained Alistair, blinking hard several times. "Or did Morrigan beat me into unconsciousness?"

"As much as I'd love it if that were the case, 'tis untrue," muttered the dark-haired witch, clambering to her feet. Unlike the others, she seemed to immediately comprehend what had happened. Her amber eyes went to the demon's charred corpse, to Flora's staff in her hand.

"The demon may be dead," she said briskly, shooting Flora a begrudging glance of respect. "But the fool who summoned it still lives. Where is he?"

"In the antechamber," Irving replied, gesturing with his free arm to a small door on the eastern side of the Chamber. "He is using the lyrium to assist with the… conversions."

Wynne climbed to her feet, hurrying to Irving.

"Are you alright?" she began, but he cut her off with a brisk shake of the head.

"There is no time! You must kill Uldred."

"Flo? What happened?" asked Alistair, plaintively, the only non-mage present and thoroughly confused.

Flora grimaced at her Warden-brother, crawling over to Niall's body and rummaging around in the pockets of his robe.

"I'll explain everything later, I promise," she mumbled, finally locating a small unbound scroll. As she thrust it into the air, Wynne stared, her eyes lighting up.

"The Litany of Adralla!" the old woman breathed, hurrying across the stone chamber to snatch it from Flora's outstretched hand. "Come, child. We have not a moment to lose."

As they gathered before the door, they could hear strange noises on the other side of the enchanted wood; low growls and the soft, wet thudding of a heartbeat. Wynne handed Flora the scroll, readying her own magister's staff.

"When I say, read aloud the incantation," she murmured, pale blue eyes alert and focused. Flora gaped at her, shaking her head.

"I can't! I can't read," she bleated, and Wynne shot her an incredulous look.

Morrigan stepped forward, plucking the scroll from the old woman's extended fingers.

"I'll do it," she hissed, with an impatient wave of her hand. Wynne nodded, then glanced over at Alistair.

"Ready?"

Alistair, a deep frown creasing his forehead, nodded mutely.

"Someone had better explain all this to me afterwards," he complained, raising his shield.

They opened the door into the antechamber. Almost as large as the Harrowing Chamber, the hexagonal space was windowless, lined only with ceiling-height shelves of lyrium. Three abominations were huddled in the centre of the room, their scaled hands reaching towards a half-mutated mass of flesh. The central one, tall and bestial, had the remnants of a senior enchanter's robe clinging to its pulsating flesh.

" _Uldred!"_ shouted Wynne, and there was a deep betrayal in her voice. "You monster!  _What have you wrought?!"_

The tallest abomination turned around, and spoke in mangled tones, the words seeming to crawl across the flagstones like insects.

"Join us, Wynne. So much  _power_ – I do not understand why they try and resist?"

"Your demon ally lies dead, Uldred," hissed the old woman, her blue eyes alight with righteous fire. "Now it is your turn to pay for your heinous crimes."

The abomination let out a gurgling cackle, before raising clawed hands and sending a wall of demonic fire blazing across the chamber.

" _Fiona!"_ shouted the old woman. "Now, witch!"

Flora stepped forward with her staff raised, feeling the blistering heat for a split-second before the gleaming barrier manifested. The flames flickered and died, as if suddenly submerged by water.

Morrigan dropped her eyes to the scroll and began to recite, a slight tremor to her voice.

" _Matheris senet; leyannen senet; feymora senet."_

From somewhere far away, a bell let out a faint chime.

The two abominations flanking Uldred let out tortured howls, contorting in agony. Alistair glanced around at a scowling Flora, who gazed back at him.

"Go," she whispered, her eyes searching his face. He nodded, then raised his sword and set his face towards the cause of all the Tower's troubles.

"For the Wardens!" he yelled, charging across the blood-slick floor. The abomination sent a seething cloud of miasma in his direction, Alistair hurtled towards it. A golden shield, like the prow of a ship, sprang up before him. The poisonous cloud disintegrated before it, as did the beast's last desperate attempt to conjure a barrier of flame.

" _Mhenrth bareth; senet leghryn; thi'leth senet."_

A gout of flame sprang from Wynne's staff, engulfing one of the lesser abominations. The words of the Litany wrapped around the other, causing it to scream out in pain.

Using his shield to block a lashing blow from Uldred's clawed arm, Alistair plunged his blade into the pulsating mass' chest. Withdrawing the blood-slick blade, he sunk it once more into the creature's neck. Uldred let out a strangulated cry of disbelief from a ravaged throat. The light faded from the bulging eyeballs, as demonic ichor belched from its mouth.

It was very quiet then, the only sound coming from the pungent liquid oozing out of the creature's lacerations. Finishing the incantation, Morrigan trailed off, staring at the slain abominations.

"And mages think themselves safe in their tall Towers," she murmured, as the sound of shouting and metal boots on flagstones drifted in from the Harrowing Chamber. "I'll not stay for the aftermath; I am no fan of the Templars, and they are not overfond of me."

She dropped the scroll and folded herself in shadows; a moment later, a small black bird fluttered up towards the single open skylight.

They returned to the Harrowing Chamber to find Greagoir and the other surviving Templars staring around at the shrivelled growths. Cullen was with them, shivering and wrapped in a blanket. With a curse, Greagoir strode over and cut the trapped Irving down, helping the wheezing First Enchanter over to an armchair.

"Maker's Breath," he muttered, staring around at the devastation. "What happened here?"

"A demon and blood magic," Wynne explained, lowering herself to the armchair beside Irving with a sigh. "But it is over now. Many have escaped, hiding in the caves beneath the Tower."

"How do you know?!" demanded a hysterical Cullen. "The Rite must be performed! All must be slain. It is the only way!"

Greagoir shot his lieutenant an irritated glance, shaking his head.

"Quiet, lad. You've had a shock. Irving, does she speak the truth?"

Irving, seemingly aged twenty years since Greagoir had last since him, nodded heavily.

"Uldred is dead. The Tower is safe, at a heavy cost. But I believe we can mend the Circle."

"And what of the demon he summoned?" demanded Greagoir, his eyes focused on the mutated corpse at the centre of the Chamber.

"Slain by the young apprentice Fiona here." Irving gestured towards Flora, who was kneeling to one side beside the body of a slain mage.

"Thank you," she murmured, gazing at Niall's still face for a moment, before reaching out and lifting the corded amulet from his chest. Clasping it around her own neck for safekeeping, she briefly rested her fingers on his forehead before turning to face the others.

"Niall helped me," she mumbled, suddenly self-conscious at so many staring eyes. Alistair started as if to go to her, but the Templar Commander halted him.

"I remember you," he said, curiously. "From the Wardens. I thought you all died at Ostagar."

Alistair shook his head, sombrely.

"Loghain betrayed the King, and the Wardens," he said bleakly. "The Darkspawn ravage the south as we speak. Flora and I are the only ones left."

Greagoir stared at the young Warden in alarm, his eyes darkening. Alistair turned his gaze to Irving, raising his chin.

"We came here to officially petition the aid of the mages against the Blight."

He glanced over at Flora, and she reached inside her crumpled linen shirt, feeling the edge of the papers. Irving held up a hand.

"Stop, you do not need to wield the old treaties at me. The Ferelden Circles will assist the Wardens- all two of you – against the Blight."

Alistair glanced over at Flora, who scrambled to her feet. She looked exhausted, her eyes lined with purple shadow.

"We also need help for Arl Eamon's son," she said, leaning heavily against her staff. "He's been possessed, but he's fighting it."

Irving stared at her, greying brows drawing together.

"Yes- there is a way," he murmured, shooting a stare towards the tall shelves in the antechamber.

The two old men who rarely saw eye to eye, but had been through much together in the past decade, shared a glance. Something unspoken went between them, and the Templar commander inclined his head.

"I will send word to the other Ferelden mages and we will await your call," Irving said briskly, as Wynne exhaled.

"And as for this child, we must waste no time. I will bring several mages and some lyrium. We can take horses from the shore stables."

* * *

OOC Author Notes: Thank you for reading! I can't believe I'm up to Chapter 27 (I also can't believe I'm only at the Circle Tower- I swear this is going to be 100 chapters by the time it's finished!) In other notes, the Fade section took me an INORDINATELY long time to complete in game – we're talking over a week – I am seriously bad, I know. I had no idea how I was going to write that particular experience up, so this was how I chose to interpret it. I actually really enjoyed writing this chapter; I think it's the first time since her Harrowing where Flora is forced to rely completely on herself, and I believe she steps up to the challenge! She also gets a little confidence boost from the whole experience.


	28. A Flower From Lost Lothering

Chapter 28: A Flower From Lost Lothering

Events moved quickly after that. Wynne, who had insisted on being one of the accompanying mages, efficiently organised the gathering of the lyrium. Greagoir signalled the shore to prepare a dozen horses. The mages who had been hiding in the caves emerged pale and frightened, but professed determination to reclaim their Tower and resume their studies. Irving tasked the surviving senior mages with the purification of the upper floors.

Soon they were gathered down at the dock, waiting for the ferry to return and transport the last few members of the party to the mainland. To both Alistair and Flora's surprise, it was still the same day that they had first entered the Tower. The late-afternoon sun hung low over Lake Calanhad, its weak light filtering through the veil of clouds. At some point there had been rain; the stone steps were wet and water pooled in the hollows where hundreds of boots had trodden.

Greagoir and his lieutenant were there to witness their departure, the younger man still clutching the blanket around his shoulders.

Flora paused awkwardly before them as the boat approached the dock, its ferryman returning for his last passengers.

Cullen dropped his head wordlessly, too embarrassed to look at her. Flora hesitated, then impulsively kissed him on the cheek.

"Thanks for not getting me into trouble about going on the roof," she called over her shoulder, as the young Templar gazed at her mutely. "Or the stolen food!"

Alistair reached out to take her staff as she clambered into the boat, glancing at the dazed young man as he put his fingers to his cheek.

"You know he's just going to pine over you  _forever_  now," Alistair muttered in her ear as she sat beside him on the bench. Flora shrugged, taking back her staff.

"He'll forget about me soon enough," she said, stifling a yawn and watching Irving tentatively descend into the boat. "A lieutenant can  _definitely_  do better than a fisherman's daughter from Herring."

On the shore, Irving and Wynne were already saddled, along with three others who would accompany them to Redcliffe. One of these, a Tranquil named Pether, would remain with them and serve as an emissary. Through him, they would be able to communicate with the Circle.

Alistair reached out and hauled an exhausted Flora up onto the saddle behind him. He felt her slump against his back, planting her face between his shoulder blades and letting out a groan. He was desperate to ask her about what had happened in the Fade, recalling only awakening besides the charred corpse of the sloth demon; they had not yet had a chance to speak alone.

"There's a small inn several hours away," Alistair said, drawing his horse up beside the First Enchanter. It had been a while since Irving had been on horseback, and the older man looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Conversely, Wynne appeared much more experienced in the saddle.

"I know it. The poor innkeeper looked at me as though I were an Archdemon when I last stayed there," she said briskly, turning her horse's head towards the hill path. "I do not think he likes mages. Ah, well. Let us aim to be there before nightfall."

* * *

 

They had a favourable journey, the wind behind them and the horses well-rested. It took only an hour to ascend into the low foothills, and from there the path was relatively flat. Even the sun obligingly seemed to take longer to set, the orange light gleaming off the distant snow capped peaks of the Frostbacks.

Twilight descended as they drew up beside the inn. Alistair saw to the horses, falling easily into his old role as stable boy, while Wynne headed inside the main building.

Flora eyed Irving, who was easing himself down from the saddle with a grimace.

"Maker knows why Greagoir is so fond of these creatures," the First Enchanter grumbled, rubbing the base of his spine. "They are most uncomfortable."

"I don't like them either," mumbled Flora, who was midway through a controlled fall to the ground. Picking herself up, she leaned wearily against the horse's flank, then stumbled as it moved unhelpfully to one side.

"How is life in the Wardens treating you at the moment?" asked Irving, glancing at her curiously. He did not particularly remember her Harrowing, having performed a dozen more since then; but he did recall her trailing in the wake of the powerful Warden-Commander.

"Not great," replied Flora bluntly, eyeing him. "How is life in the Circle treating you at the moment?"

Irving let out a snort.

"Not 'great', either," he replied, raising bristled eyebrows.

Wynne returned to the stables, smiling.

"Well, we have the tavern to ourselves," she informed them, lifting down her travel pack. "I'm afraid the locals fled through the back door when they heard that a Circle contingent had arrived. I've secured three rooms for our purposes. Irving, you have your own chamber. Fiona and I will share, and the other men can take the adjacent room."

Alistair, who had just finished storing the last of the tack, coughed.

"Actually, Flora and I sleep togeth-  _beside_  each other," he interjected, his ears reddening slightly. "I was a Templar – well, almost - so I'm used to keeping an eye on her in the night. Which is what I was told to do. By Duncan.  _Ordered_  to do, in fact."

Wynne's nostrils flared as she surveyed him.

"Well, that hardly seems appropriate," she observed acerbically, raising an eyebrow. "I assure you that, as senior enchanter, I will be perfectly capable of watching over a young mage."

The young mage in question, too tired to protest, gave a defeated shrug. Wynne gestured towards her, with a half-smile.

"You asked about bathing facilities?"

Flora nodded, stifling another yawn. Although it was physically impossible for matter from the Fade to cross the Veil with her, she still felt as though the stench from the sloth demon clung to her hair and clothing.

"There is a spring to the rear of the inn which you can use. They warned me that it was very cold."

Flora shrugged, retrieving some spare clothing from the saddlebag.

"That's alright. Thank you."

Alistair glanced at Flora's departing back, wanting to follow and discuss the day's events with her; but dissuaded by the senior enchanter's beady glare.

Within the tavern's main bar, the sullen innkeeper provided them with bowls of stew, alongside hunks of slightly stale bread. Irving sat uncomfortably at an ale-stained table, trying to keep the hem of his velvet robe from the straw-covered floor. Sitting opposite, Wynne let out a small chuckle, lowering her own bowl from her mouth.

"Irving, surely it hasn't been that long since you left the comforts of the Tower?" she asked lightly, mopping at the corner of her mouth.

Irving looked indignant, his eyebrows rising. In the corner, the innkeeper's mabari hound let out a soft growl of warning.

"I left the Tower only last month!" he retorted indignantly, eyeing the dog with some alarm. Wynne snorted, glancing over to where Alistair was nursing a tankard of ale, lost in thought.

"Attending a salon for expatriated Orlesians in Denerim does not count. Alistair?"

Alistair, roused from gloomy thoughts, blinked and looked up at her.

"Sorry, I was miles away," he muttered, pushing his untouched bowl of stew to one side.

Wynne eyed him curiously, her pale blue gaze wandering over the distinctive jawline and the strong, straight nose.

"I'm sorry about your Commander," she said gently, clasping her fingers together on the wooden table. "I knew Duncan many years ago."

Alistair felt the familiar dual pangs of grief and anger, the two emotions so tangled together that it was impossible to tell which was now the dominant one.

"It's Loghain's fault," he said bleakly, taking a half-hearted sip of the weak ale. "If he had brought his men down to the field, then it could have made a difference. Duncan would still be alive. So would the King."

"Or Loghain and the rest of Ferelden's army would be dead in the valley below Ostagar too," said Wynne gently. "And you and Fiona would still be the only two Grey Wardens left."

"It's  _Flora_ \- " started Alistair, but then the tavern door opened and Flora herself came in, a blanket clasped around her shoulders. Beneath, she wore the crumpled khaki garb of an apprentice and her damp hair hung in heavy ropes over her shoulders. Clutching her boots to her chest, she picked her way gingerly over the straw-strewn floor in bare feet.

Alistair slid along the bench and looked up expectantly at her.

"Here, Flo. Have some stew. I think it  _might_ be dog, but I'm afraid to ask."

"Thanks, I'm not hungry," she mumbled, trudging past their table. Alistair gaped at her, nearly dropping the bowl on the table. He watched her as she navigated awkwardly up the steps, her knee clearly causing her pain.

Wynne eyed Alistair, with a frown.

"Why the odd face? I'm not surprised she's got no appetite, what with everything we've been through today."

"No, Flora is  _always_ hungry," Alistair replied, his brow furrowed. "Demons, darkspawn, it doesn't matter. She  _never_  misses dinner."

He sat there for a few minutes, caught in indecision. Finally, he picked up the bowl of stew and rose to his feet, carefully balancing it as he crossed the tavern and ascended the stairs.

Taking a wild guess in the upper passage, he nudged open a wooden door at random. The Tranquil, Pether, looked up at him from the bed. Alistair quickly shut the door with a grimace of apology. Walking past the largest room, assuming that this had been designated to Irving, he opened a door opposite the tiny room he had shared with Flora on their journey to the Tower.

This room was larger, with a bay window and a heavy wooden armoire. A double bed was pushed up against the wall to make the chamber appear more spacious. Flora was sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, having already stacked up the logs awkwardly in the grate. The blanket was crumpled around her waist as she fumbled with the flint and tinder. From the number of scorched twigs besides her bare feet, she had already tried and failed to start the fire a number of times.

"Sometimes I would trade all of my magic for the ability to make even a single spark," she mumbled, knowing instinctively who was in the doorway. Alistair let the door swing shut behind him and crossed the room, kneeling down and placing the stew carefully to one side. He took the flint and tinder from her, holding it out.

"Look, it's best if you strike it from an angle. See?" He demonstrated, then handed it back to her. She tried again, failed the first time and succeeded the second. A lone bright spark sprung up among the kindling.

Alistair leaned forward and cupped his hands around the small flame, blowing on it gently. Slowly, he coaxed it upwards towards the larger sticks. Within a few minutes, the fire had caught the logs, and he sat back triumphantly.

Meanwhile, Flora had been squeezing the excess water from her hair with the blanket. The damp tendrils clung to her skin and she shivered, drawing her knees up beneath her chin. Alistair put a hand on her clammy arm, then leaned back and pulled a spare blanket down from the top of the bed. Tutting under his breath, he wrapped it around her and then instinctively put his arm around her narrow shoulders.

"You don't mean that, my dear," he murmured in her ear. She leaned against his arm, tilting her sore knee towards the warmth of the flames.

"Mean what?"

"About your magic."

"Oh." She thought for a moment, listening to the logs cracking in the fire. "No, I don't mean it, I'm content with who I am. It's everyone else who isn't satisfied. They want me to be a normal mage."

Alistair paused for a moment, then reached over to his travel pack, rummaging inside it with his free hand. The fire spat and hissed, orange flecks catching the draft and vanishing up the chimney.

Flora watched the floating sparks and wondered idly whether she was hungry after all. The smell of the stew was enticing; she hoped that Alistair was lying about it being made from dog.

The next moment, something was thrust under her nose. Flora blinked, then looked down at it. It was a flower- slightly squashed, the red petals crumpled but intact. She reached out and took it carefully, avoiding the few thorns that still clung stubbornly to the stem.

"It's a flower," she said, displaying an astonishing lack of horticultural knowledge.

Alistair took the rose back, gently turning it before the fire so that the light from the flames illuminated the scarlet folds of the bloom.

"It's from Lothering," he said quietly, looking at her shadowed profile against the firelight. "I took it from a rosebush outside the Chantry. I know that's not what you're supposed to do, but… the Blight was coming, and I knew it would just get tainted and die. I've kept it since we left."

He gave it back to her, keeping his hazel gaze fixed on the fireplace.

"It's… it's the only one of its kind to have survived, now. It's special. Like…well. Like you, Flo. A rarity. I wouldn't want you to be anything else than exactly what you are."

Flora stared at him, the firelight warming her grey irises to the same pale gold as the healing energy that she channelled.

"Thank you," she said quietly, tucking the rose carefully inside her shirt. It nestled next to her breast beside the Grey Warden treaties. Alistair nodded, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

"The pleasure is mine, my dear."

To his relief, she reached for the bowl of stew and took a large gulp.

"Careful you don't find a collar in there," he commented, and she crossed her eyes at him over the lip of the bowl.

Alistair's implication that the stew contained a canine component did not dissuade her, and she drained the rest of it in a defiant swallow.

"How was it?"

"Tail-waggingly good," she replied, evilly.

He laughed, then fell into a pensive silence. She stretched out her legs before the fireplace and yawned.

"Flo?"

"Alistair?"

"What happened when the demon put us to sleep? I mean, I know we went into the Fade, but I don't remember any of it."

Flora felt Niall's necklace resting against the hollow in her throat, the metal cool against her skin.

"I saw Duncan," she said, finally, staring into the flames. Alistair startled, glancing sideways at her. She shook her head, brow creasing.

"No, it wasn't- it wasn't really him. It was a demon. I thought it was him for a moment though."

She sighed pensively, resting her chin on her knee.

Alistair thought for a moment, then lay back against the rug, drawing her down alongside him. She rested comfortably against his body, cheek against his linen-clad chest, his arm around her shoulders.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have pried. Tell me about it when you're ready- or never, if you prefer. Get some rest, you're exhausted."

Flora yawned, reaching out for his hand.

"Senior Enchanter Wynne won't be happy," she mumbled, her words half-muffled by his tunic. "She thought it was inappropriate when we shared a horse."

Alistair shrugged, staring up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, feeling Flora's cold fingers curled against his.

"You already went where I couldn't follow," he murmured, recalling the demon and the journey into the Fade. "I won't part from you twice in one day."

Later, when Wynne entered, only Alistair was still awake. Her pale blue eyes flashed, nostrils flaring as she gazed down at them.

"You can stop glowering," hissed Alistair, placing his free hand gently over Flora's exposed ear so not to wake her. "No  _inappropriateness_  here. She's like my sister."

Wynne raised an eyebrow at him as she crossed the room, heading towards the bed.

"I should hope not," she murmured, climbing beneath the covers. "You two have a sacred duty to fulfil. This is no time for distractions."

* * *

 

Flora woke only once in the night, wide-eyed and staring at the ceiling, feeling her heart pounding against her chest. She wasn't certain whether it was the Archdemon's whispering or the recent events at Kinloch Hold which had prompted her nightmare; she had only memories of a rising tide of dark terror rising up around her waist.

As she tried to calm her racing heart, she became aware of Alistair's arm still wedged around her shoulders. She turned her face against his side, and he shifted slightly, reaching down sleepily to draw her closer. The fire in the grate had long since burnt down to embers.

"Bad dream?" he asked, sleep tangling his voice. She winced, immediately feeling guilty.

"I must be the biggest coward ever allowed into the Wardens." She shrugged, half-smiled. "Duncan would be ashamed."

Alistair snorted softly, resting his chin on top of her head.

"Flo, I'm supposed to be the funny one," he said lightly, reaching out for the crumpled blanket and pulling it up over her shoulders.

"And I'm just a fisherman's daughter from Herring," she whispered back, clutching her fingers into fists to try and stop them shaking. "Grey Wardens are unyielding and valorous. Noble...hero… knights of legend. Wynne was telling me the old stories earlier."

"I'd rather have one of you than a hundred  _noble hero knights_ ," Alistair murmured against her hair. "You're the bravest person I know."

Flora peered up at him through the shadows. Grey eyes, the same shade as the Waking Sea that she grew up alongside, searched his face.

"Do you think so?"

"I know it," he replied, rubbing his thumb around the edge of her hairline. "When everyone else is fleeing from the danger, you run towards it, staff raised."

"That probably makes me more of an idiot," Flora whispered, but he could tell that she felt comforted by his words. He touched the side of her face gently in the darkness, feeling her sloping cheekbone beneath his thumb.

"We spent hours looking through all the records of the mages at the Tower. Mages who could summon firestorms, encase a wave of enemies in ice," he murmured, dropping his thumb to trace the outline of her jaw. "But as soon as Duncan saw you dive in front of the Tranquil, waving your arms around like a maniac, his mind was made up. He'd never be ashamed of you, Flo."

He felt her smile, and impulsively pressed a kiss against the top of her head.

Just then, Wynne's irritated voice drifted down from the bed across the room.

"If you two are  _quite_  finished; I would suggest we get back to sleep. Redcliffe is a long day's ride tomorrow."

Flora snorted, leaned her head against Alistair's chest.

"Ooh, I feel like I'm back at the Circle," she whispered, sliding her fingers into his. "Senior mages nagging and a Templar watching me sleep."

* * *

 

Much to the innkeeper's relief, the Circle party departed with haste the next morning. Alistair saddled the horses with expertise, while Wynne settled the bill in the tavern. Flora, who had made up for missing the previous evening's dinner by eating two breakfasts, found herself waiting with Irving.

"So, the Arl's son is a mage, then," he commented, squinting down the grassy slope towards the Lake. Early morning mist was rolling across the surface of the water, while sunlight filtered through the clouds.

Flora nodded, still too intimidated by the First Enchanter to look at him directly. Irving glanced at her curiously, his eyes falling on the staff at her back.

"It's broken?" he observed, as Alistair began to saddle the final horse.

"It broke at Ostagar."

Irving raised his eyebrows, reaching out a gnarled hand. Flora handed him the staff, and he ran bony fingers down the wood, sensing the bonding charm.

"You could have got a replacement at Kinloch," he said, a violet glow issuing from his fingertips as he renewed the spell. "There are more powerful staves you could have had. This is just an old apprentice weapon."

Flora shrugged, taking the staff as he offered it to her. She slung its plain wooden length over her shoulder, giving it an affectionate pat.

"My dad always said that a familiar mended net is better than a strange new one," she replied, watching Alistair lead over the Redcliffe mare.

Irving raised his eyebrows as she clambered up behind Alistair on the saddle, still not entirely comfortable on horseback. Wynne approached shortly afterwards, guiding her own steed and rolling her eyes at the nervousness of the innkeeper.

"He practically threw the change from my sovereigns back at me," she complained, following Irving's gaze over to the two Grey Wardens seated on the bay mare.

"Odd pair, aren't they?" Irving murmured, his eyes settling on Flora's narrow back. She was clutching Alistair's shoulder with one hand to keep herself balanced, while bringing a hunk of bread to her mouth to the other.

"The boy seems competent enough," replied Wynne, her own horse falling into step beside Irving's. "If a little naive. I wonder where he's from, he reminds me of someone… I can't put my finger on it."

"And her?"

Wynne sighed, urging her own horse into a trot.

"Skilled in her own limited way. It's frightening that they're the only two Wardens left. And they're both so  _young_."

"Youth has its benefits," replied Irving, as their small party reached the crest of the hill. Before them the path stretched out, following the edge of Glorfin's Spine, running parallel to the lake. Six hours ride to the south, Redcliffe lay waiting for them.

"And it's distractions," added Wynne, softly.

The horses were well-rested and they made good time. As the sun made its final descent towards the Frostbacks, they reached the cliffs that looked out over Lake Calanhad's southernmost tip. Below them, huddled against the ochre rock, lay Redcliffe village.

To Alistair's relief, none of the buildings appeared to have been razed to the ground – he could even see people crossing the market square, their features indistinct.

Out from the cliff stretched the rocky promontory, upon which rested Redcliffe Castle. As before, no movement could be spotted on the castle's ramparts.

Flora, who had spent the past hour thinking about how they should proceed, coughed. Irving and Wynne glanced over at her in surprise.

"If you wouldn't mind waiting here," she ventured timidly, eyes fixed on Alistair's back. "We'll go down and see our other companions. Find out if Bann Teagan is here. Then we'll return and go over to the castle together."

Alistair nodded, peering at her approvingly over his shoulder.

"Good plan, Flo. Is that alright?" This was directed at the two elder mages, neither of whom had any issue with the suggestion.

Alistair and Flora made their way down the waterfall path towards the village, the mare picking her way delicately through the puddles. They approached the barricade on the southern entrance, which appeared to be mostly intact.

"That's a promising sign, right?" Alistair commented hopefully, nodding at it as they passed. Flora gave a little shrug.

"Hope so. It doesn't feel as…as desperate as it did when we were here before."

Several villagers, recognising them, called out greetings. As they drew up beside the Chantry, the leader of the knights approached their horse.

"You're back!" Ser Perth breathed, reaching out to take the mare's reins. "Have you news?"

Alistair glanced at Flora, who was still edging her way down from the saddle.

"We hope to return everything to normal soon," he replied evasively, glancing up at the silent looming mass of the Castle. "How is the situation here?"

Ser Perth gave a helpless shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"The night after you left, there was another assault, but the numbers of undead were far less than what we'd grown accustomed to. Your archer managed to take down many before they even reached the barricade," he continued admiringly, a slightly wistful expression settling on his face.

"The Maker blessed my bow and Andraste guided my arrows," enthused Leliana, who had emerged silently from the Chantry while they had been talking.

The lay-sister smiled at Alistair and Flora, her eyes bright.

"For every undead I smote; I felt Him smile upon me. I knew that you would return soon."

Alistair grimaced, memories of growing up within the cloisters still too clear for him to feel comfortable in the presence of such zealotry. Flora smiled back at Leliana, relieved to see her unharmed.

"Is the Qun- I mean, Sten- alright?"

Leliana nodded, flashing another toothy grin. "Ah, he was a sight to behold! Though he is a heathen, it was as if the Maker Himself had blessed his sword. He must have cleaved the heads from two dozen undead. Their blood blackened the clay like the Maker's joyous tears!"

Flora's smile turned slightly rigid as she felt her stomach turn over.

"Is Bann Teagan here?" asked Alistair, squinting at the wooden doors of the Chantry as if he could see through them.

Leliana shook her head, her blue eyes wide with concern.

"No? We have not seen him since he left to go the Castle with you."

Alistair shot a concerned glance at Flora, who gave a small shrug in his direction.

Having caught sight of them, the mayor Murdock approached.

"Hail, Wardens," he said cautiously, clutching a toolbox in one hand. "I heard that you were back. Will all this be ended now?"

"We hope so," replied Alistair, his mind focusing on the lyrium weighing down the saddlebag at his knee.

"One way or the other," Flora added, ominously.

* * *

OOC Author's Note: Poor Flora, if killing the sloth demon isn't enough to get Wynne to call her by the correct name, I don't know what is. Although I love writing about the big action set pieces, I still find them quite difficult to do…that's something that I hope I can improve on during this story. I love the travelling moments – the stopping and the resting and the character interaction, whether it's in a tavern or in a campsite.


	29. The Arl's Son

Chapter 29: The Arl's Son

They returned to the other Circle mages and the Tranquil, still waiting patiently at the top of the waterfall path. Alistair's mare, snorting in recognition as she realised that they were heading back towards familiar territory, led the way across the promontory path towards the Castle. The iron gate still hung half open, limp and rusting, as though no one had passed through in years.

As they approached the main courtyard, Wynne briskly explained the procedure for expelling the demon from the possessed child.

"The demon must be confronted and killed in the Fade," she said, glancing around at the limp banners hanging from the ramparts.

"Pether has already prepared the lyrium potion. A mage must imbibe this before passing through the Veil. Then, after falling unconscious, they must locate and defeat the demon in the Fade. In the waking world, the other mages must cast bindings over the possessed child to prevent the demon from escaping once it is expelled."

They passed beneath a high stone archway and Alistair turned his mare's head towards the stables, glancing around at the old woman.

"So will it be you or the First Enchanter who enters the Fade?" he asked, as they came to a halt in the stable yard. Irving and Wynne glanced at one another; and Flora grimaced silently to herself.

Alistair dismounted, looked up at them and finally realised that no one was meeting his eyes. He stared at Wynne in disbelief.

"No," he stated flatly, his eyes brokering no discussion.

"Alistair- " started Wynne, but he shook his head.

" _No._ There's only two of us Wardens left. What if something goes wrong?"

His incredulous hazel gaze moved over to Flora, who met his stare apologetically. She had already realised on the journey that she was the most likely candidate to enter the Fade, having already proven that she was capable of handling herself in the presence of demons.

"It makes sense," Wynne said placatingly, dismounting with surprising fluidity for a woman of advanced years. "Fiona has demonstrated that she can kill demons. Her Harrowing lasted mere minutes."

"And she can't cast the binding spells," added Irving, as Alistair shot him a glare.

The young Warden turned to Flora, who was retrieving her staff from where she had tucked it through the saddle.

"Flo?" There were dozen questions nestled within the single syllable, many of them accusatory.

Slinging the weapon onto her back, Flora shrugged up at him.

"Don't worry, I'm sure I'll be fine," she mumbled, sounding anything but certain. Alistair glanced away with a muscle in his jaw twitching.

"I don't like this," he snapped back, agitated. "Why does it have to be  _you_?"

The other Circle mages and the Tranquil gathered up the lyrium from the saddlebags, tactfully ignoring Alistair and Flora. The two young Wardens continued to row all the way across the courtyard, then up the steps to the main hall entrance.

"How do you even kill demons, anyway? Have you forgotten that you're a  _healer_?"

"Don't know; I'll improvise."

"What if it leaves Connor and possesses you instead?"

"I don't know!"

" _Flo_!"

She shrugged helplessly at him, leaning her shoulder against the iron-barred door.

"The First Enchanter is right, I can't perform the binding spells. And I- "

Flora was interrupted by the door being pulled open abruptly from the inside. Bann Teagan stood there, hollow faced, his clothing crumpled and stained.

"Thank the Maker," he murmured, taking in the group of mages clustered on the steps behind the two Wardens. "Come in, quickly."

* * *

 

The main hall was in a state of devastation. The tapestries on the walls had been ripped down; the long dining tables toppled. Assorted furniture was strewn across the length of the room. Suspicious looking stains seeped across the flagstones.

As they entered, the Arlessa rose from a stool beside the fireplace. Isolde was clad in the same gown that she had been wearing when they had left two days prior, the pink velvet now grubby and worn. Her pale blonde hair hung down beside her face in greasy strands, her eyes alight with tentative hope.

"Teagan, is it the Circle mages?" she called, her voice high and wavering. "Have they come to help my boy?"

"We will do our best, Arlessa," replied Irving, glancing around at the devastation. "Where is the child now?"

"Upstairs, somewhere," replied the Bann, his voice taut. "There isn't a room in the castle which has escaped his attention, save for the Arl's."

"That means that my Connor is still in there, somewhere," said the woman hopefully, her gaze moving dismissively over Flora and Alistair, before settling curiously on Wynne. "He knows not to disturb his poor father."

She raised her voice. "I will call our mage. It was his idea to summon you."

Meanwhile Flora was gaping silently to herself, just having realised what they had neglected to tell Irving. She elbowed Alistair, who frowned sideways at her.

"We didn't tell them about- " she hissed, but it was too late.

" _Jowan! Jowan, come here, quickly."_

Bann Teagan scowled as the Arlessa's Orlesian accent rang out imperiously across the great hall.

Irving and Wynne both started, shooting incredulous looks at one another. When the newly gaunt Jowan arrived through a side door, head bowed and visibly steeling himself, Wynne hissed through her teeth.

"Maleficar!" breathed Irving, his nostrils flaring as he reached for his staff. " _You!"_

Jowan made no attempt to defend himself. A moment later, a bolt of blue lightning leapt forward from the focusing crystal on the First Enchanter's staff, surging through the air towards the hunched Jowan. The young man made no attempt to defend himself, and only the Arlessa let out a gasp of horror.

The next moment, the bolt of electricity impacted a gleaming wall of golden light. The energy splintered harmlessly, white sparks dropping to the flagstones. The hum of arcane energy vibrated in the air, and there was a faint smell of burning.

Irving's head spun to the side in disbelief, his staff still raised. Flora, one hand extended towards Jowan, gave an apologetic shrug.

"He wants to help," she explained, her grey eyes meeting Irving's incredulous stare. "He said that we should bring you here."

Irving let out a grunt of disbelief, before sending another blast of energy arcing towards the glimmering sheath. The barrier flickered but held firm. Irving glanced down at the crackling stream of light coming from his own staff, then over at Flora's single outstretched hand, eyebrows rising to the ceiling.

"The blood mage has agreed to whatever penalty deemed fit," Bann Teagan added, as Jowan gazed at Flora with slight incredulity. "He wishes to atone for his mistakes. Without him, we would not have survived this past week."

Wynne, weighing up the situation carefully, touched Irving's elbow.

"We deal with the child first," she murmured in an undertone first. "Then the Maleficar."

"Trust me, I don't like the situation any more than you do," murmured Alistair, grimly.

After what seemed like an age, Irving lowered his staff. Flora dropped her hand and the shield around Jowan broke apart into glimmering particles.

The Bann stepped forward, as a loud crash echoed from the floor above.

"I fear there is not much of Connor left," he said, casting his eyes upwards. "The times when he is in control are getting fewer and far between."

"Then we have not a moment to lose," Wynne replied briskly, glancing over at Pether. The Tranquil nodded, retrieving a small vial of clear liquid from his satchel.

As the senior Circle mages began to hurriedly explain the plan to a trembling Isolde and a stern-faced Teagan, Alistair drew Flora to one side.

"Are you certain about this?" he started, staring down at her.

Flora gave a shrug, spreading her hands to take in the devastation of the great hall.

"It's a bad situation," she said, helplessly. "I don't know if I can do anything, but I have to at least try."

Alistair sighed, his eyes moving over her face. She stared back at him, the freckles on her nose standing out against her pale skin. Impulsively, he reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The casual intimacy of the gesture caught both of them by surprise, and he withdrew his hand, coughing.

"At least Darkspawn are straightforward," he said quickly, a deliberate lightness in his tone. "Demons are too smart for my liking. Far more intelligent than me."

"Me too," replied Flora glumly. "That's why I just say 'no' to everything they offer. I don't understand half the words they use."

It was Wynne's turn to shoot Flora an incredulous glance. The other mages had finished explaining the plan to the Arlessa and the Bann, Jowan still shame-faced and hunched. For a moment there was silence in the great hall, broken by another loud crash from upstairs. Isolde winced, her fingers pleating the folds of her skirt.

"Please," she begged, her voice tremulous. "We don't have much time."

Bann Teagan led the way through the passage to the main staircase. The ritual itself would need to take place in the child's bedroom – the familiarity of the location would ensure that Flora (theoretically) would end up in the correct location in the Fade. The other mages would then channel binding spells to prevent the demon from fleeing once it had been expulsed.

They paused midway on the steps, Teagan lifting a hand for silence. Beneath a vast portrait of Arl Eamon's father, the Bann was quiet for several seconds, listening.

After a few moments, he exhaled.

"I believe Connor is in the west wing. We should be clear."

At the top of the staircase, Pether handed Flora the vial. She eyed the silvery liquid, the gleaming particles reflecting the light from the narrow window.

"It will facilitate your entrance into the Fade," he intoned as she removed the cork. Flora glanced over at Wynne, who gestured at her to drink.

"Take it now," the older woman instructed, glancing down the empty stone passage that ran the length of the upper floor. From somewhere in the western part of the castle, the sound of furniture breaking was clearly audible.

"It's raw lyrium. You will need to fall asleep yourself – we didn't have the time to process the sedative chemical and add it."

Jowan glanced over at Flora, who was staring at the liquid with some apprehension.

"Hurry up!" he hissed, agitated, ears straining for any sign that the abomination was approaching.

"Quiet, blood mage," retorted Alistair, shooting him a glare. Flora tilted her head back and threw the liquid down her throat. It was cool and slightly acidic, with a bitter aftertaste.

"This way. Quickly!"

Bann Teagan led the way down the stone passage. The demon's devastation was everywhere – splintered doors, tapestries torn and hanging from the walls. Candelabras had been toppled, leaving sections of the corridor in darkness. They also passed the occasional slumped body, clad in serving garb.

"I hope I can fall asleep with everyone watching me," mumbled Flora, bringing up the rear of the party. "I already feel quite sleepy- "

There was a loud  _crack_ and her voice was cut off abruptly. The rest of the party turned in alarm, Irving and Wynne raising their staves and Alistair unsheathing his sword.

Isolde stood in the passage behind them, holding a heavy pewter bowl in her trembling hands. Before her, Flora was sprawled face down on the flagstones, motionless, her staff rolling to a gentle halt as it slid from her outstretched hand.

" _Isolde_ \- " began Teagan.

"Teagan," the Arlessa whispered, her voice shaking as she lowered the decorative ornament. "I do this for my son. I won't apologise."

Wynne gave a shrug, conceding to the woman's practicality.

Alistair, seething, thrust his sword roughly back in his belt and shoved past a gaping Jowan. Crouching down beside the sprawled Flora, he ran his hand over the back of her skull to feel a growing lump.

"You know, I never liked you," he hissed up at the trembling Arlessa. "And now I think I might actually  _hate_  you."

"Come on," said Irving tersely as another crash came from the western part of the castle. "We need to start the ritual."

Alistair, grinding his teeth together, slid his arms beneath Flora's legs. As he lifted, her head drooped against his shoulder and he felt a fresh rush of anger towards the arl's Orlesian wife. Pether retrieved Flora's staff, his expression neutral.

Teagan led the way down a shadowed side passage, which appeared to have escaped much of the devastation wrought on the rest of the castle. A small iron-bound door led to a bedchamber that clearly belonged to a child. A wooden horse and soldiers were scattered across the rug, several small tunics were draped over various items of furniture. A replica sword and shield, the latter painted in Redcliffe's colours, leaned against the armoire.

"Put her on the bed," instructed Wynne, as Jowan shut the door behind them. Isolde had wandered over to the armoire and picked up a small tunic, cradling it in her arms while murmuring tenderly under her breath.

Alistair lowered Flora down to rest gently on the bed, feeling a twinge of fear in his gut at how pale and still she seemed. As the Circles mages busied themselves with vials and lyrium, he reached out and held his gauntleted hand above her mouth.

When condensation formed against the metal, he exhaled in relief. He stood back to allow Wynne and the Tranquil to pass him, the senior enchanter gently opening Flora's mouth to place a lyrium crystal beneath her tongue. Pether arranged her limp arms, two more blue crystals in the centre of her palms.

"Is she alright?" murmured Teagan, coming to stand alongside Alistair. The young Warden nodded, his jaw tight.

"Physically, at least," he added, his mind occupied by thoughts of demons and the Fade. He could recall nothing from his own forced immersion in the spirit realm from the day before; remembering only waking with a lingering sense of dread.

The mages from the Circle Tower raised their staves, muttering quietly to one another as they prepared to invoke. The Tranquil placed the final lyrium crystal carefully in the hollow of Flora's throat. Alistair reached out and brushed his hand gently over her forehead, moving stray strands of hair away from her closed eyes.

"Stop going where I can't follow, Flo," he murmured, his gaze moving over her still, solemn face.

"When the demon learns that someone has entered the Fade to kill it, it may try to impede us and interrupt the ritual," stated Wynne, her eyebrows rising as she watched Alistair's gesture. "It will try and enter; you must prevent it."

Between them, Teagan and Jowan dragged the heavy armoire to rest in front of the door. Alistair unsheathed his sword, and Isolde eyed him in alarm.

"Alistair, please don't hurt my son," she whimpered, clutching a handkerchief to her mouth.

"You hurt my sister-warden," Alistair muttered, but returned the sword to his belt.

Wynne began the chant, her voice low and the words indecipherable, lifting her staff above Flora's limp body. A moment later, after clearing his throat, Irving joined her. A violet stream of light blazed from the end of his staff, forging a connection to Wynne's own raised weapon. After a few seconds, the other mages joined the incantation, lifting their own staves. The lyrium shards placed on Flora's hands began to pulse with a soft mauve glow.

They continued uninterrupted for several minutes, the four voices moving together in harmonious synchrony. Then a guttural shriek, ostensibly a child's but with a darker undercurrent, rang out from the west wing. It was a cry of outrage, cut with a raw edge of anger.

"The demon is aware of what we are attempting," stated Pether without emotion, as Teagan stared in the direction of the sound. Alistair glanced down at Flora, who was lying limp on the bed, her mouth slightly open.

"My turn to protect you," he murmured to her, lifting his shield from his back. "I'm afraid it'll have to be the old-fashioned way."

There came another shriek, high and angry.

"It's in the main passage!" called Teagan, his face grim.

The next moment, there was the sound of an impact and the door shook in its frame. Something had charged against it from the other side; the armoire trembled but remained in place.

" _Mother? Mother!"_

Isolde reflexively rose from the stool; Teagan reached out an arm to stop her.

"Don't," he muttered. "It's not him."

" _Mother, I'm scared! Mother!"_

As it spoke, the high childishness of the voice faded away, replaced by a throaty growl.

Isolde put her hands over her face, letting out a choked sob. Irving glanced over his shoulder, continuing to murmur the invocation of binding. This, he knew, would theoretically prevent the demon from fleeing.

The next moment, the door burst open and the armoire splintered, breaking apart like doll's furniture. The arl's son stood in the doorway, breathing hard, his pupils bone-white. Dark violet energy hummed around his slight frame like an aura. He lifted a slender arm, and pointed with a trembling finger.

" _Stop her! Mother, she's trying to hurt me!"_

"No, Connor," whispered Isolde, tears running down her gaunt cheeks. "We're helping you."

" _No!"_ shrieked the possessed child, the demon's guttural howl now at the forefront.  _"She's trying to kill me!"_

He raised a palm and one of the mages broke off the chant, shouting a warning.

The next moment, a gout of flame sprang forward from the abomination's hand. Teagan ducked to one side, yanking Isolde with him. As the flames dissipated, the child flicked his fingers and the remains of the armoire ricocheted around the room. Pether and Jowan were knocked to one side, Irving and Wynne to the other. Alistair, whose Templar training had allowed him to resist the magical blast, raised his shield before Flora and braced himself.

Seconds later, the demon turned on him. The child's eyes were now rolled back in his head, his mouth a raw wound.

" _Stop her! Stop!"_ it shrieked, lunging forward on all fours. The bed lifted several inches, then swung violently to the side. Alistair, knocked off balance, stumbled and fell. The Bann found himself plastered to the wall, limbs frozen, and let out a frustrated bellow.

The possessed child clambered on top of the bed and, with unnatural strength, grabbed the unconscious Flora and shoved her to the ground. Lyrium crystals scattered as the demon fell with her, howling. It grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her face up, before knocking her head against the floor.

" _Leave me alone, you little bitch! Stop it!"_

"Don't harm him!" shrieked Isolde, seeing Wynne raise her staff. The next moment, the wooden length tore itself from the old woman's fingers and hurled itself violently and repeatedly against the flagstones, as if the weapon had developed a suicidal sentience.

Alistair vaulted over the bed, suppressing the urge to use his shield as a club. Dropping it instead, he grabbed the abomination's narrow shoulders and pulled it off Flora's limp body, which was sprawled facedown on the flagstones. The next moment, a blast of energy from Irving's hand sent the creature tumbling back across the room. Isolde let out a fresh bout of weeping. Alistair, breathing hard, placed himself squarely between Flora's inert form and the abomination.

" _No! NO! Stop!"_ There was no trace of Connor in the creature's snarl now, only a high and frenetic desperation. Suddenly, there was a crackle of energy not unlike lightning, and a dark shadow flickered above the boy's slight form. For a split second, they could see white-gold energy spreading like wildfire through the demonic reflection. Then the creature let out another unnatural howl, and they saw only the white-eyed Connor.

" _Leave me alone! Leave me- !"_

The flickering outline of the demon appeared once more above the small boy, yellow light spreading through its body in spider-like webs and patterns. It let out a wild pulse of energy, knocking everyone backwards.

The creature was screaming now, the sound high and terrible enough to make even the Bann cringe. In a last, desperate attempt at survival, the beast raised the rough wooden shards from the splintered armoire; they hung in the air like a flock of malevolent birds.

The demon, shadowed form now ripping free from the slender boy, let out a shriek. The shrapnel launched itself through the air in a hail of jagged wood, towards where Flora lay slumped on the floor.

Alistair, struggling to his feet, had no time to think rationally. Grabbing his shield, he thrust himself into the path of the shards. The jagged stakes of wood splintered against the shield as he raised it. One shard tore through the mail and embedded itself into the side of his abdomen. He staggered backwards with a grunt as though he had taken a punch to the gut, the shield dropping to the flagstones.

The shifting form of the demon was now fully separate from the child. It writhed in mid-air, shrieking as the veins of whitegold light spread through its ethereal flesh. Suddenly, without warning, the creature's form split in two, as a jagged bolt of light tore through it. Particles of whitegold light, not existent in the waking world, drifted down from the ceiling as the shadow melted away.

The room was very quiet and still, the only sound Alistair's laboured breathing. Then, suddenly, a child's voice punctuated the silence.

"Mama?"

Isolde clambered to her feet, struggling past Bann Teagan's arm. Wild-eyed, she stared at her son in disbelief. The little boy was looking around in confusion.

"Why is my room so untidy? Who are all these people?"

"Connor!"

Fresh tears poured down the Arlessa's face as she flung herself on her son, cradling him in her arms with loud sobs of relief. Connor returned his mother's hug, bewildered.

The practical Pether was already moving around the room, collecting the drained lyrium crystals.

Alistair, slumped against the toppled wardrobe with his hand pressed into his side, made a clumsy gesture. Beneath his sandy hair, his face was pale.

"Is- is she alright?"

Wynne was already crouching next to the facedown Flora, turning her over and checking her eyes, skin and pulse. After having her face knocked against the floor by the possessed child, she was sporting a bloodied lip and a rapidly blackening eye.

"She's fine. Just unconscious. She does have a bump to the head."

Alistair, though the edges of his vision were now blurring, was coherent enough to shoot Isolde a dirty look.

"I do recall that."

Teagan, meanwhile, had crouched beside the young Warden, moving the torn mail gently to look at the injury. As a man who had seen his fair share of battle, the Bann was experienced at judging the relative mortality of wounds. In the corner of the room, Jowan lay motionless.

"I don't think it's punctured anything important," he said after a moment, folding one of Connor's discarded tunics and pressing it against the ragged tear. "You need to lie down and avoid exertion until your healer wakes. Tranquil, could you assist me with her?"

"Irving, the Veil is weak here," murmured Wynne, looking up from Flora. "We should reinforce it."

Irving nodded, retrieving his staff from where it had fallen.

"Isolde, is there anywhere quiet where these two can recover?" asked the Bann. The Arlessa looked up from her confused son, who was straining to escape her clinging embrace.

"Yes, yes…the blue bedroom. It wasn't badly damaged."

Meanwhile Connor was looking around at the toppled furniture and the strangers that surrounded him, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"What happened, mama?" he asked, and Isolde winced.

"I'll explain later, my child," she said evasively, watching as Teagan helped Alistair to his feet, keeping him upright as the younger man grimaced.

Pether had already retrieved Flora, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Avoiding the splintered remains of the door, Teagan guided an unsteady Alistair out into the main passage.

"Both of you need to rest and recover," the Bann said firmly, in a tone that invited no argument. "Then we can talk about the Arl."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: Am I the only one who found Arlessa Isolde incredibly irritating? Every time she came on screen with her banshee-like screech of "TEEEEEAGAN?" I wanted to punch the television in a rage. I seriously had to resist sacrificing her to the demon… it took a lot of self-restraint. I'm not sure my version of Alistair would argue against that option, either!


	30. All The Words We Speak

Chapter 30: All The Words We Speak

When Flora first woke, she didn't know where she was and felt somewhat disorientated. She was sprawled on a bed, in a room with torn navy tapestries covering the walls. A tattered curtain hung partially over a small window, through which a clouded moon was just visible. Apart from this, a melting candle on a wooden table beside her was the only other light in the room.

As she sat up, she felt a sharp twinge in the back of her skull. Reaching back, her fingers found the source of the pain: a throbbing lump. After a moment, she realised that, in her eagerness to hasten Flora's journey into the Fade, the Arlessa had provided somewhat of a helping hand.

She heard a laboured intake of breath beside her and turned, seeing Alistair slumped on the pillows beside her. Flora blinked down at him for a moment, then her surprise quickly turned to alarm as she saw the paleness of his face. Someone had removed the outer layer of his armour, and the linen tunic he wore was damp with sweat.

"Sleep well?" he asked, his voice faint and threaded with weakness. Flora stared at him, feeling cold fear constrict her gut.

"Alistair," she breathed, her eyes wide. Twisting to one side, she leaned over him, loose strands of hair hanging down either side of her face. His body was half-hidden by shadow.

"I'll be alright," he murmured, his eyes closing. "It's just a scratch."

Flora found the bloodied tunic pressed to his side, her fingers prying it away gently. Beneath a tear in the linen, she found the jagged wound. It was only an inch wide, but the puncture was deep.

"It's nothing," muttered Alistair, opening an eye to peer down at her. "Don't go exerting yourself."

"Ssh," mumbled Flora, bowing her head. The yellow light danced between her fingertips as she moved her hands over his wound. It was only seconds before Alistair felt the familiar, sharp tingling in his side as the flesh began to bind itself together.

He reached out clumsily, meaning to place his hand on her shoulder in gratitude. However, due to his blurred vision, his fingers ended up glancing off her ear. She looked up and beamed at him, particles of amber light still clinging to her nails, pleased with her handiwork.

A moment later, her smile faded as she realised he was still pale and weak, slumped against the cushion. Alistair moved his hand carefully, concentrating this time, his fingers brushing her cheek.

"I just need to rest for a bit," he murmured, the words blending together as he felt darkness seeping into the corners of his brain, luring his exhausted mind to unconsciousness. "Then… we can continue."

He rested his head back, eyes barely open. Flora was gazing at him anxiously, silhouetted by the moonlight behind her. She leaned forward, resting her fingers gently across his forehead. Inhaling deeply, she brought her mouth to within inches of his. He stared up at her, her worried face hovering in the darkness, conflicting emotions fighting for precedence within his sluggish mind. Then she exhaled, slowly, her eyes narrowed in focus.

 _Her irises are the same shade as Lake Calanhad on a cloudy day,_ he thought to himself, only half-coherently. Then he felt warmth spreading through him, as if he had just imbibed a shot of Fereldan brandy. New energy moved through his body as if pale gold fire was igniting the blood in his veins. The spidery fingers of unconsciousness were banished, washed away by a tide of clarity.

Flora withdrew as he exhaled unsteadily, staring up at her. In contrast to his own newfound vitality, she now appeared tired, as though she had relieved him of his weariness by taking it on herself. She rested her cheek on the cushion beside him, and he leaned back to meet her eye-to-eye.

"Thank you, my dear," he murmured, reaching out to move a strand of hair away from her face. She smiled at him; his fingers lingered on her ear for a moment, before lightly tracing the outline of her bruised eye socket.

"Look at this," he mocked, his tone gentle, dropping his finger to press against the centre of her swollen lower lip. "What have you been doing?"

"I beat up the Arlessa for you," whispered back Flora immediately and he grinned.

"Well, I hope you won," he observed lightly, brushing the back of his hand against her cheek. She rolled her good eye, the other half-hidden by bruising.

"An Orlesian noblewoman against a girl from Herring? Please, don't insult me."

Alistair laughed as she smiled wickedly at him, feeling a swell of affection.

He watched as she brought up her hand, pale gold energy already glowing beneath the nail beds. Her fingers followed the path his own had taken, tracing carefully around her bruised eye socket before pressing against her split lip. The bruising faded and the cut sealed in their wake, her fingertips leaving a trail of gold mist clinging to the skin.

"So is the demon dead?" she whispered, then smiled when he nodded. "At least the senior mages might know who I am now. Maybe Wynne will stop calling me Fiona."

Alistair reached out and touched her forehead gently, pressing his own fingers against the gleaming particles. He could feel them fizzling against his skin, before fading gently from existence.

"I wouldn't trade you for the most powerful mage in Thedas," he murmured, sliding his fingers through her dishevelled hair. "My clever girl."

"Thanks," Flora replied, smiling at him.

Impulsively, Alistair reached out and pulled her into an embrace. She felt cold and he tightened his arms around her, drawing her closer to him.

Over the past few months the two junior Wardens had slept beside one another on lumpen pallets, on damp bedrolls and on the floorboards of inns. They had never shared an actual, proper bed before.

Once or twice, during the more tedious moments at the monastery, Alistair had idly wondered how it would feel to lie in bed with someone else. He had found himself unable to imagine it without an accompanying rush of awkwardness and embarrassment.

Yet now he found himself unable to imagine sleeping anywhere without her beside him, her fingers tangled in his. He held her close, exhaling quietly, hoping that she did not feel uncomfortable. Looking down, he realised that Flora had fallen asleep.

Alistair felt a sudden rush of affection towards her, and bent down to plant a kiss on her forehead.

"Have a rest, sister," he murmured, running his palm down her narrow back.

"I have no living siblings and speak not from experience, and yet I don't believe that men share a bed with their sisters in Ferelden," commented an acerbic voice from the shadows. "Though perhaps they might in Tevinter."

Alistair sat bolt upright, his arm tightening around Flora's shoulders. She mumbled, but did not awaken.

Morrigan emerged from the shadows in the corner of the room near the window, a mocking smile tugging at the corner of her painted lips. She lowered herself to a velvet padded chair at the foot of the bed, arranging her skirt artfully over a bare leg.

"How long have you been there?" demanded Alistair in a hiss, feeling his cheeks redden. Morrigan grinned at him, her strange amber eyes moving over them both.

"Long enough to establish that nothing interesting was happening. Why else would I reveal myself?"

Alistair gaped at her, his fingers tightening inadvertently around Flora's.

"You- you shouldn't spy on people!" he muttered after a moment, scowling. Morrigan rolled her eyes, inspecting her reflection in the cracked looking glass behind her.

"Should you be sharing a bed with your 'sister'?," she commented mildly. "Anyway, I thought you would be intrigued to learn that one of the Arl's knights has returned from Denerim. He claims that he might have found a way to cure him."

"Cure the Arl?" Alistair repeated, then shook Flora's shoulders gently. "Flo, come on."

* * *

 

They followed the sound of muffled voices down the passageway, into a large bedchamber. This room had largely escaped the devastation suffered by the rest of the castle.

To their surprise Leliana was inspecting the large ancestral portrait on the wall, while Sten was staring out of the window.

"The Arlessa sent for us from the village," Leliana explained, her eyes moving over the Guerrin family's genealogy. A weary Isolde was sitting on a nearby bench, the sleeping Connor on her lap. In the bed, a man in his fifties lay with his eyes closed, the blankets pulled up to his chin. His cheeks were sunken, and his lips were pale. Scarlet spider-like veins glowed beneath translucent skin.

Alistair inhaled in shock, quickly crossing the room to lean over the unconscious man.

"Arl Eamon," he breathed, staring down at the man's still face. The blankets barely moved with the shallow rise and fall of the Arl's chest.

Flora watched Alistair's face contort in sorrow and regret, and raised a hand timidly.

"Could I not try and heal him?"

As she spoke Wynne emerged, solemn-faced, from a side chamber. Her hands were bloodied; she crossed to a basin on a side table to rinse them.

"Jowan's blood poison has spread too far, Fiona. Even with your ability, it would have the same effect on you if you tried absorbing it."

Isolde shot Flora a look, thinking that she would willingly sacrifice a fisherman's daughter from Herring to save the life of her husband. Alistair raised his face just in time to catch this glance, and scowled darkly.

"She just saved your son's life" he muttered, dropping his eyes once again to the arl's still face. "Show a bit more gratitude."

"His life is in the Maker's hands now," breathed Leliana, turning from the tapestry and making a gesture of prayer.

Wynne paused for a moment, then cleared her throat.

"Fiona, speaking of Jowan. He's asking for you."

Flora blinked, as Alistair raised his eyes once more, curiously. Wynne sighed, folding her lips in resignation, gesturing to the side chamber she had emerged from.

"He's dying," she said, bluntly. "Too damaged for healing. At least it saves him from the Templar's judgement."

Flora swallowed, followed the older woman into a small dressing chamber. Jowan was resting on a narrow chaise, his face pallid and his irises drained of colour. When he saw Flora, he tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace.

"Don't bother," he whispered, in the voice of one already departing the waking world. "I've… I've used my own blood and body too harshly for too long. This was inevitable."

Flora stared down at him, her own eyes wide and shocked, not sure what to say. He saw her struggle for words and shook his head, wry even at the end.

"I- I was never a good friend to you, Flora. I should… should've stuck up for you more at the Tower. Sorry."

Flora shrugged, feeling tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

"Don't worry about it," she whispered, shaking her head and twisting her fingers in the hem of her linen shirt. "You were kind to me when we first met. Thank you."

Jowan managed a proper smile, then glanced around, taking his last look at the world. Impulsively, Flora reached out and took his hand, squeezing his fingers. She felt a fleeting return of pressure, and then it was gone.

Flora released Jowan's limp hand, recoiling as thought she had touched something hot. Alistair, who had followed them into the room, reached out to steady her. She stared up at him and he returned her gaze evenly, his hazel eyes unblinking. His fingers dug into her elbows, keeping her on her feet.

"Alright, Flo?" he murmured, and she nodded mutely. Wynne called Leliana in to perform the last rites, and a subdued Flora followed Alistair back into the main bedchamber.

"Is our business here finished?" demanded Sten as soon as they returned. "The Darkspawn mass even as we waste time with this unnecessary diversion!"

Alistair squeezed a shocked Flora's shoulder, then returned to gaze down at Arl Eamon.

"It's not a waste of time," he said quietly, reaching down to adjust the Arl's blanket. "Us Wardens can kill the Archdemon, but it'll be surrounded by a horde of Darkspawn. We need an army to cut our way through."

"And only the Arl is respected enough to call a Landsmeet and challenge Loghain," added a new voice.

Teagen entered the bedchamber, with a man in Redcliffe livery behind him. The knight was visibly exhausted, and the Bann quickly guided him to an ornately carved chair. Isolde sat up straight, her pale eyes lighting up.

"Ser Ronald," she breathed, shifting Connor's weight. "Please, have you learnt anything?"

The knight bowed his head in her direction, respectful even in his weariness.

"My lady, in Denerim I found a journal and map detailing the journey of one Brother Genitivi," he said, his voice rough with tiredness. "He believed that he had found the location of the Urn."

"What Urn?" demanded Alistair, crossing the room towards them. Flora trailed in his wake, her midriff rumbling in protest at the length of time it had gone unattended.

Overhearing this, Isolde shot her a scornful glance.

"Perhaps you should pay heed to your stomach," the Arlessa said snidely and a glum Flora dropped her gaze to her feet.

Bann Teagan let out a heavy sigh, his eyes drifting once more to the still man lying in the bed.

"It contains the ashes of Andraste Herself," he said, a hand on the weary knight's shoulder. "It is said that they can cure any illness or injury."

Alistair frowned, his brow creasing.

"Does such a thing really exist?" he asked, dubiously.

Leliana, summoned by the mention of the religious icon, appeared at his side and gave a solemn nod. Her serious demeanour could not quite hide the excited glow in her bright blue eyes.

"The Urn's location has been much discussed in the Chantry," she breathed, her fingers touching the silver symbol of Andraste at her neck. "Other relics have been found and verified, yet the Ashes have always eluded us."

"Where does Brother Gen-Gevitny think they are?" asked Flora, stumbling over the unfamiliar Antivan surname. The exhausted man passed her the journal; a pointless endeavour as she could not even read the letters inscribed on the cover. She passed it to Alistair who opened it immediately, unfolding a map that had been tucked within the first few pages.

"The village of Haven," he said, after reading the first few lines. "I don't know it. Says that it's somewhere in the Frostbacks."

"It lies in a valley between Serpent's Tooth and Pelligan's Wake," said Sten, the tone of his voice flat and uneven. "Accessible through the lowland road."

The inhabitants of the room turned to stare at the Qunari in surprise. He gazed back at them, impassive, expression unchanging.

"How do you know that?" asked Alistair, his eyebrows shooting upwards. The Qunari returned his gaze, looking bored.

"The Ben-Hassrath possess detailed maps of Ferelden," he stated, matter-of-factly. "Apparently, more detailed than you yourselves possess."

The Bann squinted suspiciously at the tall Qunari, then decided that it was not the correct time to pursue the enquiry. Instead he turned to Alistair with a heavy sigh.

"Alistair, I know I have no right to ask you this. You and your friends have already done us two great services: protecting the village and saving our Connor."

Wynne emerged from the side chamber, listening closely. Irving had remained in the child's room to solidify the Veil, but she had been curious as to how the situation would be resolved.

Alistair gave a self-conscious shrug, averting his eyes. Teagan continued with his proposal, an unspoken plea within the words.

"Pelligan's Wake is three days ride away. Please- retrieve the Ashes."

Sten rolled his eyes, turning away with an impatient grunt. Isolde, fingers twisting in Connor's tunic, stared at Alistair imploringly.

"Then Eamon and I will offer you any support you might need at the Landsmeet."

The young warden let out a small sigh, resignation plastered over his face. Wynne watched as his eyes slid over to a thoughtful Flora. She gave a little shrug, then nodded.

"It's important," she mumbled, her stomach rumbling. Alistair half-smiled at her, then turned back to Teagan.

"We'll leave when it gets light," he said, mind already moving over the practicalities. Sten let out an impatient grumble of disbelief, striding from the room. Leliana, however, clasped her hands together in excitement.

"It's like we're going on a pilgrimage!" she breathed, blue irises alight. "If only we could leave tonight! I will barely be able to sleep."

Teagan strode forward to clasp Alistair's hand then turned to Flora and bowed deeply. She looked over her shoulder, assuming that he was paying respect to Wynne, who stood behind her. Isolde exhaled unsteadily, clutching her sleeping son.

"Thank you, Wardens," Teagan murmured, shaking his head slowly from side to side in gratitude. "Redcliffe will forever be in your debt."

Shortly afterwards, only Wynne and Teagan remained in the Arl's bedchamber. Alistair had gone to check on the horses; Leliana sought spiritual succour in the small castle Chantry; while Flora hunted for more earthly nourishment in the kitchens.

Teagan had tasked Isolde with the preparation of warm clothing and blankets. It had been decided that Alistair, Leliana and Flora would take fast horses to the small village of Haven, while the rest of their caravan- including the mage emissary and the reluctant Stene- would remain in Redcliffe. Morrigan, as always, would do exactly as she pleased.

"Did you see the boy look to her for guidance?" Wynne observed archly, folding her travelling cloak over her arm. Teagan nodded, having noted the young warden's enquiring glance over his shoulder to his companion.

"He always did prefer to follow instructions rather than make up his own mind," he murmured, recalling the slight young boy who had once resided at the Castle with them.

Wynne summoned a mental image of Alistair, recalling the strong jaw and the aristocratic, high-browed features. A question had been hovering at the forefront of her mind since the Warden-Commander and his junior had first arrived at the Circle Tower.

"Alistair  _is_  the King's bastard, is he not?" she stated, watching Teagan's reaction closely. The Bann stiffened slightly, but made no attempt to deny it. He continued to pour water gently between his brother's pale lips.

"As I thought," Wynne confirmed to herself, nodding. "So he has a duty beyond the Wardens- an obligation to Ferelden itself."

Teagan sighed, lowering the ewer to the bedside table.

"Please, do not speak of it further," he murmured, touching a silk cloth to his brother's chin. "Alistair has always strongly rejected his parentage. He has never had any desire to be King."

In response, Wynne let out a small sigh, turning her eyes to the unconscious Arl.

"Sometimes our desires and our destinies do not lie at the end of the same path."

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Flora had found her way down to the larder adjoining the kitchen. She ignored the meat, which had a peculiar odour, but was able to locate several baskets of vegetables. Although it had been a long time since she had last prepared food herself, as a child she had often assisted her mother with the evening meal.

"I wish I had some fish," she said out loud, hearing the now-familiar rush of air behind her as she stood at the wooden table. "I could make a nice stew."

"Fish stew? Let me see…" Morrigan leaned against the wall and thought for a moment. "No, I can't think of a  _less_  appealing dish."

Flora rolled her eyes as she finished preparing the turnips, moving onto the pile of potatoes.

"Sadly, I can only find these," she continued, picking up the knife. "So it'll have to be vegetable stew."

Morrigan let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. She wandered over to the fireplace, still filled with charred but viable logs. With a click of her fingers, fire sprang up in the grate.

"So you go running off on another wild goose chase while the Darkspawn run rampage over the south," she commented lightly, but there was a thread of anxiety running through her words. Flora glanced over at the dark-haired woman, then yelped as she accidentally nicked her finger with the blade.

"Ouch! Are you worried about your mother?"

Morrigan paused, gazing into the flames. Flora put her finger into her mouth, golden energy lighting her cheeks from within.

"Not about Flemeth," she said after a moment, as Flora resumed her chopping. "I fear for the Wilds. They were my home."

Finishing the potatoes, Flora swept them into a cast iron pot alongside the turnip, swede and carrot. After adding water from a nearby ewer, she hauled the heavy pot over to the fireplace. Morrigan reached out to assist her in manhandling it onto the dangling hook, letting it dangle above the flames.

"Thanks," mumbled Flora as she wiped her hands on the hem of her linen shirt. "And people in the city might listen to Alistair, but they won't pay any attention to me. If the Arl wakes up, he can support Alistair and get the army to come."

"Why would they listen to that dolt and not to you?" asked Morrigan, genuinely perplexed. "It does not make sense. You are one of these Wardens too."

Flora lowered herself to a small stool in front of the fire, using a long-handled spoon to stir the contents of the pot.

"They think the Wardens traitors now," she replied, leaning back against the stone. "Beyond that, I'm just a nobody from a fishing village."

Morrigan shrugged, watching the water slowly churn to a boil.

"I see your point," she conceded with a sigh, increasing the heat of the flames with a movement of her finger. "Yet this diversion bores me still."

Flora inspected glass vials of spice, which were stacked on a rack affixed to the wall. Unable to read the labels, she began to dip a finger in each one, licking the tip to discern the contents.

"Why don't you go south then?" she said, adding the spices she found pleasing to her broth. "We'll meet back here. What's this red stuff?"

Morrigan raised her eyebrows, conceding that the idea was sound.

"Fine," she said, lifting her chin and stepping to one side with a clatter of beads and small bones. "I agree. I…thank you. And it's  _paprika._ "

Flora smiled at her, giving the pot another stir.

"I wish I could visit home as easily," she replied, wistfully. "I haven't been back in years. Paprika, hm."

* * *

 

Later, they gathered in the upper hall. This too had escaped much of the devastation, although several leaded windows had been shattered. The mages had already departed for Kinloch Hold; the First Enchanter was keen to oversee the repairs to the Circle personally. If it were left up to Greagoir, Irving told Wynne as he was departing, the Tower would resemble more prison than residence.

Wynne had elected to remain at Redcliffe, for reasons she kept to herself. Absentmindedly fiddling with the empty bowl of stew in front of her, she was immersed in conversation with the Bann about the nature of Connor's possession.

"It sounds as if he has innate skill," the old woman remarked, half-listening to Leliana humming in the corner. "Irving will craft him into a powerful mage."

The Bann sighed, also watching the short-haired bard. "I fear that will provide little comfort to his mother. She will live each day awaiting the summons from the Tower."

Wynne raised her eyebrows, standing up to gather the rest of the empty bowls together.

"There could have been far worse fates for the boy," she said mildly, which Teagan acknowledged with a bow of the head.

"Bann Teagan," called Leliana from her seat beside the fire, cradling her lute in her lap. "I need a word that rhymes with  _possessed_."

"Undressed," said Alistair snidely, who hated poetry. Leliana pointedly ignored him, smiling at the Bann.

Teagan scratched his head, giving a shrug. "Treasure chest? Blessed?"

" _Blessed!"_ breathed the bard, eyes lighting up. "Perfect."

She began to strum once more on the lute, murmuring quietly to herself.

Flora, too full to move after her third bowl of stew, was sprawled on the bearskin rug before the fire. She had the journal and map spread out before her, and was squinting at the meaningless text.

"Where's the village we're going to?" she asked, peering down at the inked triangles denoting the Frostbacks. Alistair lowered himself beside her, squinting. After a moment he put his finger on a barely discernible scribble.

"There, see. Haven. H-A-V-E-N."

"H-A-V-E-N," she replied, dubiously, the sounds clearly holding no meaning for her. Alistair thought for a moment, then put a hand on her shoulder.

"Here, one moment."

Several minutes later he returned from Eamon's study, clutching a sheaf of blank parchment and several leaded pencils. He dropped to the matting beside her and spread the blank paper over the flagstones.

"Look, here. 'Flora'." He wrote in large, separated capitals:  _F-L-O-R-A._

Flora stared at the dark strokes, blinking.

"That's my name?" she breathed, in fascination. Alistair nodded, staring at her finely hewn profile as she bent over the paper.

"That's your name," he said softly, watching her trace the shape of the letters with a finger. "F-L-O-R-A."

Flora took the pencil and crouched forward, the end of her braid brushing the floor. Her brow furrowed as she carefully replicated the letters in a rounded, sloping hand.

"What's 'Alistair'?" she asked, peering up at him. He took the pencil and wrote A-L-I-S-T-A-I-R further down on the parchment. Flora looked at the two names, frowning. Her finger pointed out the last symbol of her name, and the first of his.

"This is the same," she said, eyeing him dubiously. He nodded, drawing an  _A_  on its own.

"It's the same sound, isn't it? Flor- _ah. Ah_ -listair."

"Ye-es," she said, slowly. He smiled at her confused expression, and quickly scrawled the remainder of the individual letters beside the A.

"This is the alphabet. All the words we speak come out of these twenty six letters."

Flora stared at him, her eyes widening in disbelief, and he grinned at her shock.

"That's  _amazing_!" she breathed, taking the pencil and beginning to meticulously copy out the rows of letters. "I want to send a letter to my parents. They won't be able to read it, but they'll be  _so_  impressed."

Alistair watched her concentrate, the firelight picking out gleaming strands of coppery red in her hair like embers. He felt a strange calmness settle over him like a blanket.

"Yes, it is amazing," he said, softly.

When she returned from the kitchen, Wynne's attention was caught by the two young wardens, their heads bent together before the fire. She glanced over at Teagan, who was busy watching Leliana hum quietly to herself.

"Bann Teagan, since the Arlessa has gone to bed, I took the liberty of investigating our quarters," she said sharply, while the man blinked as if awakening from a dream.

"Us women can take the red chambers, which seem relatively undamaged. Alistair, you can keep the blue room."

The imperious old woman directed a cutting stare at him when he opened his mouth to protest.

"Your Templar duties are no longer needed. Flora has demonstrated on several occasions that she is  _more_ than capable of resisting demons."

Alistair sighed, hunching his shoulders in defeat.

Later, Leliana climbed into the large double bed beside Flora, her fingers moving admiringly over the scarlet hangings.

"This is crushed velvet from Antiva," she remarked, raising her eyebrows. "And this nightgown is pure Orlesian silk. The Arlessa has fine tastes indeed."

Flora, halfway through re-braiding her hair, looked obediently over at the bard. Having spent an hour loudly exclaiming over Isolde's collection of shoes, Leliana clearly was at her element amidst all the finery. Flora, however, had rejected the offer of a nightgown in favour of her own baggy linen shirt.

"It's all very nice," she said, guessing that this was what Leliana wanted to hear. "We don't have anything like it back home."

Wynne, who had claimed the chaise longue with the excuse that it was more supportive for her arthritic back, shot them both a severe glance.

"I suggest you get some sleep," she advised, in a tone that invited no discussion. "You're off to an early start tomorrow."

Pointedly, she blew out the candle. Leliana rested her cheek on the pillow and smiled across at a quietly grumbling Flora, who had not finished her braid.

"I wish you'd have let me try a few things on you," the lay-sister whispered conspiratorially as Flora gave up on her tangled hair and slumped back against the cushions. "I think you'd look very well as an arlessa."

"I'd look ridiculous," mumbled Flora, pulling the blankets up to her chin. "I wasn't made for fine things."

"Good _night,_ girls!"


	31. Of Ashes and Archdemons

Chapter 31: Of Ashes and Archdemons

In the darkest part of the night, the Archdemon's whisper returned. Insidious and charismatic, it infused with the will of the Darkspawn under it's thrall. One hundred miles north, the terrible vision crawled into the minds of the two surviving Wardens in Ferelden. Alistair, who had learnt how to block the corrupting whispers from his brain, only grimaced and turned over in his sleep.

Two passages away, the dreaming Flora, preoccupied by resisting the beguilement of the Fade, was unable to also reject the call of the Archdemon. The whispers burrowed into her brain, penetrating the Veil and seeking out the darkest corners of her mind. They nestled there, whispering terrible things and planting images she could see behind her closed eyelids.

Wynne was woken by a high, panicked squeal of terror. Jolted awake, she scrambled upright while reaching reflexively for her staff. The end of the weapon blazed out a flameless light, which illuminated Leliana's scared face.

"She just started shrieking!" wailed Leliana, gesturing towards a sweating Flora, who was tangled in the bedclothes and taking great gulps of air. "Is she possessed?!"

Fearing the worst,Wynne felt her stomach lurch. As she advanced cautiously towards the bed Flora screamed again, thrashing around blindly.

" _Go away_!" she wailed, grey eyes wide and staring, half-covered by strands of hair. " _Leave me alone!_ "

She flailed, trapped herself in the blankets and fell out of bed with a thud. Wynne exhaled in relief; then snapped at Leliana.

"It's just a nightmare. Stay with her; try and calm her down."

Grim-faced, Wynne lit a holstered candle with a click of her fingers. She ventured out into the passageway, hearing Leliana imploring helplessly in the chamber behind her.

At the top of the main staircase, she ran into Teagan and Alistair, both in their beige underarmour. Isolde, hair trailing loose down her back, emerged from Connor's room with wide eyes. Wynne ignored the Bann and the Arlessa, her gaze going straight to Alistair. Understanding immediately, he gave a tight nod.

"Is this normal for Wardens?" asked Wynne as they followed the twisting passage back towards the red bedchamber. The screaming had stopped; but they could hear Leliana's high and frantic pleading.

"It's the Archdemon," Alistair replied bluntly, recalling the layout of the darkened corridors from memory. "It calls to all Wardens. I've learnt to block it; she hasn't."

He strode into the room first, furious with himself for allowing an old woman to bully him into leaving his sister-warden to face the Archdemon's whispers alone. Leliana looked up as they arrived, exhaling in relief. The room was artificially illuminated with a strange yellow glow, similar to the light which emitted from Wynne's staff.

"Thank the Maker," the bard breathed, crouching down as the Arlessa's silk gown trailed on the floorboards. "I can't get through to her.  _Literally!"_

As Alistair and Wynne rounded the foot of the bed, they saw Flora huddled in the corner of the room beside the window. Half hidden behind the long velvet curtain, she was hunched with her bare knees drawn up to her chin, shivering with fright. Raised and trembling fingers were just visible from behind the heavy fabric; a whitegold barrier hovering before her.

"Go away, go away," she was mumbling, squinting suspiciously at their blurred figures through the shifting energy. "Leave me alone!"

Alistair crouched down beside the barrier, peering through it.

"Flo," he murmured, gazing at her white face behind the gleaming shield. "It's Alistair."

She stared at him in confusion, her eyes swimming and brow furrowed. He smiled at her, encouragingly. Her gaze darted around, and he heard her sniff, uncertain.

"Is this real?" Her voice was tearful and muffled. He spread his hand over the barrier, feeling the gold particles prickle gently between his fingers.

"I promise it's real, sweetheart. Come on, Flo, I'm trying to fish-rope you, but it's hard with  _this_ in the way."

Slowly, her eyes not leaving his face, she reached out her hand and spread her palm against his. The barrier melted away and he clasped her fingers within his own, smiling down at her.

"Good girl," he murmured, drawing her to him, as her face crumpled once again.

"I saw it's plan," she whispered against his shoulder, her voice breaking. "The Darkspawn are going to attack a town, a town on the coast- I think the south coast, the sea wasn't familiar to me. It had a…a pier."

"Gwaren," said the Bann grimly, who had followed them into the chamber. "Mac Tir's terynir."

"He's in Denerim with the troops," Wynne murmured, her eyebrows drawing together. "Gwaren is defenceless. We must warn them. Are you  _sure_ , Fiona?"

"She's seen it," muttered Alistair, stroking sweaty strands of hair away from Flora's frightened eyes. "She's sure."

The Bann nodded, face drawn. "I'll send a message immediately."

Flora, who had spent her life defiantly protecting the sanctity of her mind and will, was devastated at how easily the Archdemon's words had penetrated her defences. Slowly, she recognised the churning nausea in her stomach as  _helplessness_ , an emotion generally unfamiliar to her.

Alistair felt her begin to shake against him, and tightened his grip.

"Come on, my dear," he murmured against her hair, lifting her up with ease. "Let's get some fresh air."

Ignoring everyone else, he carried her out of the bedchamber and down the passage. Recalling the way from his youth, he navigated them both up a narrow spiral staircase, booted open a door and then they were emerging out onto a high stone balcony. Below them, Lake Calanhad spread out like a vast, dark mirror, reflecting the constellations dotted above. The shadowed buildings of Redcliffe village were huddled together on the shore, peaceful and undisturbed.

"I used to sneak up here to escape from Isolde," Alistair said, lowering Flora to rest on the stone ledge before him. "I remember you used to go on the roof at the Tower. And you were always climbing the battlements at Ostagar. I thought you'd like it up here."

He sat beside her, keeping an arm around her waist. She sniffed, then he realised that her legs were bare, resting against the cold stone. Alistair let out a groan.

"Ah, I'm an idiot! You must be freezing. Do you want to go back inside?"

She shook her head, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

"No," she mumbled, glancing down at the reflection of the moon on the still lake surface. "I don't mind the cold. I know it's real if I feel cold."

He reached up and touched her flushed forehead, moving a strand of hair from her eyes.

"You'll learn to block it out," he replied, dropping his thumb to trace the high angle of her cheekbone. "It'll take a few months. Took me six. People laughed."

Flora was quiet for a moment, gazing at the ragged hem of her linen shirt as it rested just above her knees, her toes grazing the stone tiles.

"It won't take you that long," he assured her, quickly. "You're cleverer than me, sweetheart."

"Maybe I shouldn't learn," she whispered, twisting the material between her fingers. "If I can see what it's thinking… what it's going to do. It might be useful."

Alistair gazed at her, not wanting to agree but knowing that she had a point. Instead, he reached for her hand and wrapped it in his, giving it a squeeze.

"You're braver than me too, for even considering it."

"I saw it," she breathed quietly, her fingers clenching his. "I closed my eyes but then I heard it, so I put my fingers in my ears, and- and then I felt it _in my head._   _Nothing_  is allowed to be in my head except me!"

She sniffed, half in fright and half in frustration, the tears welling once more. Alistair caught her eyes and gave a small smile. In the still, silent darkness, high above the Lake with only the stars to observe them, he felt almost as if he were caught in a dream. Although she had said that the cold made it real to her; their height and the silence and the vast sky above them made him wonder if he was really awake.

"You know," he said quietly, reaching out to lift her chin with his fingers. "We Grey Wardens have a special method to get rid of Archdemon nastiness.  _Very_  old tradition, very effective."

She eyed him uncertainly, recognising the teasing tone that had crept into his voice. He leaned forward and kissed her gently on one side of the head, then the other.

"No more  _hearing_  it," he murmured, tilting her face upwards as she blinked at him. "Now- "

Flora closed her eyes as he pressed his mouth gently against each one in turn, tasting the salt of her tears on his lips.

"No more  _seeing_  it," he continued quietly, resting his palm against her cheek. She swallowed, opening her eyes again to stare up at him. "And finally- "

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss against the centre of her furrowed forehead. His mouth rested there for a second before he drew back.

"There, gone from your head," he finished softly, gazing down at her pale, tear stained face. She stared up at him, the corners of her mouth twisting reluctantly upwards.

"Did Duncan do this for you, then?" she asked, sweetly. Alistair let out a surprised laugh, and after a moment she joined in. He was so relieved that he reached out and embraced her tightly, pressing a fiercer kiss on top of her rumpled hair.

Drawing back, he looked down at her. She smiled, the shadow lifted from her face, her eyes the same clear grey as Lake Calanhad below.

"Flo- " he started impulsively, and then the wooden door behind them burst open, ricocheting off the stone wall.

" _Fiona!_ Have some hot, sweet tea!" bellowed Wynne, manifesting with a tray in the doorway.

Flora jumped, while Alistair almost fell off the balcony. The senior enchanter bustled forward, dropping the tray firmly on the stone ledge between them. Wrapping one of the Arlessa's dressing robes hastily around Flora's narrow shoulders, she raised a small pewter cup of hot liquid to the girl's mouth.

"Drink up!"

Flora took an obedient gulp, eyes bulging at the temperature.

"Long journey tomorrow! Now that the bad dreams are over, you need to get some rest," Wynne continued, shooting Alistair a narrow-eyed look of suspicion.

"Thank you, but I've slept enough," Flora mumbled politely, wondering if the inside of her mouth was scalded. "I often got up early back home to help with the nets."

Alistair saw that Wynne was about to protest and cut her off abruptly.

"Hey, Flora, why don't we go and practise your alphabet?" he suggested, lightly. "Try and learn a few letters. We could get up to E. For  _eavesdropper._ "

Flora smiled at him uncertainly, pleased at being offered the chance.

"And get some early breakfast?"

"Of course, my dear," he replied, escorting her from the balcony while shooting a scowl at Wynne. "I'll persuade a few hens to give up their  _E_ for eggs."

* * *

 

By the next morning, preparations for their departure had been finalised by the Arl's remaining servants. Leliana, Flora and Alistair had each been given thick, fur-lined cloaks from the Castle stores; three hardy Ferelden Forders from the stables had been loaded with blankets and supplies. Sten, who had flatly refused to join them, would meet them in a week's time.

The Bann had advised them to detour down to Redcliffe village to get hardier shoes fitted on their mounts, predicting that the mountain paths would be icy and precarious. Only he had come to see them off, passing on the Arlessa's excuses.

"That's poor manners," observed Leliana, as her mount shifted beneath her. "We are doing this for her husband, after all!"

The Bann gave a helpless shrug, watching Alistair give Flora a boost onto the saddle.

"She watches Connor like a hawk, day and night," he said, apologetically. "She wishes all the Maker's blessings upon you for the journey."

Flora clung grim-faced to the reins, feeling the bulky muscle of the horse move beneath her thighs. Teagan glanced up at her, and half smiled.

"Look after Alistair, will you?" he murmured, as the other young warden checked that the map was tucked safely beneath his fur cloak. "He  _must_ live, or we are all lost."

Flora nodded, staring down at him curiously. Before she could ask him to clarify, Alistair cleared his throat, glancing to the main gate.

"Shall we go? The smithy in the village should be open."

Once in Redcliffe, Leliana vanished inside the Chantry to participate in the morning service. The blacksmith, Owen, recognised them from the night that they had participated in the village defences. Waving aside Alistair's offer of payment, he took their horses into his shed, with promises that all three would be shoed within the hour.

"Do you want to get something to eat from the tavern?" Alistair asked Flora, who was looking around the marketplace. To his shock, she cast him a regretful look and shook her head.

"I can't. I have a promise to keep," she mumbled, recognising the mayor Murdock and waving at him.

Alistair gaped as the portly official also recognised Flora, and crossed the square to speak with her.

"Hear there's been a demon killed up at the Castle," the mayor said, deliberately casual. "If you two have had anything to do with it, we thank you."

Alistair bowed his head in acknowledgement, still struck dumb by Flora's rejection of breakfast.

"I'm looking for a woman whose son was sent to the Tower," Flora said, her eyes searching the mayor's face earnestly. "Her son's name was Niall."

To her relief, Murdock nodded almost immediately.

"Ah, Gilda's boy. I don't think they've been in contact for years. She's a seamstress, lives in the last cottage to the west."

After thanking him, a grim-faced Flora headed off between the buildings. Alistair followed her, more confused than ever.

"What's this about? Who is Niall? What promise?"

"I'll explain everything later," mumbled Flora, feeling a knot of dread forming in her stomach. She came to a halt outside the final cottage in the row. It was a ramshackle building with several holes in the damp thatched roof.

Swallowing and steeling herself, Flora raised a fist and knocked on the door. It opened after a few moments, a weary middle-aged woman standing before them, wiping her hands in her apron.

"If you've got alterations to be done, I'm waiting on shipment of new needles," she started, then trailed off at Flora's expression. "What?"

"My name is Flora," Flora started, slowly and carefully. "I'm from Kinloch Hold."

"Ah, that's where my Niall went." Gilda sighed, casting a glance between them at the expanse of Lake Calanhad. "Always was an ambitious boy. Haven't heard from him in years, expect he's gone onto great things."

Flora went a shade paler, feeling nauseous. Alistair, watching her from the corner of his eye, put his hand on her elbow.

"I'm sorry to tell you this," Flora whispered, forcing herself to look directly at Gilda. "There was a-an incident at the Tower. A demon. It possessed… a lot of people. Many are dead. Niall is also dead. Sorry."

She dropped her eyes, glumly, wishing that she'd brought Wynne.

Gilda stared at her for a moment, several emotions passing through her dark eyes like lightning. Finally, she let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders slumping. Alistair also lowered his gaze to the earthen floor.

"I'd heard rumours," the woman murmured, touching a hand to her head. "Out of all my children, I had the highest hopes for him. Maker guide his soul, poor lad."

"We're very sorry for your loss," murmured Alistair, his voice low and respectful.

Flora stared at the woman, recalling those strange few hours she had spent in the Fade. The memories were distorted and incomplete, yet she remembered the small mouse with perfect clarity.

"He wasn't possessed by the demon," she said suddenly, catching Gilda's eyes. "He resisted it. Then… he saved my life. I wouldn't have known what to do without him."

Her voice grow stronger as she continued. The woman stared at her, tears rising to her eyes.

"He died killing the demon. I saw him do it, it was the last thing he did. Here, he asked me to give you this- "

Flora reached beneath the fur cape and through her hair, lifting Niall's amulet from around her neck. She held the pendant to Gilda, who took it as if in a dream.

"Your son died a hero," Flora finished in a clear and steady voice, gazing at the older woman. "He didn't just save me, he saved everyone in the Tower."

They left Gilda staring down at the locket, withdrawing tactfully from the cottage and returning to the marketplace.

As they waited outside the smithy, Alistair looked down at Flora. She had her fingers to her bare neck, a mournful expression on her face. Impulsively he reached out and embraced her, barely able to discern her body beneath the bulky furs.

"It's like hugging a bear," he complained, releasing her.

Half-heartedly she growled at him, baring her teeth. He raised his eyebrows, leaning back against one of the abandoned wooden stalls.

"Careful, you'll end up as a rug in the Arl's study."

* * *

 

Once the horses had been fitted with sturdier shoes and Leliana had finished her prayers, they set off on the western road. Their mounts were strong and easily capable of maintaining good pace, even weighed down with equipment and tents. In a few hours they had left Calanhad and the low rolling hills of the Bannorn behind them. On the western horizon the Frostbacks reared up, jagged and purple against the mellow winter sun.

The road was sound, once having been a bustling trade route. Now only the occasional caravan passed them, loaded with meagre goods. The civil war, combined with the threat of the Blight, had put a stranglehold on Ferelden's commerce. They rested beside a small pond; ate a lunch of hard biscuits and salted meat. Alistair, consulting the map and trying to remember if he had ever come this far west with Duncan, decided that they would try to reach the foothills before nightfall.

Leliana alternated between singing and enthusing about the beauty of western Ferelden. Over the mountains, farther still, lay her beloved Orlais. Mid-afternoon, the flame-haired bard decided to enlighten her rustic companions about the delights of Orlesian political intrigue.

After listening to the various machinations of the court at Val Royeaux, Alistair grew bored and abruptly spurred his horse ahead.

Flora continued listening, half-fascinated and half-incredulous. She had never heard of anything so fantastic, nor so ridiculous as some of the stories that Leliana had gleefully related.

"Honey? In her  _hair?"_  she asked, her eyes wide with disbelief. "I don't understand."

"She had a flock of bees hovering around her. All part of the effect," Leliana continued smugly, with a supercilious nod. Flora gaped, winding the reins absentmindedly around her fingers.

"I don't ever want to go to court in Orlais," she breathed. "It sounds horrible."

Their horses entered a sloping valley, fields gently rising to either side. The farther west they rode; the more the path they were on started to climb.

Leliana smiled, shook her head.

"It is marvellous," she replied, watching a flock of sparrows dart overhead. "There is nothing like the Game in all of Thedas."

"I think I'll keep to Herring," replied Flora, digging her hand beneath the fur to retrieve a stale biscuit. "It sounds too complicated for me."

Leliana tutted, nudging her horse alongside Flora's and reaching out. She touched a loose strand of the young Warden's dark red hair, arranged it artfully alongside her face.

"No, they would  _love_ you. Those looks and that  _delightfully_  common accent. What a novelty."

Flora side-eyed her, chewing the stale biscuit. Leliana's words only served to further convince her that she _never_  wanted to attend any royal court, in any capacity, anywhere in Thedas.

As they rode into the foothills, she remembered Cailan, dazzling in his golden armour, bright and bold and so confident. She was glad that this was the last memory she had of the King, and that she had not seen what became of him on the valley floor below Ostagar. With a start, she recalled that the King had been Alistair's half-brother; and that he had suffered more than one personal loss that day.

The sinking sun cast a glimmering pink sheen on Alistair's broad, mail-clad shoulders, as Flora gazed thoughtfully at the back of his head. He was riding one-handed, the map spread over his horse's neck. As if he could feel her stare, he turned around and gestured for her to come closer.

"I thought we could camp here for the night," he said, placing his finger on the relevant spot. "It's near a running stream and relatively flat."

Flora glanced over her shoulder at the setting sun, half-submerged over the Bannorn.

"Will we get there before it's dark?"

He nodded, folding the map up once more. "Should do, if we pick up the pace."

Flora felt a sudden twinge in her weak knee, the unfortunate casualty of the long day's ride. Gritting her teeth in a stubborn refusal to acknowledge the pain, she smiled at him and nodded.

"Let's go, then."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: I loved writing this chapter, since I can't get over what a busybody Wynne is in game – so I escalated her interfering-ness about twenty times! Sorry Wynne, I really do love her as a character. I've also slightly altered her role – I know that she's the designated healer in game, but since Flora fulfils that role (and it's the only thing she can do!), my version of Wynne is more of a generic, powerful mage. I also think that there's been progress in Alistair and Flora's relationship in this chapter- Alistair not quite knowing what he's doing but acting on his feelings anyway. Last note – I felt so sorry for Niall in the Fade section! I think I'm too much of a soft touch. His story really resonated with me so I wanted to develop it a little further.


	32. On the Road Again

Chapter 32: On The Road Again

Their small party rode for another hour, until it was too dark to travel any further. A thick layer of cloud veiled the moonlight, casting shadows onto the undulating farmland below. They stopped the horses at the edge of a sloping farmer's field beside a stream, Leliana immediately disappearing into the nearby woods with her bow. Alistair dropped to the ground, hauling the bundle of canvas and poles from the back of his mount.

Flora, clinging to the reins, manoeuvred herself carefully to the ground. Her weak knee buckled when she first rested her weight on it and she stumbled, grabbing at the stirrup to steady herself. Alistair looked up as her horse gave a disgruntled snort of protest. It was dark enough that she could not see the expression on his face.

"Alright, Flo?"

"I'm fine," she mumbled, feeling the familiar confusion and resentment that inevitably accompanied the pain. Coaxing the cool whitegold light from the end of her staff, she leaned her weight on it to wedge the makeshift 'torch' into the damp earth. This provided enough light for her and Alistair to manhandle the two heavy canvas tents into shape.

Alistair began to build the fire as she arranged several furs on the dirt in front of it. The closer they drew to the Frostbacks, the colder the temperature had become – the evening here was noticeably chiller than when they had camped outside Redcliffe.

Once the fire was blazing, she shuffled as close to it as she dared and removed her boot. Rolling the leg of her breeches up over her calf, she peered down at her knee. Frustratingly, it appeared healthy enough in the firelight. Beneath the unblemished skin, the muscle throbbed and ached. Alistair brushed a hand over the top of her head as he went to retrieve the cooking equipment from the grazing horses.

"I wonder if she'll be able to see anything at all," he wondered out loud, glancing at the shadowed trees where Leliana had vanished. "It's darker than an Archdemon's armpit."

When Flora didn't laugh, he looked up from where he had been arranging the rack over the fire. She was squinting down at her knee, a perplexed expression on her face. He felt a twinge of sympathy and shuffled around to sit beside her.

"May I?"

When she nodded he reached out and lifted her foot, pulling her calf across his lap. Holding out his hand towards the flames, he felt warmth seeping into his fingers.

"Just like with the horses," he murmured to himself as he began to knead her knee gently, feeling the knotted and sore muscle beneath the pale skin.

Flora, who hadn't forgotten the much hated  _one trick pony_  from Ostagar, scowled but then realised that she would put up with any manner of nickname if it were Stene or any another Warden using it. Alistair heard her sigh and glanced up, raising his eyebrows.

"Does that help?"

Flora nodded, smiling at him. It was true; the soreness was slowly draining away from her injured joint. She rested her chin on her other knee and watched him carefully, trying to memorise the movements that his fingers were making.

"Thank you," she replied, rolling the leg of her breeches back down over her knee. He nodded at her, poking at the fire with the tongs to make it hiss. A chill wind rustled the grass and Flora shivered, pulling the fur higher around her shoulders.

"Will it be as cold as this in the mountains?" she asked, watching him add several more branches to the fire's base.

"Probably. It's milder on the coast?"

She nodded, recalling winters beside the the Waking Sea. "It's more windy than cold. The wind feels like it comes straight from the Anderfels though."

Alistair smiled despite himself, closing his eyes as he was momentarily lost in memory.

"There was a Mabari hound at the castle when I was younger," he said slowly, feeling the warmth of the fire on his face.

"It always used to bark it's head off whenever it was windy. Used to charge around the yard, snapping it's jaws wildly. Trying to catch the air. Drove everyone crazy."

When he opened his eyes, Flora was holding something out to him in the flat of her palm. He stared, then reached out and lifted the flattened wax paper dog up gently; it still carried the warmth of her skin.

"Is this meant to be that dog?"

He recalled folding the paper on the ramparts at Ostagar, watching the troops move out on their doomed last descent into the valley below. While he was absentmindedly folding the paper high above them, Duncan was unknowingly going to his death.

_Was it really unknowingly?_ a small voice in his subconscious asked, from somewhere behind his ear.  _He gave Flora the old treaties, hidden behind her Circle dismissal. Why would he do that unless a small part of him at least suspected?_

_This is all Loghain's fault._

Alistair opened his eyes, feeling a sudden violent swell of anger deep in his stomach. Clenching his fingers to crumple the dog, he hurled it into the base of the flames. The wax protected the paper from immediate incineration, the edges slowly beginning to char.

He caught sight of Flora's distraught face and immediately felt a surge of regret. She was watching the dog as it began to catch alight, her face mournful.

Impulsively, Alistair thrust his hand into the base of the fire, feeling a jolt of pain as his fingers wrapped around the dog and pulled it from the blaze.

"Aah! Maker!" he hissed, cursing under his breath as he retracted his hand. Flora, who had startled in shock, let out a squawk of alarm.

"Why?!" she yelped as he opened his fingers, letting the slightly charred paper dog drop onto the earth.

Alistair gritted his teeth, the skin of his hand and wrist blotchy, several blisters already rising on his fingers.

"Ah, that's actually quite painful," he commented lightly, through a clenched jaw, surveying the reddened skin. "I really am a fool."

Flora reached out and gripped his sleeve, bringing his hand up before her face. Bowing her head, she took a deep breath and  _exhaled_. Moments afterwards, she felt the golden energy rising beneath her tongue, the mist rolling out from between her lips and clinging to his injured hand. As the pale yellow energy dissipated, blisters melted away and the skin gradually healed over, reddened flesh paling to its usual tan shade.

Alistair felt the pain fade away, as if her breath was aloe. The whole process of healing had taken less than twenty seconds; when she opened her eyes, the hand had been restored to its previous state. Even the old callouses had been smoothed over.

He moved his hand to touch the side of her face, wondering, resting his palm gently alongside her cheek.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, as she gazed up at him. "I'm an idiot."

"No, you're grieving," said Flora, who had seen more than her fair share of newly-made widows screaming in futile rage at the sea. "And angry."

Alistair ran his thumb over her sloping cheekbone, shaking his own head slightly.

"But not at you, Flora," he murmured, hazel eyes boring into her own wide gaze. " _Never_  at you."

The fire hissed and spat, sending orange sparks up towards the encroaching clouds. Alistair gazed down at her, the warmth of the flames reflected in her pale irises. Gently, he slid his fingers through her hair, cupping the back of her head with his fingers.

"You're the only good thing that's come out of all this darkness," Alistair said, very quietly, then leaned forward and pressed his lips against her cheek. He lingered there for a moment before pulling back. She was looking at him, curiously, her expression unreadable.

Taking the paper dog, he pressed it into her palm and folded her fingers over it. She smiled at him, and he opened his mouth, unable to help himself.

"Flo, I- "

" _The Maker has blessed us!"_

Leliana bounded forth from the shadowed treeline, triumphantly wielding a large wild hare. Alistair pulled away from Flora as if scalded, almost burning himself for a second time that evening in his haste.

"I could find nothing for an hour! I thought we would have to go without fresh meat," Leliana continued, beaming as she parked herself on the opposite side of the campfire and retrieved the skinning knife from her boot. "Then, miraculously, this hare ran right across my path! Sent by the Maker himself."

Alistair muttered darkly under his breath, while Flora tentatively smiled at Leliana.

"Thank you," she said politely, drawing her hand inside the furs to tuck the wax dog safely back within the treaties. "Do you need any help preparing- "

Before she had finished her sentence, Leliana had expertly begun to field dress the hare. The knife flashed as she began to make quick, controlled cuts in the creature's flesh.

Raising his eyebrows but remaining silent, Alistair went to sort the rest of the cooking utensils out from the tangle of equipment. Flora pulled the furs tighter around her shoulders as a cold breeze straight from the Frostbacks blew across their campsite.

"Who taught you to be so good with a knife and bow?" she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. Leliana paused, the light reflecting off her blade.

"What do you mean?" she asked evasively, keeping her eyes averted.

Flora shrugged mildly, glancing over to where Alistair was bringing over the iron skewers.

"It doesn't matter, I was just curious," she replied placatingly, reaching up to take the skewers from Alistair as he sat down beside her. Leliana let out a small sigh under her breath, jointing the hare with several practised slices.

"My past is a little more…complicated than that of a fisherman's daughter from Herring," she said after a moment, taking a skewer from Flora and impaling a chunk of meat. "I'm not as young as I look."

Alistair gave a mild shrug, taking the first skewer with a nod of thanks.

"I know how that feels," he murmured, passing it over to Flora. "No, take it."

Leliana's eyes sparkled for a moment, as she held a second skewer out to him.

"Ah yes: the Bastard Prince," she said gleefully as he scowled at her. "It adds a great element to my epic poem of our adventures. Though it is difficult to find anything to rhyme with 'prince.' I've had to use 'lord' and 'sword' instead."

Alistair grumbled darkly under his breath, holding the raw chunk of rabbit out into the flames.

"I'd rather you just used 'Alistair', because that's who I am," he retorted, tightly.

"When she called him 'prince"; he started to 'wince,'" announced Flora triumphantly, almost dropping her skewer into the fire.

"Don't you start too!" complained Alistair, nudging her in the ribs as she laughed. Leliana clapped her hands in delight, resting the iron skewer against her fur-covered knee.

"I love it!"

Flora stared at the earth, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. Having never learnt to read or write, she rarely got praise for anything related to the arts. Alistair looked sideways at her pinkening cheeks, and patted her on the knee, resting his hand there affectionately.

"I still need something for 'Flora'" Leliana complained, taking a bite of the hare. "Why couldn't you have been called something a little easier to rhyme?"

"What, like  _Leliana?_ " murmured Alistair under his breath. Flora shrugged, amicably, ramming the chunk of game into her mouth. There was silence for a moment, broken only by the stamping and snorting of the horses as they huddled together for warmth.

"How about:  _Warden Flora, we adore her,_ " Alistair said casually after a few minutes, tapping his sister-warden lightly on the nose. Flora, her cheeks stuffed with meat, beamed at him. Leliana laughed, her curious eyes watching Alistair closely.

"Not the most elegant rhyme, but it'll do."

After stoking the fire to burn more brightly, they retired to their separate tents. Since the nights were so much colder further west, they had furs as coverings in addition to the blankets. Eager for them to be successful, Bann Teagan had seen that they were sufficiently provisioned.

Alistair pulled the furs up over his shoulders, turning on his side to face Flora, who was on her back beside him. In the next tent, they could hear Leliana humming quietly to herself, the sound muffled through the heavy canvas.

"Are you warm enough, Flo?" he asked, as a breeze rustled the sides of the tent. Flora nodded, sliding her hand through the layers of blankets. His fingers grasped hers and wrapped tightly around them.

"'Night, Alistair," she mumbled, feeling a slight lurch of dread as she remembered the trauma of the previous night. Alistair heard the trepidation in her voice and squeezed her fingers tightly.

"Remember, I'll be here," he murmured in response, rubbing his thumb over her small knuckles. "I'll fish-rope you."

* * *

 

Alistair woke in the middle of the night, the moonlight filtering through a gap in the canvas folds. It illuminated an empty bedroll beside him, the furs and blankets pushed back. Yawning, he eyed the hollowed space where her body had been. He had last woken to check on her two hours previously; her breathing had been even and her pulse steady.

He waited for several minutes, not exactly  _worried_ about her – she was more than capable of defending herself – but more curious as to where she had gone. Then, when she still had not returned, he shoved the blankets away and crawled awkwardly from the tent, pushing the flaps to one side.

His palms met a cold, powdery wetness and he realised that it was snowing, and must have been for a while. The field was covered in a thin layer of white, only the tallest fronds of grass visible. The fire had long since been extinguished and the horses had sought shelter beneath the trees.

Flora was standing a short way away from the tents, standing barefoot in the snow. Clad in the linen shirt and breeches she had slept in, she was gazing up at the sky in open-mouthed and slightly gormless wonder, face tilted towards the falling flakes. He went to her, boots crunching down the fresh fallen snow, reached for her shoulder.

"Maker's Breath" he hissed, conscious of Leliana's tent only yards away. "What are you  _doing?_ "

She turned to him, eyes wide. Tiny flakes of snow clung to her lashes and the loose strands of hair around her face. Spreading her arms, she gestured about her.

"We never g-got snow in Herring," she breathed, wandering off towards the buried remains of the campfire. "And in the Tower you could only see it through the windows."

Alistair watched her rotate in a circle, letting the flakes land in her upturned palms and watching them melt. He was only roused from his reverie when she knelt down with a joyful squawk, and swooped forward to grab her by the shoulders.

"Alright, that's enough of that." He could feel her cold skin through the thin linen shirt; then he reached for her hand and let out a reproachful hiss. Her fingers were freezing, her palm clammy with damp. "Right, come on."

He steered the protesting Flora back inside the tent, dislodging a shower of snow down the back of his neck as he collided with the pole. She let out a quiet cackle as he swore under his breath.

"Too c-c-cold for you?" she mumbled, through chattering teeth. He crawled onto the bedroll beside her, then impulsively reached out his arms. Drawing her close to him, he pulled up the furs and blankets around them in a huddle. He could feel her skin cold and clammy through the linen shirt.

"You'll get pneumonia doing things like that, sweetheart" he murmured in response, her ear inches from his mouth. "Put a pair of shoes on next time."

"Sorry," she replied, as he brushed a hand over the top of her head. He paused for a moment, his fingers resting on her linen-covered hip.

"It's alright," Alistair replied, wondering at how perfectly her body seemed to mould against his own. The next moment, he felt a twinge deep in his gut, persistent and unsettling. It took him a few seconds to recognise the disquieting feeling as  _desire._

Hastily he pulled back to distance himself, propping himself up on his elbow and peering down at her in slight disbelief.  _Flo is my sister-warden_ he thought to himself, sternly.  _Don't be ridiculous. What would Duncan think?_

He stared at her and she gazed placidly back up at him in return, her eyes opaque in the half-darkness.

"How do you spell snow?" she asked, wondering at the strange expression on his face. He cleared his throat, his voice thick.

"S-N-O-W," he muttered, distracted. Flora mouthed the word to herself, as if committing it to memory, then smiled up at him.

"Look, I've been practising," she whispered, reaching her finger up to his stubbled cheek and meticulously tracing the letters  _F-L-O-R-A._ He swallowed, trying to ignore the thrill left behind on his skin in the wake of her touch.

"Very impressive," he replied, then braced himself as, thus encouraged, she reached up once more. This time her finger lightly sketched the letters  _A-L-S-T-A-R-E._

"Is that right?" she asked, then scowled as he grinned down at her. The strange tension retreated, replaced with a sudden surge of affection. "Well, is it  _close_?"

"Close enough, my dear," Alistair murmured, leaning forward and kissing her nose. Settling back down against the bedroll, he stretched out an arm and Flora shuffled herself against him, her fingers sliding through his. He stretched his other forearm around her head to cradle it gently, his hand resting lightly on top of her dark red hair.

* * *

 

At dawn break the next morning, Leliana thrust her head expectantly between the canvas flaps, eyes alight.

"What a  _glorious_  day the Maker has blessed us with! Oh."

Her face fell as she saw Alistair with his arm chastely around Flora, who was clad in so many layers that the shape of her body was barely visible. Leliana pursed her lips in disappointment.

"Breakfast's ready," she muttered, letting the canvas flaps drop abruptly.

A yawning Flora ground her fists into her eyes, squinting after the departed bard in confusion.

"What's she grumpy about?" she mumbled, rummaging at the bottom of the blankets for her boots. Alistair snorted, running his hands over his head in an unsuccessful attempt to flatten his hair.

"She wants to find us engaged in some… _out-of-hours prayertime_ ," he said, casually, shooting her a sideways glance. Immediately he regretted his choice of words, worried that she would react either with embarrassment or a vehement rejection.

Flora laughed, and seemed neither blushing nor angry. Instead she leaned over and brushed her fingers through Alistair's hair, smoothing the rumpled strands.

"She just wants to add a new verse to her song," she replied mildly, glancing around the mess of rumpled blankets and furs. "Where's my other  _boot?"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: Like Flora, I was also raised by the sea, where it was too warm for snow. Seeing snow for the first time was like one of those 'flashbulb memories' we studied in Psychology – something I knew I would never forget. Now I live inland where it's colder and I see a lot more snow, but I miss the sea every day.


	33. The Assassin from Antiva

Chapter 33: The Assassin From Antiva

After a hasty breakfast and a wash in the nearby stream, their party set off again. They were climbing now, the path winding its way through the slowly rising foothills nestled at the base of the Frostbacks. The mountains drew closer, impossibly vast and imposing, Ferelden's most ancient defence against intruders. The air grew colder, and combined with the increasing altitude, no one was feeling in peak condition.

Leliana had crossed the Frostbacks before, utilising some secretive route from Orlais. Alistair, although he had never been at this elevation, had climbed the highest hills in the Bannorn as part of his Templar training. Flora, who had spent her entire life at sea level, was the worst affected. She had already heaved up her breakfast on the side of the road, and now her head was beginning to spin. Determined not to fall, she wound the reins between her fingers and hunched forward in the saddle.

Alistair paused when they came to a crossroads, squinting at Sten's pencil markings on their map. The left hand route wound upwards through a dark clump of firs, and he recognised the shape of the mountain ahead.

"I think it's up here," he said to Leliana, who was swathed in the Arlessa's snow-white fur stole. She leaned forward and nodded, gesturing lightly towards the trees.

"I haven't been here before but I believe you're right," she replied, drawing the fur up around her shoulders. "But I don't think we should attempt the mountain if it's dark."

Alistair glanced up at the low afternoon sun, then peered back down at the map. "There's a cave marked here, we could rest there. It's not far past the wood. Then we should reach Haven tomorrow. Sound good, Flora?"

This was directed over his shoulder at Flora, who gave an unintelligible mumble in response, her head hanging. As Leliana led the way into the dark cluster of trees, Alistair dropped back to ride alongside his pale sister-warden. She peered at him, her eyes glassy and he grimaced sympathetically.

"My poor Flo," he murmured, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You will get used to it, I promise. I was just like this on our first training exercise in the Bannorns."

" _When_  will I get used to it?" replied Flora through gritted teeth, the height seeming to steal her breath from her lungs. The sun above was blotted out by the high firs above them, their dark branches stretching across the watery grey sky. The sounds of the foothills were muffled by the thick canopy, and it was suddenly very quiet.

"Alistair, the path divides!" called Leliana from up front, and he spurred on his horse to catch her up, simultaneously unfolding the map. Leliana turned, and her eyes suddenly widened. Already reaching for her bow, she let out a cry of warning.

Two figures leapt from the upper branches of the dark trees, elven-shaped and coated in dark leather, silver blades poised in their hands. Leliana's horse shied backwards and her first shot went wild, the arrow embedding itself in a nearby tree trunk. Alistair was knocked to the ground by the second assassin. Grunting and landing hard, he reached for his sword and realised that it was still in his pack, as a thrown blade cut a gleaming scythe in the air towards him.

Inches from his throat it met a rapidly materialising golden barrier. The blade skidded to the side; the assassin glanced over in confusion. Flora had clambered off the saddle and was standing in the path looking as though she might be sick again. Not having had time to grab her staff, her hand was thrust out towards them as whitegold energy streamed from her trembling fingers.

The next moment, the assassin above Alistair fell back, an arrow in his throat. Leliana had regained control of her horse and was holding her bow aloft, a triumphant expression on her face. The second elven assassin withdrew several throwing daggers, and sent one arcing through the air towards her. She ducked, the small blade falling harmlessly to the path. By this point Alistair had lunged for his sword, and was advancing on the Dalish elf and Leliana had nocked her bow with a second arrow.

"You think to assassinate Grey Wardens?!" Alistair roared, his eyes hard and blazing with anger. "I'll show you the error of your ways!"

Flora had been watching, eyes wide and mouth open, lowering her hand as Alistair took back his weapon. Just then she caught a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye. The next moment someone leapt towards her; she fell heavily onto her back on the snow-covered path with a grunt. There was a heavy weight on top of her, the sensation unfamiliar and alarming.

"A shame, such a pretty face," she heard someone say in a strongly accented tone. A breathless Flora opened her eyes to see a blond elf smiling down at her, his pale brown eyes warm and caressing. She felt fingers stroking her cheek, without care or affection.

"Still," the elf continued, withdrawing a glittering blade. "Orders are orders. The Antivan Crows send their- "

Flora regained her breath before he could finish his sentence. Immediately a pulse of golden light sprung forth from her body, like a second skin stretching and expanding outwards into the air, faster than an eyeblink. The rapid growth of the barrier thrust the elf violently backwards; he appeared to bear an expression of shock as he was catapulted into a bush.

The next moment, Alistair had grabbed the assassin and hauled him to his feet. Slamming him back against a tree trunk, he was about to shove his bloodied sword unceremoniously into the elf's gut when Flora interrupted him.

" _Wait!"_

Leliana, stepping over the eviscerated body of the second assassin, stared at the elf, her eyes widening. Alistair looked around at Flora, who was clambering to her feet with a grimace of pain.

"Flora, we can't take him prisoner. There's no towns around here, no Templars to remand him to justice."

"No, no-  _ouch."_  Flora approached, limping slightly. The elf made no reply, his head hanging, resignation on his tattooed features.

"I ask only that you make it quick, Wardens," he murmured. "I have an old friend whom I should very much like to see again."

Alistair glanced at Flora, who shook her head imploringly. With a slight sigh, he lowered the blade. Flora stepped forward, eyeing the elf curiously.

"You're an assassin?" she asked, but Leliana was quicker to answer. She had recognised the style of ambush and the distinctive cut of the silver daggers.

"He's a Crow, from the assassins' guild in Antiva," she breathed, her brow furrowing. "The most skilled assassins in the world."

Alistair let out a derisive snort and the elf shot him a barbed look.

"Do not be so quick to judge, Warden," he hissed. "If I had wanted to kill  _you_ , you would be dead. Why do you think I attacked the barrier mage instead, waited for her to shield before I struck? I have been following you since Redcliffe."

Flora glanced over at Alistair, who gave a small shrug of confusion. Leliana frowned, then darted a hand forward and retrieved a small poisoned blade from a hidden fold in the elf's sleeve.

"It's true, he could have used this," the bard replied, sniffing the poison. "He did not mean for us to die."

"Two Wardens? No one else would take on the contract, except for I, Zevran," the elf replied, with a half-shrug. "I had grown weary of life in Thedas and wished for pastures new."

"Who hired you?" asked Flora, suddenly. Zevran wrinkled his nose as he recalled.

"Some old human noble, an Arl of some sort. Filthy grey beard, stained with wine. Stunk worse than an Antivan brewery. Hired you on behalf of Teryn Mac Tir."

Flora's jaw dropped in outrage as Alistair suddenly remembered Morrigan's warning on the road to Redcliffe.

_Loghain cannot risk any survivors, who might tell tales of his betrayal of Cailan at Ostagar. He must purge all remaining Wardens, so that they cannot speak of his treachery._

"That old snake!" hissed Flora indignantly, as Leliana gave a shrug in acknowledgement of Loghain's practicality. "I can't believe he's still trying to get us killed."

" _I'm_ not surprised," replied Alistair grimly, keeping the point of his sword nestled against the elf's gut. "Even the two of us could pose a threat to him."

Alistair and Flora stared at one another for a moment, the pressure of being the last two remaining Wardens in Ferelden weighing upon them both. The elf coughed delicately.

"Might I ask, what it is you plan to do with Zevran Arainai?" he queried politely, raising blond eyebrows. "Whether it is by your hand or the Crows, I am as good as dead."

Leliana nodded, her own bright blue eyes searching the elf's face.

"Now that he's failed, they'll send someone else to kill him, and possibly you two" she said, and Alistair groaned.

"As if we didn't have enough to worry about with, you know, the  _Blight_ and everything."

Flora was quiet, trying to think despite her pounding headache and continued nausea. For a moment there was silence and a strange stand-off. Zevran, who had not realised that his Warden targets were mere recruits five years his junior, eyed them both.

"Or I could swear my oath of loyalty to you instead," he said, carefully. Alistair eyed him with some incredulous surprise.

"Are you joking? You tried to  _kill_ us!"

"Strictly business, I assure you," replied Zevran, smoothly. "To be honest, I am relieved that I do not have to deprive the world of a lovely thing such as yourself."

This was addressed to Flora, who gaped back at him, uncomprehending. Alistair scowled, gripping the elf's neck a little more firmly within his gauntlet.

"The Wardens never reject help, no matter from where it might come," Leliana said softly, and Zevran nodded. Alistair turned his scowl to her.

"Do you mind not telling a Warden…. Warden-things? I  _know_  that. It's just - he's an  _assassin_. Flo?"

Flora rolled her eyes, giving a little shrug.

"Fine! You can come with us. But if you try anything funny, I'll… explode your head."

"Ah, but you cannot," retorted Zevran, raising his eyebrows superciliously. "I've been following you, remember? I know you can do naught but heal and shield. Which, seeing as the Crows will be after me, is quite convenient."

Flora frowned but remained quiet, knowing that she'd been caught out. Zevran cleared his throat, the words strange in his mouth.

"I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation... this I swear."

"An assassin's oath isn't worth much," grumbled Alistair, glancing over at Flora as he withdrew his sword and stepped back.

Flora had become distracted by her grumbling stomach, and was rummaging in one of the saddlebags. Zevran eyed her, a grin spreading over his face.

"I especially wouldn't mind being  _her_ man," he murmured, watching her pull out a loaf of bread. The next moment his smile faltered as she began to tear it apart with her teeth, barely pausing for breath. "I see she has an appetite."

Alistair shot him a dark scowl, having heard tales from the other Wardens about the legendary debauchery of the Antivans.

"You leave her alone," he muttered, going to his grazing horse and gesturing to Flora. "Come on, Flo, you're riding with me. Since our assassin friend appears to have mislaid his mount."

Having retrieved her staff, Flora took his hand and he hauled her up behind him like a sack of potatoes. He glanced behind him, making sure that she was on the saddle properly.

"Is your leg alright?"

She nodded, although her knee was giving off a dull throb of pain. Leliana watched Zevran mount the spare horse, her eyes narrowed. Her expression was half-mistrustful and half-curious.

* * *

 

They rode out of the dark firs, Zevran riding up front. Alistair's watchful eyes never left the elf's narrow back, his brow furrowed unhappily. The path sloped upwards once more, following a narrow ridge. Beneath them a valley dropped away, hardy livestock dotting snow-covered fields far below. The sun began to descend and Alistair unfolded the map once again, squinting through the waning light.

"There should be a cave along this ridge," he called guardedly up to Zevran, who was already keenly scanning the surroundings. Flora leaned her head back against his shoulder wearily; after she had almost fallen off the saddle, he had switched places with her. She sat in front of him, shoulders hunched.

"I see it," the elf called back, gesturing to one side. Descending agilely, he led his horse by its bridle into the narrow entrance. Alistair, hand on his blade, followed him more warily.

The cave began with a long and narrow passage. They left the horses near the entrance, before Zevran led the way into a large circular chamber. There was a wide crack in the rock above, through which the fading dusk sky could be seen. After Alistair had confiscated the rest of the elf's weapons, he began to gather materials for a fire, continually glancing over his shoulder with suspicion. Leliana went to feed and water the horses, humming an Orlesian song under her breath quietly; enjoying how the sounds were amplified and echoed back. Flora, stumbling slightly, began to gather moss from the cave walls for fuel.

Before long the fire was blazing. Too weary to cook, they shared salted meat and hard biscuits. Zevran, attempting to curry favour, offered up his last flask of Antivan wine. Only Leliana accepted, shooting Zevran a look from beneath her eyelashes. Flora, who had eaten seven biscuits and now felt more sick than before, lay on her side with her cheek against Alistair's thigh. He rested his fingers lightly on her head, tracing idle patterns on her scalp.

"So, Sister Leliana," the elf said after a moment, clearing his throat. "You were very quick to dispatch my two companions. I thank you; they were both very tedious. Who taught you to shoot like that?"

Leliana paused, her fingers hesitating on the strings of her lute.

"I am naturally talented," she replied evasively, resuming her melody. Zevran raised an eyebrow sceptically but did not press the issue, instead turning his gaze on Alistair and Flora.

"So, Grey Wardens, if there is a Blight- and your General claims that there is  _not_ \- what are you doing in the Frostbacks instead of fighting the Darkspawn?"

"It's a long story," replied Alistair, rubbing his thumb gently around the edge of Flora's ear. "We need the support of Arl Eamon against Loghain. And he's been poisoned."

Here he shot a dirty look at Zevran, who shrugged innocently.

"That, at least, was not my doing."

"No, it was foolish Jowan," mumbled Flora, feeling a pang of sadness as she recalled her now dead, once-friend.

"If he is poisoned, why are you here?" the elf enquired, watching the young warden soothe his pale-faced companion.

"The Urn of Sacred Ashes," interjected Leliana, strumming the lute softly. "There is a priest in Haven who may have information on it."

Zevran's eyebrows shot to the stone ceiling, his brown eyes widening.

"Ah, so we are hunting fairytale and legend, then," he said lightly, pulling out a narrow blade from his leather boot and sliding it across the earthen floor towards Alistair. "Here, you missed this one."

* * *

 

Later, when the moon had risen high enough to glimpse through the crack in the roof, they drew straws to decide who would take which watch over the eye-rolling elf. Zevran himself, with a scornful snort, prepared his own bedroll and turned his back on them. It was decided that Alistair would take first watch, Leliana second, and Flora the third.

The early watch was uneventful, save for Zevran grumbling that he couldn't sleep with the heat of Alistair's glare on his back. Alistair scowled, but said nothing. His gaze moved between the darkened cave entrance, Flora's restless fidgeting and the prostrate assassin. The moon overhead was slowly consumed by cloud, casting the cave into shadow. Alistair threw more moss on the dying flames, coaxing a few more hours of life from them.

Leliana took his place in the darkest part of the night, sitting cross legged beside the fire and sharpening her blade. Zevran eyed her, then canted his head over towards Alistair pointedly. The young warden had slumped down on his bedroll beside Flora and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Her sleepy hand groped around until it caught his, their fingers winding together in a practised motion.

"What's between those two?" the elf asked in an undertone, raising his brows. Leliana smiled enigmatically, holding the honed blade up to the firelight and turning it from side to side.

"Oh? They're just friends. He calls her his warden-sister. It's very sweet, don't you think?"

Zevran look more sceptical, shifting his position on the damp bedroll.

"Sister-warden, eh? I see. Who are they anyway? The contract just said 'Grey Wardens'. They are both so… _young_."

Leliana replaced the gleaming blade in its leather sheath on her thigh. Zevran eyed her admiringly for a moment before she replied.

"She's a nobody.  _He's_  much more interesting- you'll appreciate this, being from Antiva- his father was the old King."

Zevran's brow furrowed for a moment, dimly recalling his Fereldan politics.

"Cailan? Ah, no-  _Maric?_ " His eyes fell on the sleeping Alistair with more interest, moving over the rumpled blond hair and the noble features, softened in sleep. "Ah, we do love our royal bastards in Antiva. We have so many of them, you see."

"I had thought their numbers would have been much thinned thanks to you and the Crows," countered Leliana swiftly, giving the fire another prod. Zevran inclined his head, conceding her point.

"True. But, if my sources are correct- Cailan left the Queen heirless when he perished at Ostagar?" When Leliana nodded, his brow furrowed slightly. "So that means-"

The elf and the bard shared a look, and she nodded once more, slowly. A sly smile crept over Zevran's face, watching Alistair yawning in his sleep.

"So one of our Wardens is a bastard prince. Curious, I find myself warming to him; he reminds me of home."

Leliana shot him a severe look. "Don't press the issue," she warned, shaking her head. "He rejects his heritage, utterly refuses to entertain any possibility of becoming King."

"Hm," replied Zevran, resting his cheek against his arm thoughtfully.

* * *

 

Flora, when it was her turn for the third watch, still felt no better. She sat across from Zevran, the dying embers of the fire between them, and attempted to breathe deeply. The air did not seem to fill her lungs properly and she had resorted to fast, shallow, panicky breaths. She closed her eyes for a moment, touching the cool metal of the gold ring on her finger and trying to calm herself.

_You're not drowning,_ she tried to tell herself firmly.  _The air is thin here, that's all._

The usual trick did not work and she felt frustration and fear rising up in her stomach. When she opened her eyes, Zevran was kneeling in front of her and she recoiled in alarm, reflexively raising her hand. He held out his palms to show that they were empty.

"Hold," the elf said quickly, not wanting to be flung against the cave wall by her unfolding barrier. "I intend no harm. I want to help."

She lowered her hand, eyeing him suspiciously. He raised his brows at her, brown eyes moving thoughtfully over her features.  _For a 'nobody', she has some rather refined cheekbones,_ the elf mused inwardly.

"I once spent a week in the Vimmark mountains, trailing a corrupt viscount," he said lightly, reaching for his water pouch. "I learnt how to acclimatise myself to the heights. Breathe with me, come on."

Suspicious but willing to try anything to combat the nausea she herself could not control, the panting Flora followed his instruction. He inhaled slowly, holding up his fingers to illustrate a count of two, then exhaled for the same duration. She copied him and he nodded, inhaling once more for the same duration. The next time, he counted four beats on his fingers, and then eventually six. As she exhaled, she realised that her lungs felt full and that the nausea in the pit of her stomach had gone.

"What are you doing?" hissed a sleepy Alistair in outrage as he saw Zevran crouching before Flora and gazing deep into her wide eyes. Almost falling into the fire in his haste, he scrambled over to put his arm around Flora's shoulder, protectively.

"Calm, I am merely assisting your... _sister_ ," replied Zevran, reaching for his water pouch. Alistair peered at Flora, who had regained some of the colour in her cheeks. She nodded, confirming the elf's words.

"You also need to drink more than you otherwise would at these heights. Here." He handed her the pouch and she took a large gulp of water.

"Thank you," she whispered gratefully, and the elf nodded, taking back the pouch. Alistair peered down at Flora, his hazel eyes alight with concern.

"Sure you're alright?" he murmured, brushing his fingers over her forehead. Flora smiled in confirmation, inhaling more steadily now, and he embraced her impulsively. Over her shoulder, he nodded tightly at Zevran, who had returned to his own bedroll. The elf inclined his head in acknowledgement, lifting a casual hand.

Flora exhaled, her breath hot against Alistair's ear. He ran his hand down her narrow back, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the linen shirt. Idly, he recalled a time where he had needed to mentally justify even a simple arm around a shoulder to the looming spectre of his old Chantry Mother.

"It's still my watch; it's not dawn yet," whispered Flora in his ear, her eyes moving to the still-darkened crack in the rock above them. "You should get some sleep."

Alistair nodded, drawing back and glancing towards his bed roll. "That's- probably wise. 'Night, Flo."

Flora smiled at him, remembering how –knowing full well she was capable of defending herself- he had lunged across the cave to 'protect' her from what he assumed were Zevran's unwanted advances. Spontaneously she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, feeling two days worth of stubble beneath her lips.

Alistair gaped as though the Archdemon itself had just stuck it's head through the gap in the ceiling. Flora grinned at his expression, shuffling over to the food store and rummaging for some early breakfast.

"Oh,  _I_  see how it is," came an indignant murmur from the shadows. "Zevran helps her with the mountain sickness; but the handsome bastard gets the reward!"

Flora, rummaging in the various packages, was too preoccupied with her stomach to respond.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OC Author's Note: Zevran makes me feel so much – I think he has to be one of the funniest, most complex and tragic characters in any game I've played (which is actually not a wide range). This chapter is another travelling chapter, which I love to write. I think I'm better at character interaction than I am at big action set-pieces, which is probably an indicator that I need to practise more battle/fight scenes and less camp interaction….oh well, there's a cultist fight at Haven so that'll do!


	34. The Temple of Sacred Ashes

Chapter 34: The Temple of Sacred Ashes

At dawn they packed up camp quickly, the proximity of their goal proving to be strong motivation. It was one of those bright, cold winter mornings where the sun shone sharply, and even the light had a harsh edge to it. Frost lined the edges of rocks and encased individual blades of grass; the wind increased in speed the higher they climbed. They had not seen any other sign of civilisation since the previous afternoon. Alistair still insisted that Zevran travel in front, but his attitude towards the elf had softened somewhat.

Leliana was singing an Orlesian ballad, with convoluted lyrics about a woman who had fallen in love with the unreachable moon. Flora, who never got to hear much music, was happily bobbing her head along to the melody. Alistair preferred hearty Fereldan drinking songs; whereas Zevran listened with increasing scepticism.

"The moon does not seem a very  _adequate_ lover," he complained, allowing his horse to fall back slightly alongside Leliana's. "Why does she lust after it so?"

"Why is it always about… _that_  with you?" complained Alistair, then winced as the back of Flora's bobbing head hit him in the jaw. "Ouch!"

"Sorry!"

Leliana frowned at the blond elf, pausing mid-verse.

"It's an  _allegory_ ," she snapped, tossed her short, luminous strands of hair impatiently around her ears. "It was written in the Blessed Age, to represent the hunter DuFrey's enduring and hopeless love for his mistress, the Lady Perihelion. He ends up being gored by a halla, and dies in her arms, professing his eternal adoration. It's very beautiful and sad."

Flora frowned, realising that she had been bouncing around enthusiastically to a tragic tale of unrequited love and gruesome death.

"Give me  _Two Ten Ton Kegs_  any day," murmured Alistair darkly under his breath, rubbing his sore chin.

They began to climb out of a valley, the road curving up and around a high ridge. Leliana glanced over her shoulder at Flora, curiously.

"Do you have any songs from that little village of yours? I love collecting regional melodies."

Flora nodded, absentmindedly plaiting the horse's mane in front of her.

"There are songs from Herring. Some of them are about fish. Most are about the sea. Those aren't very cheerful, though. I prefer the ones about the fish."

She realised that Leliana was looking at her expectantly, and let out a cackle, shaking her head.

"I can't sing them. I tried once and my dad accused me of scaring the catch over to the shores of the Free Marches."

Suddenly Zevran, who had ridden up ahead, gave an exclamation.

"Ah, civilisation! Of a sort."

They approached a small village, huddled against the base of a sloping rock face. The buildings were wooden, small and weathered; gardens growing hardy crops were scattered haphazardly between dwellings. The only stone building appeared to be the Chantry, perched on the crest of a low rise. Leaving the horses to graze, their small party headed into the village.

The most striking feature of Haven was its emptiness. There was no sign of movement; save for a feeble and emaciated cow chewing half-heartedly on some elfroot. Doors were sealed closed, windows covered with wooden shutters. The wind blew between the buildings, emphasising the village's lonely desolation.

"I don't like this," murmured Alistair, glancing around with trepidation. "Where is everybody?"

"Brother Genitivi might be in the Chantry," offered Leliana, gesturing up at the stone spired building. Just then, a high and accusatory voice rang out from behind them.

" _Lowlanders aren't welcome here!"_

It was a young boy, watching them with adult-like suspicion on his gaunt features. His clothing was patched and stained, and he appeared not to have been adequately fed. Alistair and Leliana glanced at one another, Alistair shoving his sword back into its sheath.

Flora, who liked children, advanced forward and stretched out a palm.

"Hello, I'm Flora."

To her confusion, the child shrank away from her.

"Go away! We don't  _like_  outsiders. They cause trouble for the Father."

"For your father?" asked Leliana, her brow furrowing. The child shook his head in petulant anger.

"No! For  _the_ Father. He doesn't like Lowlanders either!"

He made a mock-lunge at Flora, jabbing something through the air at her. She squinted at the child, perplexed.

"But there  _are_ no male priests," muttered Leliana, glancing at Alistair in confusion. He gave a helpless shrug, eyeing the boy.

The child's eyes settled on Zevran, and he let out a hiss. "Knife-ears! You'd better run before the Father catches you! He  _especially_ doesn't like your kind."

Zevran smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Would you like to see the  _other_  type of knives I have, boy?" he asked, pleasantly, opening his tunic to reveal a gleam of silver. "I'd be happy to show them to you."

"The Father might give them to me afterwards," the boy said, a dreamy expression. In a sudden lurch of realisation, Alistair recognised what the boy was jabbing at Flora, and felt a spiral of alarm. It was a human finger, the flesh wizened and clinging to the bone.

Alistair stepped forward and gripped her elbow, steering her away from the strange child.

"Sounds like the Chantry is the best place to start, then. Nice to meet you!" he called over his shoulder, injecting false cheer into his voice.

Suddenly, the eerie quiet of the village took on a more sinister edge. They kept in a tight group as they moved up the slope towards the Chantry, Leliana holding her bow loosely in hand.

"Is that what people are like in your village, Flo?" asked Alistair and she glowered at him, shaking her head vehemently.

" _No!_  Well, maybe a little bit."

The Chantry stood before them, double doors shut. Above the entrance, a stained glass window depicting Andraste's martyrdom glowed in the harsh sunlight. Flora lifted her staff from her back, and nudged one of the doors open, cautiously.

The inside of the main hall was at once both familiar and strange. The layout was the same as any standard Chantry- the main aisle flanked by wooden benches, the stone altar at the front. Yet instead of Andraste's single flame, several large braziers burned. There were tattered banners hung on the walls, depicting a scarlet dragon in mid-flight. At one end of the room, seven men stood in a row with their backs turned, chanting in dull and atonal polyphony. They were garbed in red robes, and the one in the centre wore a tall, scarlet hat. Instead of incense, a foul and rotten smell permeated the hall.

As the others clustered in behind her, curious to see why she had halted, Leliana let out a gasp. Her sky-shaded eyes widened in shock at such blatant profanity.

The sound echoed around the room and punctuated the monotonous chant. All seven men turned around to face them, the central man raising his arms.

"Who dares disturb the chant of Our Lady?" he intoned through pale and thin lips. Leliana stepped forward, her voice hard and determined.

"That is no Chant of Light!" she retorted, outraged, bringing up her bow. "You have committed sacrilege in Andraste's holy temple!"

"Leliana, maybe we should talk about this first- " interrupted Alistair hastily, his eyes wide.

"You have come to steal the Sacred Ashes, have you not? Intruders!" hissed the priest, raising his face. Illuminated by the light from the stained glass above the door, they could see the scarlet hue of his overlarge pupils.

"Blood magic," murmured Zevran, reaching for his blades. "Be ready."

"We just want a little bit," called Flora, placatingly, trying her most winning smile. "To heal a nice old man."

The priest's face contorted into an ugly grimace, reaching inside his robes.

"You will not disturb Our Lady's slumber," he hissed, withdrawing a dagger encrusted with a blackened substance. Flora recalled Jowan standing before the storeroom in the Circle Tower, all those months ago, pulling a dagger from his robes with desperation in his eyes.

"Get back!" shouted Alistair, raising his shield.

The priest, in one smooth gesture, slit the throat of the man beside him. As the victim slid silently to the floor, the maleficar thrust both palms in the direction of the doorway. A wave of viscous red energy, like a storm surge rolling up a beach, hurtled towards them, stretching the entire width of the Chantry. The wooden benches shattered as it passed through them, splintering into fragments.

The wave broke against a gleaming golden barrier, which stretched to meet its entire width. The spell dissipated into red globules and splashed onto the flagstones. Flora recoiled as though she had been struck, dropping her staff as the shield collapsed. The priest let out a shriek of rage, and turned to the next man.

Before he could complete the next sacrifice, Leliana leapt forward and fired off several arrows, taking out two of the men with exquisitely aimed shots. Zevran was next, his movements a blur as he flung a dagger into another would-be victim's throat. The priest let out a hollow shriek, resorting to impaling a thigh to create a dripping red shield. This successfully deflected one of Leliana's arrows, and a thin stiletto from Zevran clattered to the flagstones.

Two of the men had rushed forward, one tripping and becoming tangled in the wreckage of the pews. Alistair, planting his feet squarely, blocked a flailing blow with his shield and followed up with a thrust into the man's gut. Leliana's arrow sink into the back of the second, paralysing him.

The priest, now left with only a single victim, ducked out from behind the barrier and thrust his dagger into the remaining man's throat. Dark shadows appeared behind Leliana, reaching for her face. Flora, still sat on the floor, stretched out her fingers desperately. Despite the distance, a glimmering shield sprung up around the bard, barring the tendrils from encircling the lay-sister's neck.

The next moment, Zevran appeared behind the priest and drew twin blades across his neck. The man's reddened eyes bulged, flinging out both hands in his death throes.

"Andraste will  _burn_  you!" he croaked hollowly, the words barely escaping his mangled throat.

A final blood magic spell hurtled through the air and hit the huge stained glass window above the door. It shattered, raining down jagged coloured fragments in a shower of lethal crystal. Swiftly, Alistair crouched beside Flora, who was still sitting against the door, and thrust his shield into the air. With his other arm he drew her against him, covering her head with his own. The glass hit the metallic Redcliffe emblem and rebounded, falling to the flagstones.

Once the last of the glass had shattered against the tiles, it was very quiet. Alistair lowered the shield, letting the remaining fragments drop onto the floor.

Zevran and Leliana looked at one another, and each recognised a similar exhilaration in the other's eyes. Leliana was the first to look away, pressing her palms together and ostentatiously murmuring a prayer.

Flora looked up at Alistair, who had several small cuts on the back of his neck, her eyes searching his face anxiously.

"You didn't need to do that," she said breathlessly, reaching up to pass glowing fingers over the freshly made wounds. "I was ready to cast again."

He grinned down at her, ensuring to keep his head still as she brushed her fingertips over the damaged flesh.

"What, you think you're the only one around here with a shield?" he quipped, feeling the sharp sting that indicated that his skin was healed. She smiled at him, using her staff to haul herself to her feet.

Zevran picked his way over the leaking corpses, exhaling as if he had just completed a bout of rewarding exercise. Holding out his forearm, he showed a long and jagged slash running the length of it.

"Bastard got me while I was pulling out my blades," he said cheerfully, as Flora reflexively went to him.

Taking his arm, she raised it to her face, with the cool detachment of a healer. She could already feel the golden energy, pulsating and warm, rolling over her tongue. Zevran was about to make a suggestive comment, then stopped as he saw Alistair glowering at him from beside the door.

As Flora breathed out the healing mist, Leliana heard a muffled cry from a side chamber. Raising her bow, she sidled off to investigate.

Even Zevran forgot to make a smart remark as he stared at the freshly healed skin. As Flora pulled her head back and released his arm, he gave a reluctant nod.

"I must admit, that's impressive. I have never seen a healer  _breathe_  out energy before. It is very unusual."

Flora shrugged her shoulders, used to people commenting on the strange way that her talent manifested itself. As she turned away to cross the Chantry, assiduously avoiding the sprawled corpses, the elf's face curved upwards in a sly grin.

"Say, are there any  _other_ ways in which you are skilled with your mou- " he started to call, then yelped as Alistair's fist met the side of his head. "Ouch, my skull. What was  _that_ for?"

"Just shut up," hissed Alistair through gritted teeth, watching Flora frown at them over her shoulder in confusion. "She's not… she doesn't need to hear that sort of talk."

Zevran shrugged, rubbing the side of his ear grudgingly. "Fine. I don't care for the clinginess of virgins, anyway. The lay-sister is more my type. I love seducing Chantry girls."

At that moment Leliana called them into the side room, her voice high and excited. They found her kneeling beside an exhausted man in his middle years, wearing a torn and bloodied hessian robe. Severed ropes lay around him, suggesting that until Leliana's arrival, he had been bound at wrist and ankle.

"This is Brother Genitivi," the bard breathed, her eyes lit up with excitement. "He says that the Urn of the Sacred Ashes is here! I can barely imagine it."

Alistair grimaced, casting a glance back into the bloody main hall.

"I'm more concerned with what happened to the people," he muttered, indignantly. "I know people in rural villages can be a little strange, but transforming into a maleficar cult? That's a bit extreme."

Flora, who had shot Alistair a dirty look after his comment about rural villagers, knelt down beside the exhausted and malnourished man.

"The priest said  _Andraste will burn you,"_ she said tentatively, passing her fingers over the raw rope burns on the man's wrists. "What did he mean?"

Brother Genitive let out a sigh, his words little more than a whisper.

"There's a …. dragon. It guards the inner sanctum, where the Ashes are kept. The villagers believe it is the reincarnation of Andraste and formed a cult to worship it. Many of them are dead now, sacrificed by the priest."

Alistair gaped, casting a look over his shoulder as if expecting the dragon to burst in through the shattered window.

"You know, I'm beginning to think the Arlessa does want me dead," he muttered, darkly. "First abominations, then blood cultists, now  _this._  Hey, do your shields work against dragonfire, Flo?"

Flora shrugged glumly, eyeing the lay brother.

"Don't know. Probably not."

The man, in his half-delirious state, had only just realised what Flora was doing to the wounds on his wrists. Traumatised from his experience with the maleficar, the sight of more magic was enough to provoke terror. With the last of his strength, he shoved Flora back hard enough to send her sprawling on the stained rug.

"Get away from me, mage!"

"Hey!" Alistair let out a yelp of indignation and went to her side. "Leave her alone, she's trying to help you."

Flora sat up, not unused to the man's reaction. She let her staff rest on the floor beside her.

"I won't hurt you," she implored, stretching out a hand. "I can take the tiredness away."

Leliana nodded at the brother, flashing him her silver Andrastrian charm.

"It is true, my brother," she whispered, as the man groaned and hung his head in exhausted resignation. "The Maker has blessed her with the ability to heal."

Flora, more wary this time, approached the man. Opening her mouth, she placed her hands on the side of the man's face and  _exhaled._ Energy; gleaming and purposeful, absorbed into his bloodstream and surged around his body, renewing and refreshing his wearied facilities.

Zevran entered the side room, swinging a large and ornate iron key from a chain around his finger.

"Found this around the neck of our maleficar friend," he said lightly, practised eyes moving around the room. "Keys this size always lead to something important. Or valuable."

Leliana, her face shining as if the Maker Himself had just personally blessed her, gestured towards the trembling man.

"Brother Genitivi mentioned a passageway leading to a temple. Beyond the temple, in the inner sanctum, lies the Urn itself!"

The lay brother, colour returned to his cheeks, nodded. A similar hope was beginning to ignite in his eyes as he felt energy returned to once-useless limbs.

"That's the key! I heard the priest refer to it. I can lead you there. Why do you seek the Ashes?"

"We need a pinch, to heal Arl Eamon of Redcliffe," replied Alistair, watching Flora clamber to her feet. "He's the only one that can prevent civil war in Ferelden."

"Civil war?" wondered the man, leading the way past a bookshelf and into an even smaller antechamber. "Ah, I have been imprisoned too long. Here, we are. How long I have wanted to do this!"

They watched as he swept aside a motheaten tapestry to reveal a small wooden door. Unlocking it revealed a narrow passage hewn into the solid rock, twisting into cavernous darkness. The lay brother's face curved in an ironic smile as he lifted a holstered candle from a nearby desk.

"It's almost a good thing that I was half-starved," he snorted, leading the way into the tunnel. "I'd never fit in here otherwise."

"Good thing Sten didn't want to come," muttered Alistair to Flora, who snorted in a highly unladylike manner.

Leliana was close on the brother's heels, almost colliding with his back in her haste. Flora went next, clutching her staff tightly. Watching Zevran's eyes light up at the thought of being in a confined space with the unsuspecting young Warden, Alistair hastily interjected himself between them.

They inched down the rocky passage. At times, it proved wide enough for two people to stand abreast, yet the next turn could require a turn sideways to squeeze through. At last, Brother Genitivi, whose candle was flickering dangerously, came up against a wooden door. Fumbling awkwardly in the shadows, he attempted to fit the key inside the lock. Leliana inhaled impatiently behind him, shifting from foot to foot.

Alistair felt Zevran's breath on his neck and jumped, not realising that the elf was so close behind him.

"Let's see, when was the last time I was stuck in a dark hole with another man?" murmured Zevran, thoughtfully. "Why, it must have been  _at least_ a month. Shall I tell you about it?"

Alistair shot forward around the corner and found himself wedged in a narrow section of passage, against Flora. Ahead of them, Leliana huffed impatiently as the older man fumbled with the lock.

"Seems like there's a runic password…I'm sure I can work it out."

Flora, the rocky wall against her back, gazed up at Alistair. He peered back down at her, the confines of the passage necessitating a disconcerting closeness. He could feel her body pressed against his, so near that he could feel the steady throb of her heartbeat beneath her breast.

"Sorry," he muttered, averting his eyes, embarrassed at having put her in this position through his own unthinking haste. When he looked back at her, she was gazing up at him, thoughtfully. Her fingers reached up, stretching out to brush the dishevelled crest of dark blond hair at his forehead. Her touch was as light as a feather, barely perceptible; yet it was enough to provoke more of the strange feeling he'd had in his gut the previous night. A slow heat, rolled up from somewhere below his stomach, spreading coiling tendrils down his legs and  _elsewhere_. He felt his breath catch in his throat, and she smiled up at him, curiously.

"Cobweb," she murmured, her fingers smoothing down his hair.

Alistair began to recite what fragments of the Chant he could remember in his head, gritting his teeth in an attempt to settle his quivering nerves. Unfortunately, he had never listened well enough to the Chantry sisters, and the words fled from his mind as he struggled to focus. To his gratitude, he was saved from further discomfort by the exclamation of Leliana.

"The Maker's light shines on us!" she squealed suddenly as the door gave way, almost shoving the old Brother forwards in her haste. Flora shot Alistair a slightly confused smile, wondering at his peculiar expression, before edging forwards. Alistair paused for a moment in the shadowed passage, reluctantly lingering over the near-memory of her body against his own.

"You can stay here in the dark for a moment if you need to calm yourself," came Zevran's voice evilly from behind him. Alistair coughed, roused from his reverie.

"Nonsense; I'm fine," he replied, in a voice slightly thicker than usual. He heard Zevran let out a derisive snort from the shadows.

Flora followed Leliana out of the stone passage, and inhaled in surprise. A vast hollow space had been carved out of the rock, large enough to house at least three separate Chantries. Gleaming icicles hung from the ceiling, which towered several dozen feet above their heads. Ornate stone balconies ran the length of the chamber, which culminated in a short sweep of steps. Watery sunlight streamed in through strategically cut hollows in the rock. The chamber was covered in a thin layer of snow, and gave the impression that it had not been used in a long time.

Leliana fell to her knees, clasping her hands together in prayer. Brother Genitivi, too excited to stay still, wandered back and forth, exclaiming.

"These carvings are ancient! They must have been made by the first Guardians of the Sacred Ashes."

Flora gazed around in awe, wondering at how long it must have taken to complete such a mammoth endeavour. Alistair and Zevran emerged from the tunnel behind her, Alistair letting out a reluctant whistle of admiration.

"How did they manage to keep this place a secret for so long?"

Brother Genitivi had found a series of stone panels, obscured by snow. Brushing the white powder aside with a palm, he let out an inhalation of shock.

"This place is hundreds of years old" he murmured, holding up the candle to inspect the first carved panel. "It was built to house Andraste's mortal remains and keep them safe."

Leliana took a shaky breath, clambering to her knees once again. When she spoke, there were tears in her voice.

"Thank you so much for allowing me to join you here", the lay-sister said, stretching out her hand towards Alistair, who gaped at her unhelpfully. Instead Leliana turned to Flora, who dutifully took her hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

"This'll be a story to tell back at the Chantry," Flora said cheerfully, smiling at her. Leliana nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"I wonder if there's any treasure here," wondered Zevran idly, brushing his finger over the ice-covered cheek of a statue. Leliana immediately shot him a malevolent stare, while Brother Genitivi coughed.

"Brother G-Gevitny," asked Flora, whose tongue had still not adapted to the Antivan nomenclature. "Are the Ashes in here?"

The lay-brother reluctantly tore himself from the panelling, casting a finger towards the flight of stairs at the rear of the chamber.

"I imagine the inner sanctum lies through there." He paused for a moment, and Alistair correctly interpreted the man's silence.

"So is that where the dragon is, then?" he said with forced lightness, while Zevran grimaced. "The dragon these cultists have been worshipping? As a  _god?_ "

"It's  _not_ actually Andraste, is it?" Flora asked tentatively, not being extensively versed in religious lore. The man shook his head, letting out a snort.

"No, it's just a regular dragon. They do still exist, you know. In the high and forgotten places of the world."

"I wish they'd stay forgotten," muttered Alistair, his fingers shifting nervously over the hilt of his sword. A sudden fall of snow in the corner of the room made them all jump.

Leliana shook her head impatiently, eager to be underway.

"Brother Genitivi, will you be accompanying us?" she enquired, and the lay-brother shook his head hastily. He handed the iron key to Leliana, who hung it dutifully around her neck.

"I'm going to stay here and continue deciphering these panels. There may be some valuable information contained within."

"Like how  _not_  to get roasted by dragonfire?" muttered Alistair under his breath, lifting his shield from his shoulders in preparation.

Flora eyed Zevran, who was shifting from foot to foot, casting his eyes about darkly.

"You're not obligated to come with us," she said tentatively, lowering her own gaze. "You can stay here if you want."

Zevran let out a delicate snort. He stepped lightly past her, trailing his fingers across her cheek as he did so.

"My Rialto lily, I'm the fastest out of all of us. If anyone is getting caught in the dragon's flame, it won't be me."

Alistair, in his heavy and cumbersome suit of Templar mail, scowled.

"Great."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: I really enjoyed writing this chapter – going around the village of Haven genuinely disconcerted me in game, but I thought that the interior of the Temple was beautiful. I earn a living as a historian, so I suppose I am naturally attracted to old, neglected places! I especially love old religious buildings and sites, of any creed. Conversely, I also love how Zevran is trying to flirt with Flora in this chapter, while she is just oblivious to it all.


	35. Broaching the Inner Sanctum

Chapter 35: Broaching The Inner Sanctum

Leaving the lay-brother to reabsorb himself in the carved panelling, their small party headed up the flight of stone steps. At the top, a pair of long-extinguished torches flanked an unassuming wooden door. On the other side, they could hear the faint howling of the wind. Leliana reached for the key around her neck and slid it into the ancient lock. To her surprise it turned easily; she assumed that the cultists must have kept it well-maintained.

The wind they had heard immediately enveloped them, pulling insistently at hair and clothing. The sunlight was brighter this far up the mountain, and it took a few moments to gain full clarity of the scene spread out before them. They were on a high, narrow ledge – on one side, the mountain dropped sheer away into an iced-over valley, whereas craggy and steeply climbing rock flanked the other. Fifty yards away, at the end of the ledge, a two-storey temple frontispiece had been carved into the face of the cliff itself. Beautiful in its stark severity, a pair of ornately carved double doors lay at its base.

"The Inner Sanctum," breathed Leliana, her eyes lit from within by her excitement. Flora peered past her, her gaze sweeping over the ledge.

"I don't see a dragon," she whispered, as Alistair jammed his own head into the doorway above her. "Maybe it's away?"

"Out hunting," he replied grimly, fingers clutching the hilt of his sword. "Little does it know dinner has been delivered to its doorstep."

Flora elbowed him as Leliana took the first tentative steps out onto the ridge. The wind was loud and powerful enough to sway her steps, she stumbled slightly as she ventured further.

"We're almost at the Urn!" the lay-sister hissed over her shoulder, a manic grin contorting her jaw. "Come on!"

"I get the feeling our lay-sister would happily leave us to be consumed by the dragon if it allowed her to get her hands on the Ashes," muttered Alistair, darkly.

They followed her out on to the ridge, the wind immediately picking up ferocity, as if it could sense the presence of intruders. Leliana led the way, with Alistair bringing up the rear, shield in hand and an unhappy expression on his face.

By the time they had reached the midpoint, they had all begun to relax a little. No cultists appeared to waylay them, their goal appeared in sight and there was still no sign of a dragon.

Then suddenly and without warning, a vast, scaled black tail swung down from the ridge beside them, sending several small rocks tumbling down the slope. It hung there, the end twitching innocuously against the rocky shelf.

They froze in place, Zevran colliding with Leliana's back. The next moment, a bestial sound that was unquestionably a  _yawn_ drifted over their heads, emanating from the ridge above.

" _It's asleep_ ," hissed Leliana, rather unnecessarily.  _"Quickly!"_

They picked up the pace, though not yet running. Then the sound of a gong from somewhere within the temple behind them rang out, the metallic crash echoing over the ridge. As they watched in dread, a large scaled wing unfolded over the ridge, and a more cognisant snarl emerged from the beast's throat.

"Run!" hissed Zevran, not waiting to see if they followed his instruction. They scattered and fled forwards, towards the safety of the temple ahead. The thudding echoes of their footsteps bounced off the walls of the ridge and the creature reared up, spreading its wings. It was far smaller than the Archdemon, with iridescent black scales and translucent leathery wings. It's head was more serpentine, it's neck long and thin. As dark, intelligent eyes focused on them, it let out a roar, revealing a dual layer of spined teeth.

Zevran reached the door first, gesturing frantically to Leliana. She had been reaching for the key around her neck as she ran, the dragon taking off behind her. It let out a second roar which seemed to make the Frostbacks themselves tremble. The creature landed on the path behind them, advancing rapidly, it's snakelike head weaving.

Hands shaking, Flora fumbled for the staff at her back. She lifted it and then Alistair was pulling at her arm, trying to thrust her in front of him. Flora gaped at him in confusion, yanking her arm away and preparing to raise her staff.

"Flo,  _no!"_  He tugged at her arm harder this time and she lost her balance, colliding with him. They crashed to the ground as the dragon advanced, claws clicking against the rock. Behind them Leliana fumbled with the key, this lock far more unyielding than its earlier counterpart.

Flora scrabbled in the snow for her staff, frantically. Alistair was sprawled beside her, his face contorting in desperate apology.

"Flora, I'm  _sorry_ , I- !"

The dragon was opening its jaws now, so close they could see the burning glands inflate in its scaled throat, the leathery wings folded back. It revealed twin rows of fangs, the inside of it's mouth black and wet. Behind them, Leliana was still desperately trying to turn the key in the lock.

Flora scrambled awkwardly to her feet, shoving Alistair behind her. As the dragonfire built up in the back of the creature's throat, she thrust up the staff.

Blistering greenish-red fire poured from the creature's mouth, hot enough to scorch the rock in its path to white-hot ashes. Scarlet flame met golden light as it broke against Flora's barrier. They were engulfed in a blast of hot air, the rock pillars flanking the doorway charring in seconds. Flora closed her eyes against the heat and the brightness, keeping her hands held up before her face, throwing her faith behind her own skill. The fire petered out and the dragon let out a distinctly frustrated roar, summoning the energy for a second blast.

_**Good girl.** _

Then the lock gave way beneath Leliana and Zevran's combined force, and the door swung open. They half fell into the cool darkness beyond, Flora still clutching her staff as Alistair hauled her inside.

The inner sanctum was blessedly cool and dark, the frustrated roaring of the dragon outside immediately muffled. After a moment, as if sensing the presence of guests, twin braziers kindled. They cast a flickering light over a pillar-lined stone antechamber.

Flora sat on the floor next to her still gently humming staff. She nudged Alistair, who was kneeling beside her, angrily in the thigh. He winced, but acknowledged her annoyance.

"Sorry."

" _Why_  did you do that?!" she demanded, her voice trembling as she stared up at him. "Try to put me behind you? Since when can  _you_  shield?!"

He hung his head, accepting her words. "I can't."

Flora waved her hands at him, her voice rising to echo around the walls of the stone chamber.

"This is what I  _do!"_ she continued, gesturing at herself. "You  _know_  this. Do you not think I can do it?"

Alistair leaned forwards and gripped her shoulders, bringing his face close to hers.

"Most of me knows you can," he muttered, his distraught hazel gaze searching her face. He reached out and touched her cheek, lightly tracing the outline of her high cheekbone. "But part of me will always be scared. Flo, over these past few months, I- I've come to care for you."

Flora blinked damply at him. He lifted his thumb to her lashes, gently brushing away the wetness; then moved his mouth against her ear and exhaled slowly.

"A _great_ deal _,"_ he murmured, his lips brushing against her skin. She stared at him, and then Zevran coughed, delicately.

"If you two wouldn't mind continuing your marital row elsewhere,  _we have company."_

A man stood watching them with mild interest, clad in archaic silver mail and a winged helmet. He had a dark beard, translucent, shifting eyes, and could have been anywhere in age from thirty five to fifty. His fingers clutched the hilt of his sword, which appeared to be covered with a fine layer of dust.

Alistair clambered to his feet, reaching down a hand to Flora. She took it, staring wide-eyed at the strange man. He had not said a word since they had burst into the antechamber, merely cast his strange gaze over each in turn.

Leliana fell to her knees, having seen how ancient his armour was, and correctly discerning that this manifestation was far beyond mortal years. It was this that prompted the man to speak, his voice thin and with a strange, lilting edge. His speech patterns were also archaic, stiff and over-formal to their ears.

"There is no need to kneel; I merely guard the Ashes. I claim no personal divinity."

Flora stared at the man in confusion, still clutching Alistair's hand. Finally; when it appeared that no one was planning to say anything, she cleared her throat and stepped forward.

"Is the Urn here?" she asked timidly, not looking directly into the man's sea-changing eyes. He gazed both at her and through her.

"You have found the resting place of the mortal remains of the Maker's Bride, yet only the worthy may look upon Her glory."

"Always an obstacle," murmured Zevran, eyeing the strange arcane flame burning in the braziers.

"A  _test,"_ replied the Guardian, his opaque gaze shifting to the still kneeling Leliana. "If you are worthy – you may take a pinch of the Ashes as your reward."

Alistair groaned under his breath, stepping forward alongside Flora. The Guardian inclined his head, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond them. He seemed to be able to see through the walls of the rock chamber, all the way through to the outer sanctum.

"The lay-brother plans to rebuild the temple," he said, his voice distant. "The Lady will no longer lie in peace."

"She will be honoured by pilgrims from all over Thedas," spoke up Leliana, rising to her feet. "People will come from the furthest reaches of the Anderfels to pay their respects."

The Guardian shot her a severe look. "Pray that is all they come to do," he murmured, then shook his head. "Enough. I must ask each of you a question to proceed. It is not required that you answer; but the asking is necessary."

Leliana immediately stepped forward, a silent volunteer. The Guardian gazed at her, raising a gauntleted hand alongside her head. There was a brief pause, and then he spoke, his voice slow and thoughtful.

"How loyal to the Chantry are you really,  _lay-sister?_ You were quick enough to abandon it when the opportunity came along. Were you grateful that your 'vision' provided you with an escape route?"

Leliana mouthed like a fish plucked from water, her blue eyes widening. She appeared half-ashamed and half-indignant, a flush rising to her cheeks.

Alistair nudged Flora in the ribs. "I don't think we're going to like these questions," he murmured in her ear, and she nodded wordlessly.

"How dare you!" spluttered Leliana eventually, casting her gaze to the stone. "I have devoted myself to the Maker's service!"

The Guardian had already moved on, crossing the room towards Zevran, leaving dust particles floating in his wake. The elf eyed the man with dislike.

"Let's just get it over with," said Zevran, through gritted teeth. The Guardian raised his hand, paused, and after a moment spoke softly.

"A member of the Crows should take delight in each kill, like an artist with a finished masterpiece. Have you made any kills which caused you more pain than pleasure?"

Zevran looked up quickly, his eyes brightening with realisation. Immediately they narrowed, focused on the Guardian with incredulous distrust.

"How can you possibly know about  _her?"_

The Guardian inclined his head once more, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you. Now for you, Alistair Theirin."

Alistair grimaced, from both nerves and annoyance at the use of his full name. The Guardian stopped before him, eyes focusing somewhere in the middle distance. Flora watched them with trepidation, her fingers anxiously working at the hem of her linen shirt.

"Your Commander was not an honourable man," the Guardian began, at which Alistair looked up abruptly. "Yet you wish that he had survived instead of you? That you would serve Thedas better as a corpse instead of as a King?"

Flora stared at Alistair, as he opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. His shoulders slumped and he nodded, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"Yes."

The Guardian raised his eyebrows and moved onto Flora. She eyed him back, grey eyes darkening, instinctually wary of anything wishing to access her mind. As he raised his hand, she squeezed her eyes shut tightly.

A moment later she wondered why no question was forthcoming. She opened her eyes again and peered up at the Guardian. He was looking at her with mild curiosity, his pupils milky and opaque.

"Your mind is clouded," he murmured, making a slight movement with his fingers. Flora felt a slight tugging at the base of her skull, and grimaced. "Something is blocking your past from me."

Touching the back of her head, feeling nothing except for her own tangled hair, she gave an apologetic shrug.

"I almost drowned when I was a child. I don't have any memories before the age of five. Maybe… that's it?"

The Guardian shook his head, lowering his hand. "It matters not. The next room will perceive what I cannot."

Flora, not looking forward to the prospect, swallowed. Zevran shot her a sour glance.

"That's not very fair, she gets away without a question," he grumbled. "I've got one for you, Flora: why can't you cast more than two spells?"

Alistair scowled at the elf, while the Guardian inclined his head. He stepped to one side, gesturing to a stone doorway behind him. Either they had somehow not noticed it before, though it stood squarely before them; or it had just  _appeared._

"The path is open to you," the man said briefly, stepping to one side. "Good luck."

They crowded through the doorway into a second shadowed chamber. The stone door began to swing shut behind them, plunging them into shadow. The last thing they heard was the Guardian's voice, still addressing Flora.

"Your father's spirit will address you in my stead."

There was a stunned silence. Flora stood still for a moment, blinking as though she had been slapped while the colour drained from her face. Like the previous room, this one was also lit with blazing braziers. Alistair reached out to her, not knowing what to say, but she had already slammed her fist against the sealed stone door.

"Hey!" she shouted, her voice rising in anger. "You can't say things like that and then just  _close the door!"_

"Ah, Flora-" said Zevran tentatively, sounding uncertain for the first time since they had met. "Turn around."

Flora ignored him, still hammering her knuckles angrily against the door. Alistair turned, frowned in confusion, then tapped Flora's arm.

"Flo."

Beside him, Leliana let out a soft sigh underneath her breath, murmuring a prayer. Flora, wiping tears of frustration away with trembling fingers, finally turned around.

Another man stood there, this one cast in shades of bone and ivory. He appeared flimsy, as though the slightest breeze could disperse the very molecules of his being without difficulty. He appeared in his mid-fifties, although his colouring was not discernible. With a metallic band around his forehead and the tattered remains of fine clothing clinging to a well-built frame, he appeared to be of noble status.

"Maker preserve us," whispered Leliana, taking a step backwards. "It is a Fade spirit."

Flora stared at it in confusion, as its pale eyes focused on her. Like the Guardian, it appeared to look both at her and through her to the stone door behind.

"That's not my dad," she said, exhaling with sudden and overwhelming relief. "I don't know who it is."

Leliana, pausing from her internal recitation of the Chant, squinted at the laurel wreath on the man's torn tunic. As a bard, she was intimately familiar with the heraldry of both Orlais and Ferelden.

" _I'm sorry….sorry_ ," it said, the voice already fading and indistinct.  _"Never meant ….too long. Glad…..alive. I-I…..forgive me."_

The figure began to fade away, melting into the shadows. The slightly acrid smell of the Fade lingered in its wake. Suddenly Leliana exclaimed, her voice breaking the silence.

"Ah, I have it! That was the livery of the House of Cousland."

The name seemed vaguely familiar to Flora, who gave a faint shrug. Alistair had also heard of the House, which had been mentioned by Arl Eamon once or twice.

"Lord Bryce Cousland is the teryn of Highever," added Leliana, although the extent of her knowledge ended there. "They are equal in power to the Mac Tirs, second only to the Royal Family."

"Highever is the big house which owns Herring," Flora said, suddenly, her eyes clearing. "That must be what confused it. Come on!"

She strode ahead through the darkness, eager to escape the shadowed room and the lingering scent of the arcane. Alistair picked up her staff, which she had discarded during her pounding on the door. As the others followed, Leliana leaned over to whisper in Zevran's ear, triumphantly.

"I  _told_ you those weren't the cheekbones of a peasant's daughter!"

"I believe it was  _me_ who told  _you_ ," Zevran replied with a shiver, thoroughly disconcerted by the whole experience. "And it seems Ferelden is on track to rival even my beloved Antiva when it comes to bastards."

"Shut up!" yelled Flora irritably from ahead.

They passed through a series of cold stone chambers, which might once have contained something but now stood sparse and empty. In one room, an empty ballista stood, pointed at a doorway. They edged around it warily, but it remained still and silent.

The next room was circular, with a half crumbled bridge spanning a black well. Zevran kicked a pebble into the void; it fell without seeming to hit a bottom.

Fortunately, the gap in the bridge was only a metre and a half. Zevran jumped back and forth several times to demonstrate the ease, until a nervy Alistair nearly pushed him over the edge. Leliana cleared the space with catlike grace, barely making a sound when she landed. Flora, after declining a leering Zevran's offer of a  _ride_ , placed her staff across the gap. Her balance, refined from clambering around Circle Tower battlements, allowed her to hop neatly across the wooden pole.

Alistair was the only one left on the far side, glowering even harder when Zevran offered  _him_ a ride. He studiously ignored the elf's suggestion that he might even  _enjoy_  it, and gave a plaintive sigh.

"Flo?" he asked, casting a dubious look down into the dark well below. "Can you shield someone to stop them from plunging to their death?"

"No-oo," she replied apologetically, slinging her staff back over her shoulder. "You can pass through it from within, remember? You'd just fall through."

Alistair took a deep breath, feeling a vein twitching above his eye.

"I think I'll just take a run up," he mumbled, then realised that the stone wall was at his back. Flora waved encouragingly.

"Alistair, you  _won't_  fall," she assured him, stepping back from the ridge to give him space to land. Alistair eyed her dubiously.

"How do  _you_ know that?" he demanded, casting another look down at the void beneath his feet.

"Because Leliana's ballad about us is not going to end:  _Then one Warden fell into a hole, leaving the other one all alone. She tried to kill the Archdemon, but it ended up kicking her head in. Ferelden is doomed: The End."_ She wiggled her fingers.

Alistair laughed and she smiled, begrudgingly.

"That's not bad. Don't tell me you're getting into poetry now too."

Flora rolled her eyes. "Please. Hurry up, I'm so hungry I could- "

Before she could finish her sentence, he had launched himself over the gap. Being exceptionally fit and naturally athletic, the gap itself was of no consequence. Alistair overshot the ledge and crashed into a gaping Flora, inadvertently thrusting her back against the wall.

She peered up at him as he panted slightly, unable to believe that he wasn't falling for eternity inside the bowels of the Frostbacks.

"You're squashing me," she said mildly, as he blinked in horror and recoiled from her. "Come on, we must be close."

As they reached the next chamber, they realised that they were  _very_ close. This room was high and vaulted, with high windows letting in glimmering shafts of sunlight. At the far end of the chamber, a flight of white marble steps led up to a woman's statue. One hand was placed on her chest, the other reaching towards the heavens. A flame sprung from her outstretched palm. At her feet rested a tall golden urn, with elaborate gilt carvings. The room had a strange purity of spirit about it, the air crisp and fresh.

Leliana was kneeling down, murmuring prayers. When she looked up, her face was awash with tears. Even Zevran appeared somewhat moved.

"There was always a small part of me that doubted that it even existed," murmured Alistair, staring at the calm, carved beauty of Andraste's face. "I can't believe we're really here."

Flora coughed to disguise her stomach rumbling, glancing around the chamber. They had been so distracted by the statue at the far end of the room that no one had paid any attention to a small stone block rising before them, with a carved inscription on its face. She squinted at the letters, placing her finger on them.

"C…C-A…" she mumbled, recalling the letter that ended her name and began Alistair's. She couldn't identify the next letter, which curled like a snake.

Alistair bent beside her to inspect the letters, frowning.

" _Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and slave, Lord and beggar; be born anew in the Maker's sight._ Huh."

Leliana was not listening to them. Her eyes alight with devotion, she took an eager step forward.

The next moment, a wall of greenish-red fire materialised before them, rippling across the tiles and giving off a blaze of heat. Leliana shrank back, giving a yelp of surprise.

"Maker's Breath," muttered Alistair, stepping back at the sudden and intense heat. "I don't know how, but I think that's dragonfire."

He looked around nervously, half-expecting the dragon to emerge from some hidden crevice.

"Can we get across it with your shield?" Zevran asked Flora. She blinked, unused to recieving a comment from him that was neither lecherous nor sardonic.

"I… maybe," she replied hesitantly. "But I don't think that's the point. What does  _cast off your worldly trappings_ mean?"

Alistair frowned thoughtfully, gazing at the stern, lovely features of Andraste.

"Isn't it obvious?" replied Leliana, dropping her bow and arrow and beginning to unlace her corset. Alistair gaped at her, then clapped a hand over his eyes.

"What are you  _doing?"_

"We have to cast off our earthly trappings for the Maker to purify us. We can only pass through as our natural selves."

Zevran let out a cackle of delight.

"Maker, I would attend Chantry services more frequently if it was like  _this_ ," he exclaimed, reaching for his belt. "Women, prepare yourselves. You are in for a treat."

Alistair moaned in despair and turned to Flora, opening one eye in the hope that she would turn out to be the voice of reason. To his horror, she had already divested herself of her breeches, the linen shirt hanging over her thighs as she reached up to loosen her hair from its leather band.

"Flora!" he hissed, hastily shutting his eye once again. "Not you, too!"

Flora shook out her hair and glowered at him through untidy dark red strands, tugging the shirt over her head and dropping it on the marble tiles. She rested the sheaf of treaties on top of the linen, carefully.

"At this point, I would cartwheel naked through Denerim for a sandwich," she hissed, stepping out of her smallclothes and shivering as a cool breeze swept over her skin. "I just want to get this done."

"And with a body like that, you could sell tickets," murmured Zevran admiringly, his eyes trawling over her as Alistair let out a groan of despair.

Flora scowled at the elf, keeping her gaze firmly fixed above his shoulders, and he shrugged, giving her a wink.

"I was raised in a brothel, my little Rialto lily. Neither you nor she has anything I have not seen dozens of times before. And likewise, don't be afraid to inspect the goods. Your lay-sister friend already has."

Leliana muttered an Orlesian curse under her breath.

Alistair, fuming, began to fumble with his mail. It took him twice as long to divest himself with his eyes shut, but he refused to open them even when Zevran offered to help. When he was finished, he stood there helplessly, feeling viciously overexposed.

"Hm, not bad," the elf commented grudgingly, his eyes moving over Alistair's torso. Alistair let out a squawk, feeling his cheeks flame.

"Stop!" he implored, eyes still shut, almost wishing that he had risked the dragonfire instead. Then he felt Flora's fingers in his own, bare of the golden ring.

"I'm not looking anywhere but your face, I promise," she whispered, and he felt her loose hair brushing against his upper arm. "You don't need to open your eyes; I'll guide you."

Her hand tightened around his, and he let her lead him forward.

Flora glanced over at Zevran and Leliana, both of whom were poised at the edge of the flames. Leliana raised her eyes to the ceiling, her face bright with rapturous devotion.

"Maker, purify us in Your loving flame!" she uttered, and as a ragged group, they stepped through the flames together.

The fire felt cool against their skin, almost like water. The moment they had stepped through, the wall of flame vanished behind them. Flora kept hold of Alistair's hand and looked around, blinking.

Leliana approached the low flight of steps and immediately dropped to her knees in prayer. After a moment, she proceeded reverently up the steps towards the Urn. Zevran eyed Flora, who scowled darkly at the ceiling above his head.

"Go and put your clothes back on," she hissed, keeping her eyes on his hairline. He raised his eyebrows, giving a reluctant sigh.

"Fine, fine. I can see the sight is too…overwhelming for ignorant little village girls."

Flora ignored both him and the Urn, leading Alistair back across the marble to the discarded heaps of clothing. Leaning down, she pulled her linen shirt over her head awkwardly with one hand. When she had clambered back into her smallclothes, she squeezed his fingers.

"Alistair? You can open your eyes," she whispered, and he opened them one at a time, tentatively. She smiled up at him, her eyes fixed on his. He stared down at her, prepared to unleash a tirade of complaints, but then found his attention diverted.

"There'd better be a shortcut back to some food," she muttered, keeping her eyes fixed on his face as she held up his padded tunic.

Alistair awkwardly put on the underarmour, distracted by the long, heavy ropes of dark-red hair that hung almost to her waist. She usually kept it in a braid, or an untidy bundle at the side of her neck; he rarely saw it loose. She saw him looking and gave a self-conscious shrug, turning around to give him some privacy to dress.

"It's getting too long," she addressed to the wall, tugging her breeches up around her waist. It took her a while to fasten her tunic up, her fingers fumbling with the small hooks that pinned the leather together. "I need to cut it all off, like Leliana."

Just then she felt the ends of her hair being wrapped around a wrist. With a gentle tug, Alistair tilted her head back.

"Don't," he murmured into her ear, as she blinked in surprise. The next moment, he coughed, a blush rising to his cheeks.

"Or, you know, you can if you want to," he said hastily, untangling his hand from her hair. "Go bald! That might be a good look for you."

Flora shot him a look of mild incredulity. "Bald? With  _these_  ears? I'd look like a two-handled pot."

He laughed, reaching up to touch her earlobe affectionately. "Your ears are fine. I like them."

She smiled, bending over to pull on her boots. Finally, she picked up the sheaf of treaties and opened the top two buttons of her shirt, sliding the papers inside. After catching a glimpse of collarbone, Alistair looked away hastily. Immediately he groaned and clapped his hands over his eyes once more.

"Why is she  _still_ naked?!" he demanded in a high-pitched voice, jabbing his finger through the air towards the altar.

Flora shrugged, stopping to scoop up Leliana's clothing as she crossed the chamber. Climbing the steps, she patted the kneeling lay-sister on the shoulder and dropped the clothes beside her. Then she cast a nervous look at the open Urn.

"There's no bones in there," whispered Leliana, clumsily reaching for her leather corset. "Just the burnt remains of our Lady."

Swallowing, Flora dropped her eyes quickly to the white ashes within the golden Urn's gaping mouth. She found it strange how she could look on a man's mangled body without pause, and yet these dusty remains left her with the bitter taste of fear under her tongue.

Leliana handed her a silk handkerchief, Orlesian-made, her eyes still lowered.

Flora took a deep breath and prepared to lower her fingers into the Urn.

"Don't sneeze," muttered Alistair, approaching behind her and she almost laughed. Leliana shot Alistair a dirty look, strapping her bow over her back. Flora quickly inserted her fingers into the Urn and withdrew a pinch of the Ashes, dropping them in the handkerchief and folding it over.

Unthreading the linen lace from her sleeve, she expertly recreated one of her father's fishing knots on the Orlesian silk. Tucking the bundle into her boot, she exhaled and raised her eyes to the statue, preferring to look at Andraste's replica rather than her remains. The white carved face was stern, but there was beauty and kindness in it.

Flora gazed at the statue, thoughtfully. As a child dutifully attending services at the tiny Herring sanctuary with her parents, she had identified with the famous prophet, who had also originated from a small fishing village. The story of Andraste's burning had been one of the few Chantry stories she remembered; it had given her nightmares for months.  _Did you wish you had a shield when they lit the fire around you,_ she wondered to herself, then winced.  _Is that heretical? Probably. So is walking on the mortal remains of the Maker's Bride. Shut up now, Flora._

The voice of the Guardian cut across the stillness of the Chamber. He was standing in the entrance, somehow less corporeal than before. When he spoke, the words did not seem to match the movements of his mouth.

"You have proven yourselves to be worthy, and have been thusly rewarded," he said, his voice echoing to the vaulted ceiling. "The lay-brother has chosen to stay here, to begin the conversion of the temple to a place of pilgrimage. There is a back route you can take from here down the river valley that will bring you back to Lake Calenhad by tomorrow.

They looked at him, his figure shifting and opaque in the direct shaft of sunlight. He bowed his head in acknowledgement.

"Good luck on your journey, travellers. I pray that your discovery of this place does not lead to its ruin."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: I cringed when I was forced to play through this in game and I cringed when I was writing it up later! Also, when I was playing this I accidentally ended up fighting the dragon at the Temple - I didn't realise what the gong was for, rang it, and then screamed IRL as the dragon zoomed towards me! Flora died in about three seconds, but the rest of my party actually managed to take it down (on Casual #trueconfessions). But as for the getting naked thing - I thought that Zevran definitely wouldn't be shy, Flora was used to communal dormitories and Leliana too engaged with the Ashes to mind. Poor Alistair, though!


	36. Return to Redcliffe

Chapter 36: Return To Redcliffe

The Guardian's instructions were sound; their horses were waiting for them at the rear at the temple. They followed the winding path that ran alongside the slow-flowing glacial river, the valley gradually sloping downwards. They made camp beneath a rocky outcrop, which offered enough protection from the wind to allow them to make a campfire. Alistair and Flora, working in a silent synchrony first developed on the field, constructed the two tents; while Zevran fussed over the cooking utensils. Leliana was kneeling some distance away, her hands folded in prayer.

"You Fereldans live off your meat," Zevran said, sorting through their food bags with a wrinkled nose. "Your diet is very limited. In Antiva, we eat far more fruit. Did you know that there are seven varieties of grape which grow in Rialto alone?"

Flora was using her non-Ashes containing boot to hammer the pegs into the densely packed earth, feeling the familiar dull ache in her knee. As she sat back in the dirt and reached out to rub her kneecap, Alistair crawled around to her side of the tent and thumped the remaining pegs into the earth with his mail-clad fist.

"There we go. First class accommodation, though I dread to think where that blasted elf plans on sleeping," he said cheerfully, then caught sight of her fingers on her knee. His face fell and he gave a small grimace.

"I suppose me tackling you earlier didn't really help with that. Sorry," he said, guilt casting a shadow over his face. "Here, let me."

Sitting beside her, he peeled off one of the mail gloves and began to use his own stronger thumbs to soothe the swollen joint, the movements second nature.

Flora shook her head mildly, grudgingly acknowledging that he was better at it than she. After a few moments he paused, then looked at her oddly.

"The Ashes can cure any mortal wound or fatal illness, right?" he said slowly, recalling Leliana's words from earlier that day. "Why didn't you take a tiny bit to heal your leg? I'm sure it would count as part of our allocation."

"I did think of it," Flora replied honestly, glancing reflexively over towards the fire as she heard the sizzle of cooking meat. "But…" She broke off, dropping her gaze to the densely packed earth between her legs.

Alistair gazed at the top of her head, then reached out to place his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her face up to meet his stare. It was her turn to look guilty, grey eyes darting across towards the fire.

"But what?"

"Loghain was right, I  _was_  the best barrier mage at Ostagar," she said, in a mumble so low that he had to bend his head to hear her. "If I'd been in the battle, I could've made more of a difference. Saved someone."

_Saved Duncan._

_Or the King._

The names hung unspoken in the cold air between them. Alistair withdrew his fingers from her chin, remembering the answer he had given the Guardian.  _Yes, I believe it would have been better if I had died and Duncan had lived. I should have died in his place. If I had protested harder, refused to follow orders and insisted on fighting in the valley – how might that have changed things?_

Alistair listened to Flora hesitatingly explain that the recurring pain helped in some strange way to remind her of those whom she failed to protect at Ostagar. And as he listened, he began to see the flaws in her- and by proxy, his own- thinking.

In a sudden moment of clarity, beside the slow flow of the glacial river, Alistair realised that there was nothing else that he could possibly have done at Ostagar to avert its terrible outcome. His half-brother's hopeless dream of defeating the Darkspawn in battle had doomed not only him, but the Wardens too. It was as if a weight that he had been carrying for weeks was suddenly lifted from his shoulders.

Flora had finished explaining and was peering at him hesitantly, bitten fingernails curling against her aching knee, the badge of Ostagar that she would most likely bear for the rest of her life. He gazed at her for a long second, then leaned forward and gently kissed her on the forehead.

"I'm so proud of you, Flo," he murmured, and she looked up at him, startled.

"Really?"

He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. She went pink and smiled at him, then her eyes darted somewhere over his shoulder.

"Your exotic meal of meat, meat and more meat is ready," announced Zevran, his lip curling as he appeared around the corner of the tent. "I'm beginning to regret not killing you and returning to Antiva for the customary victory feast."

Alistair, for whom the assassination attempt was still too recent for jests, shot him a glare. Flora, hunger overcoming the pain in her knee, scrambled towards the fire.

Over dinner, Zevran and Leliana conversed extensively over different nobles whom they had come across in their time. Zevran brought up various houses who had branches in both Antiva and Orlais; while Leliana tried to wheedle information out of him about various contracts his guild had undertaken in the past.

"So, it was a Crow involved in the death of the corrupt Marquess Deliere? I  _knew_ carriages didn't just catch fire by themselves!"

"I could not possibly divulge that," replied Zevran mysteriously, giving her a portentous look and tapping the side of his nose. Leliana let out a squeal of excitement, her eyes lighting up.

"How exciting! I wonder who took out the contract on his life. Maybe his sister, the Marchioness, had something to do with it."

"Again, I could not  _possibly_ divulge that information," intoned Zevran, eyeing her significantly while inclining his head.

Flora, who had no experience with the nobility save for the frenetic fortnight she had spent in Cailan's guard, had little to contribute to the conversation. Instead, she was hunched over beside the fire mending some of their damaged saddlebags, a needle and thread clamped between her teeth.

Alistair, who could contribute to the conversation but lacked the inclination, watched her work the needle in and out of the leather, making little knots every so often to strengthen the tie. His mind kept drifting back to the glimpse he'd stolen of her fragile collarbone in the Temple's Inner Sanctum.

"Could you hold this tight?" she asked him and he swallowed, realising that the inside of his mouth was dry. He took the edge of the rope bag and gripped it taut as instructed, while she finished the final hemming.

"Does this count as evening entertainment back in Herring?" he asked, mostly to distract himself. She nodded, choosing to take his comment as a straight question rather than a joke.

"I've spent a lot of hours repairing my dad's nets," she mumbled through the needle, her fingers working at a tangled thread. Alistair glanced at her, ashamed suddenly of his teasing. Something she had said in the temple came back to him, and he spoke up again suddenly.

"You said you almost drowned when you were a child?"

She nodded, returning the needle to the bag and making the finishing stitches.

" I had gone to collect cockles from the next beach. The tide came in too quickly and I was stuck."

On the opposite side of the fire, Leliana and Zevran paused in a heated argument about the signs of Antivan poisoning.

"What happened?" asked Alistair, feeling a ridiculous lurch of dread in his stomach. Flora shrugged, tucking the needle back into the small sewing kit they had purchased back in Lothering.

"A travelling apostate saved me. His face is my first memory."

Flora paused for a moment, recalling the narrow, hawk-like features and dark eyes, blazing with purpose. "I had been in the sea for so long that- well, my dad always said afterwards that the saltwater had washed away certain corners of my mind. I didn't even know my own name."

Alistair reached out and patted her knee, awkwardly. "Sorry."

Flora rolled her eyes at him, giving a little shrug. "It was a long time ago."

They finished the rest of their meal in silence, the moon glowing like a huge pearl above the Frostbacks.

When Alistair yawned and glanced over at a sleepy Flora, Zevran stretched and let out an expectant beam, holding out his hand to Leliana.

"Shall we retire for the night, my lotus flower?"

Leliana let out a squeal of outrage, recoiling as though he had offered her a decapitated Darkspawn head.

"Surely you jest? I'm not sharing a tent with you!"

Zevran looked perturbed. "But we've been flirting all evening! Did that mean nothing to you?"

"That wasn't flirting, that was  _normal conversation!"_ hissed back Leliana, colour flaring in her cheeks. Zevran gave a mild shrug and turned his most charming smile to Flora, who was openly laughing.

"How about it, my little Rialto lily? I admit, I wouldn't mind seeing that body again. I must warn you though, I seem to have left my smallclothes behind in the Temple as an offering."

His face fell slightly as Flora continued laughing, hiding her face in the rope bag that she had been mending. Alistair shot Zevran a look that suggested he was seriously contemplating hurling the elf into the glacial river alongside them.

"Ignorant country girls," grumbled the Antivan, scowling at Flora. "Well, I'm not sleeping outside. Alistair? You  _were_ raised in the Chantry, so…"

Alistair quailed slightly, then gestured towards Flora.

"I have to sleep near her or she gets nightmares. Archdemon whispers. It's a Warden thing," he said hastily, and Zevran raised his eyebrows.

"I admit, that is one I have not heard before. So, it seems we are at an impasse?"

Fifteen minutes later, Zevran called out bitterly from the adjacent tent.

"Enjoy your night with two beautiful redheads,  _Chantry boy_. I'm sure you'll put it to excellent use."

Alistair grumbled, feeling the damp canvas of the tent against his back. Flora, resting her cheek on her arm, smiled at him and gave a little shrug. Her face was only inches away from his own, so close he could see the faint freckles dotting her cheeks.

"Ignore him," she mumbled, glancing over her shoulder at Leliana. "Do you have enough room?"

The lay-sister nodded, her hands pressed together as her lips moved silently in prayer.

From somewhere outside, an owl gave a long and mournful hoot. The quiet gurgling of the river, its glacial flow winding its way through the valley that it had first begun to carve at the very dawn of Thedas, echoed between the canyon walls.

Alistair reached out and a yawning Flora gave him her hand, their fingers curling together in a practised gesture. Leliana, finishing her prayer, opened her eyes and rolled over to face them.

"So this is really all you do," she wondered, her blue eyes gleaming in the sliver of light provided by the moon. "Holding hands? It's very sweet."

Alistair frowned, sensing a vague jibe hidden in her quilted words. Flora merely smiled, then reached her free hand over and clumsily patted Leliana's head, her fingers half over the bard's face.

"'Night, Leliana. Don't let the weever fish bite."

" _Weever fish?!"_ exclaimed the lay-sister into the shadows. "Do such a thing really exist?"

"Healed enough of their stings back in Herring," whispered back Flora, dropping her head against Alistair's shoulder. He slid an arm around her narrow back, resting his chin on her hair.

"I'm not sure if mountains are their natural habit though, eh?" he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. She yawned, mumbling something incoherent.

* * *

 

The Archdemon's tangled whispers, more muted than usual, crept down her back in the darkest part of the night. It felt as though water from the glacial river was dripping slowly down her spine, icy fingers spanning her neck and constricting her breath. She caught a glimpse of a malevolent eye, heard the beating of leathery wings and then felt a pressure around her fingers, warm and insistent. Like an anchor, it pulled her back through the Veil and she awoke with a gasp, as though breaking through the surface of the sea.

Alistair was gazing at her, his eyes dark and sympathetic in the shadows, his fingers clenched tightly around hers. Flora could feel Leliana's back pressed against her own, the woman softly snoring as she slept.

Not wanting to speak and risk waking the lay-sister, he took her hand and began to rub his thumb over her small knuckles. They were still bruised from when she had pounded her fist against the stone door in the Temple, demanding that the Guardian clarify his statement about her father. Alistair wondered about that for a moment, sliding his thumb into the gaps between her fingers. He felt her fingers curling against his skin and caressed them with his own, touching the bitten nails affectionately before rubbing his thumb in a circle over her soft palm.

_I'm just holding her hand,_ he thought defiantly to himself, although there was something slow and intimate about it that made his breath catch in his throat. When he returned his gaze to her face, he realised that she had fallen asleep.

* * *

 

When dawn broke, he was alone in the tent. The watery sunlight penetrated the canvas and illuminated the two overlapping bedrolls beside him, upon which rested a tangle of empty furs and blankets.

"One more, please, Flora!" called Leliana's voice from outside. He could hear the fire crackling, accompanied by Zevran's quiet humming. Alistair crawled out of the tent, blinking in the sudden light. It was a cool and crisp winter morning, the sun clinging to the top of the Frostbacks.

Leliana was kneeling beside the fire, where several large salmon were resting precariously on skewers. Zevran already had his in hand, turning it over the flames. He raised his dark eyes to Alistair as the Warden approached, nodding in greeting.

"I assume you were a  _good_ little Chantry boy last night," the Antivan elf murmured, nostrils flaring to take in the scent of grilling fish. "With a lay-sister on one side and your sister-warden on the other. It is the stuff of Antivan romances."

"Actually, I had mouldy canvas on my other side," replied Alistair mildly. "Where's Flora?"

Leliana gestured over towards the slow-flowing glacial river. "Getting breakfast."

Flora was crouched barefoot on a boulder in the river shallows, her breeches rolled up around her knees. Her damp hair was tied on top of her head, wet strands falling loose and soaking the top of her shirt. She peered down at the pale blue water flowing lazily around the base of the boulder, her eyes narrowed. In her hand she held her staff, with Leliana's knife bound tightly with twine at one end. Slowly she exhaled, expelling the air from her lungs, watching and waiting.

Seconds later, Alistair watched Flora slide down from the boulder, makeshift spear driving forwards at an angle towards the river shallows. She splashed into the water after it, letting out a squawk at its temperature.

The next moment she emerged, soaked from the waist down, waving her staff in the air triumphantly. A large salmon flapped helpless at the end of the blade. Not wanting it to suffer for any longer than necessary, she gripped the fish by its tail, slid it from the blade and gave it a single, hard smack against the boulder. Clutching her limp prize she returned to the campfire, leaving damp footprints in her wake.

"Thank you!" sang Leliana, plucking the fish from Flora's arms.

"You aren't very ladylike, are you?" observed Zevran archly, taking a bite of his own grilled salmon. "Just an observation, my flower. In Antiva, ladies are encouraged to undertake traditional  _feminine_  pursuits."

Alistair handed Flora a blanket, which he had dived to get as soon as he had seen her plunge into the frigid waters. She smiled at him gratefully, towelling her damp hair.

"Nice spearing… fishing?" he commented lightly, watching Leliana efficiently gut the salmon before impaling it on a skewer.

"Thanks!" Flora beamed at him, tipping water out of her ear. "This is nothing. When this is all over, when we go to Herring, I'll spear an  _eel_  for you."

He grinned back at him, irrationally cheered.

* * *

 

They continued to follow the winding river valley, tracing the tributary as it descended towards Ferelden's largest lake. As the sun began to dip beneath the horizon, they ascended a low ridge and Lake Calenhad came into view beneath them. The trail had brought them to its southern-most tip; they could see the grey squatness of Redcliffe Castle perched on its high promontory, as if standing guard over the village on the shore below.

"I hope the Arl is alright," muttered Alistair, squinting across at the darkened windows of the Guerrin ancestral seat. Flora, seated behind him, gave his mail-clad shoulder a small squeeze. She wasn't sure he had felt it until he shot her a brief smile over his shoulder.

"The Maker will preserve him," replied Leliana, certainty in her voice as she turned her horse's head towards the upper path. "Come, let's not waste any time."

As they approached the castle, they began to see some small signs of life returning to the vast structure. The broken windows in the East tower had been boarded over, and the iron gates had been rehung. As they rode into the main courtyard, two stable boys clad in Redcliffe livery ran to take their horses. Ser Perth, one of the knights who had assisted in the defence of Redcliffe, came out to meet them. His lined face was suffused with anxiety and tentative hope. He gave a nod of respect to the lay-sister and cast a curious glance at the elf, whose tanned skin clearly denoted him as one not from Ferelden.

"Alistair! Were you successful? The Bann has been summoned, he's in the village."

Alistair nodded, glancing over at Flora, who suddenly remembered that she had the Ashes in her boot. Grimly, she hoped that there would be an opportunity for her to subtly remove them before they assembled before the Arl.

"How is he?" asked Alistair as they entered the main hall of the Castle.

This too was undergoing restoration- the broken tables had been cleared away and the torn tapestries taken down. More servants were carrying in replacement items of furniture, their cobwebbed state and musty smell suggesting many years kept in storage. A fire was roaring in the main hearth and two chambermaids were chattering to each other as they scrubbed the flagstones. Slowly, Redcliffe Castle was coming back to life as normal routine was resumed. However, the castle without its Arl was like a bridge without a keystone- there was something vital missing, a strange tautness in the atmosphere.

"He lives, for now," replied the knight, as the new steward shouted orders at two hapless elves carrying a large armoire.

"The Castle looks a lot better," commented Leliana, glancing around as they crossed the hall. Ser Perth nodded, holding open the door to the main staircase.

"Since young Master Connor has recovered, the Arlessa has begun the business of restoring Redcliffe."

"While Arl Eamon still lies dying," muttered Alistair, and the knight winced

"The villagers are also eager to resume normality," he continued hastily, leading the way up to the second floor. The vast stained glass window flanking the staircase had also been clumsily repaired, an iron bar welded over the missing fragments. It had once depicted an Almarri lord on the hunt, but his prey – once a golden halla - had been smashed beyond recognition.

"The Arlessa has sent to Val Royeaux for replacement glass," murmured Ser Perth, and Alistair let out a derisive snort. Leliana flashed the knight a polite smile, to cover the Warden's obvious disdain.

"Orlesian glass is the finest in Thedas," she said diplomatically, glancing up at a hastily hung tapestry. "I'm sure it can be restored with a skilled artisan."

"All this fuss about Orlesian craftsmanship," complained Zevran, as they reached the stone balcony of the upper floor. "Antiva has craftsmen of equal skill, and they charge a far more reasonable price."

Flora had fallen silent, irrationally intimidated at being in an Arl's castle now that it was not empty and demonically possessed. She kept her eyes on the floor, trying to avoid treading too heavily on the thick, silken carpets.

Then they heard a child's laughter, high and unsullied by demonic influence. Connor Guerrin, son of the Arl, ran out into the main upper passageway, calling over his shoulder.

"No, mama! I don't want to pack my velvet suit. The letter said there would be clothing for me at the Tower!"

The child stopped abruptly as he almost collided with them, his eyebrows rising imperiously.

"Who are  _you?"_ he demanded, dark eyes running over each of them in turn. Ser Perth inclined his head, respectfully.

"Master Connor, they are here to help your father."

The young boy nodded slowly, already aping his mother's Orlesian airs and mannerisms. His eyes fell on Flora and he let out a cry of recognition, pointing a finger at her.

"You!"

Flora hung her head miserably, wondering what basic rule of etiquette she had unwittingly violated. Connor stared at her, and in his open-mouthed shock he resembled his father far more.

"I remember you! You were in my dream- my bad dream," he said slowly, approaching her. "You killed the monster."

Flora nodded mutely, welded in place as the child wandered up to her. The boy gazed up into her face, curiously.

"You don't look as powerful as you did in my dream. You're quite short."

"Sorry," Flora muttered, visibly uncomfortable.

At that moment the Arlessa emerged into the passageway. Her joy at seeing them returned was tempered by her irritation at seeing her son fraternising with the common mage girl. Having resigned herself to the fact that Connor was to be sent to the Tower, Isolde was determined that he should associate only with the upper echelons of Circle society.

The Arlessa strode towards them, her pale blue eyes wide with pointed concern.

"Have you the Ashes?" she demanded, omitting pleasantries. Ser Perth nodded, and the older woman's face collapsed in relief. After confirming that Teagan had been sent for from the village, she gestured them through the double doors into the Arl's bedchamber.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: Poor Zevran, having to sleep alone in a tent! Also, weever fish are definitely a real thing. And they do sting people! I imagine that Flora did a lot of spear-fishing in the shallows of the Waking Sea, in rock pools and the like, when she was younger. I don't think there's much to do in Herring that isn't related to the fishing trade in some way. Also, I wrote about freeing Connor from the external perspective, rather than describing what happened in the Fade. I think it's interesting to theorise about how people perceive one another there - like, how Connor saw Flora as appearing more powerful there than she did in reality.


	37. Andraste and the Arl

Chapter 37: Andraste and the Arl

Wynne was perched on a stool beside the Arl's bedside, bathing his forehead with a cloth. She looked up as they entered, giving a tight nod of greeting.

Alistair inhaled in dismay on seeing how the man's condition had deteriorated. He appeared to have lost no more weight but dark veins now crept over the entirety of his skin. The flesh around his eyeballs had shrunk away, and his lips were drawn back over his teeth, as though he were snarling. His fingers were curled rigidly towards his palms, the nail beds blackened.

"He looks so much worse," Alistair breathed, coming alongside the bed and staring down at the lifeless man. The Arlessa gave an unsteady sigh, ushering a suddenly-silent Connor away.

"I know. I am so afraid, I cannot think that he has much time left."

Zevran, who had no idea who the man in the bed was, sauntered over to a weapon stand in the corner and began to inspect an enamelled dagger. Leliana murmured a quick prayer.

"We cannot waste a moment," snapped Wynne tersely. "Do you have something to mix the Ashes with?"

Ser Perth went in search for some wine, while Leliana looked at Flora expectantly. Flora blinked back at her for a moment, then realised why both the lay-priestess and the Arlessa were staring expectantly.

"Oh!" she said, then flushed slightly. Lifting one foot, she pulled off her boot and tipped the folded silk handkerchief into her palm. Somewhat shamefaced, she handed it to a gaping Leliana.

"Blasphemy," muttered the Arlessa under her breath while Flora retreated to the corner of the room, gloomily.

Ser Perth brought back not only wine, but also Bann Teagan. The auburn-haired man greeted them quickly, new lines of strain creased around his mouth.

Having slit Flora's knots with a small knife produced from her corset, Leliana poured the Ashes into the wine, her mouth moving in silent prayer.

"You have to give it to him one sip at a time, or it'll come back out," murmured the Bann, watching Alistair tilt the older man's head back gently. Wynne lowered herself to a small stool beside the bed and raised the goblet to the Arl's mouth. With meticulous care the senior enchanter dripped some of the liquid between the sick man's parted lips. The Arlessa watched, her pale eyes wide and fearful.

Meanwhile, the Arl's son had caught Flora's attention. He had crept into a side-chamber, and was beckoning frantically for her to join him. Flora stared and looked around, but everyone's attention was focused on the bed. Connor eyed her, then gave another imperious wave. With one foot still bare, she followed him into the small room. With a lurch, she realised that this had been where Jowan had died.

"You're a mage too, aren't you? From the Circle?" the Arl's son asked curiously, staring up at her in the darkness. She blinked at him, then nodded. The boy sat down on the bed, his small face suddenly pinched and drawn.

"Will there be others my age there?" he continued, an unsteady note in his tone.

Flora peered down at him and realised that he was nervous, that the summons from Kinloch Hold had prompted trepidation as well as excitement. She smiled at him, now able to see the child behind the fine clothing and air of superiority. Sitting down beside him and crossing her legs on the mattress, she raised her eyebrows at him confidentially.

"There are  _lots_ of children there," she replied, nodding her head solemnly. "They have a dormitory all to themselves."

From the way that the boy searched her face eagerly, Flora sensed that she had struck the right chord. She had seen many servants and knights in the Arl's castle, but no other children.

Connor smiled hopefully at her, then a shadow fell over his face once again.

"But if I'm a mage, then… It might happen again, mightn't it? The-  _bad thing_. Where you lose control."

Flora stared at him for a moment, seeing the fear throbbing deep in his wide, dark eyes.

"There are little things you can do to keep yourself focused, when the magic feels overwhelming," she said carefully, raising her hand to show him her nailbitten fingers. "One of mine is touching this. It helps calm me down."

The small boy looked at the initialled gold ring, then up at her face curiously.

"What's another one?"

"Reciting the fish of the Waking Sea, from biggest to smallest," she told him, with a nod. " _Hagfish, lamprey, halibut, dogfish, kitefin, thresher…_ "

She trailed off, shrugging a shoulder. "By the time I get to  _pilchard_ , I know that everything's real, and that I'm in control of myself."

Connor gazed up at her, thoughtfully.

"I could list all the villages and farmsteads that my father owns," he offered, and Flora gave a solemn nod.

"Yes, that… is a good idea."

She didn't tell him about the third thing that anchored her to the waking world – the dull pain of her injured knee.

Just then Zevran stuck his head around the door, peering down at them.

"My petal, you are requested at the invalid's bedside," he said, a faintly impressed look on his face. "I must say, Antiva has the best poison makers in Thedas and even they could not rival the tonic that has been given to this unfortunate creature."

Flora got to her feet, following him into the main bedchamber with some trepidation. The empty goblet rested on the bedside cabinet, Leliana pacing back and forth across the rug while the Arlessa clutched her husband's limp hand. Teagan's brow was furrowed in confusion and disbelief as he stared at Alistair, who wore a similar expression.

"Didn't it work?" asked Flora, gazing down at the still Arl. The black veins had faded from his skin, but he still lay white and unconscious.

Wynne exhaled, rising to her feet.

"The Ashes have cured the poison, but its prolonged residence in his body has taken his toll. The man is exhausted, I don't think his heart can hold out."

The senior mage raised her eyebrows at Flora, who grasped her meaning immediately.

"I don't know if I can revive him, if his heart is gone," she whispered, feeling a little ridiculous standing there with one bare foot on the rug. The Arlessa rose, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"You  _will_ try, girl!" she ordered, and Flora dropped her head even as Alistair opened his mouth to protest.

"Hey!" he hissed, rising from the bench where he had been slumped. "You can't order her around. She's a Warden."

Flora was already taking off her other boot, not wanting to dirty the fine silk sheets. She clambered up onto the bed, kneeling beside the Arl and peering down at his face. Despite the tension and gauntness, there was a kindness about his frail features. She suddenly felt very sorry for him- if he awoke, he would learn that his castle had been ransacked, his son possessed and his village assaulted, all while he lay unconscious.

Carefully peeling open his sweat-soaked tunic to reveal the greying hair on his chest; she tucked several loose strands behind her ears and leaned forward. The smell of odour and sickness did not bother her, she felt only sympathy for the dying man who lay before her through no fault of his own.

Flora closed her eyes, feeling the golden mist building up on her tongue. She opened her mouth and  _exhaled,_ feeling the vital energy pass from her to him. Spreading her palm over the left side of his chest, she envisioned the lifegiving substance rolling down the man's throat, through the channels and fleshy passages of the body.

Flora then pictured her own heart, pumping in all its glorious endurance, essential yet unassuming. She had tried and failed in the past to heal hearts damaged by blade and by arrow, and had an idea of what they looked like, with their strange bloody chambers fitting together neatly like the rooms of a house.

_This man's heart is weak; but it is not broken. It can be revived, as surely as one can be roused even from a deep sleep. It can be made strong again._

As Flora hunched over the exhausted man, Wynne turned to the Bann and the Arlessa.

"I predict that this will take a while," she murmured diplomatically, glancing towards the door. "You may wish to put the child to bed and have something to eat."

Zevran perked up, glancing over at Leliana.

"Shall we see if we can locate some fruit, sister?" he queried, pushing himself up from the chair expectantly. "I doubt my stomach can handle any more meat today, I clearly am not cut out for the Fereldan diet."

Leliana nodded, gracefully rising in a fluid manner that caught Bann Teagan's eye despite the circumstances. The Arlessa retrieved her sleepy son from the side chamber, the leaded glass windows now completely dark. Ser Perth had already left to oversee the night rounds of the castle.

* * *

 

After a while, the only people left in the chamber were Flora and the Arl, Wynne and Alistair. Flora was oblivious to the world, her eyes clouded and golden as she bent over the man's chest, her fingers moving in slight, incomprehensible patterns. Wynne watched Alistair as he slumped in a chair beside the bedside, his expression defeated.

"Why the long face?" she asked archly, taking a seat on the bench opposite him. He gave a shrug, letting out a small sigh.

"I thought this at least would be straightforward," he muttered, glancing over at the bed. "Everything else is so complicated."

Wynne raised her eyebrows, following his gaze.

"People are complicated," she replied mildly. "Life is complicated. The Darkspawn are simple in their single-mindedness to destroy. Is that what you'd prefer?"

He shot her a sour look, returning his gaze to the floorboards.

"That's not what I meant and you know it, granny."

Wynne let out a piercing laugh, the sound not appearing to register with the hunched Flora.

"Fine. I have had some good news from Denerim; several of the other nobles are challenging Loghain and Anora's claim to the regency. They look elsewhere for their leader."

Alistair groaned, putting a hand to his head. "How is that  _good_ news?"

"Because it means that they would be willing to support even a bastard's claim, and if that does not please you, it casts doubt on Loghain's legitimacy. Questions lead to dissension."

"Perfect: civil war. Just what Ferelden needs during a Blight," he responded, gloomily. Wynne steepled her fingers together, laying out her winning hand.

"What if the choice was Loghain becoming King- or you?"

Alistair paused, grimaced. Wynne smiled, dropping her eyes to her now folded fingers.

"And I have my answer. Thank you."

"It's all too complicated," he grumbled, shifting slightly in his seat. "I wish I was born the child of a fisherman, like Flo."

"Hm," replied Wynne, unconvinced.

* * *

 

Another candle burnt down, wax pooling at its base. The night watchman called ten hours, the guard changing shift on the ramparts outside. The Bann returned to the Arl's chamber, to find Alistair asleep in the chair alongside the bed. Wynne was busy scribing a letter to Irving at Kinloch Hold, but even her tireless hand was slowing. Flora was still hunched over, weary but determined. She knew the beat of the Arl's heart intimately now, heard it as a song in her own head; she could almost hum the erratic rhythm of it. She had been timing her exhalations to its weak pulsation, coaxing the golden energy through each bloody chamber in turn with the small movements of her fingers.

Then the Arl gave a hoarse cough, his throat thick from weeks of disuse. The man opened his eyes, which were clear and bright, and blinked up at the tented bed canopy. Flora, who had recoiled in shock when he had coughed in her face, slid clumsily off the bed and backed up against the window. Alistair jolted awake as if he had been electrocuted, jumping to his feet.

"Eamon?!" Teagan strode to his brother's side, wild and tentative hope contorting his features. The Arl sat up, still gaunt and hollow-cheeked, but with his skin a healthy, ruddy shade. He glanced around the room, his brow furrowed.

"Teagan? What's happened? Where is Isolde, and my boy?" His gaze fell on the figure in battered Templar mail beside him.  _"Alistair?!"_

Teagan squeezed his eyes together for a moment, murmuring a prayer of gratitude to the Maker. He sunk to the stool beside the Arl, exhaling slowly.

"They are both well, brother. But I have a lot to talk to you about; and much of it is not good. Alistair too, needs to speak with you."

Arl Eamon glanced over at Alistair, who was hovering nervously at the foot of the bed. His brow furrowed, and he nodded for his old ward to approach.

"Teagan, tell me everything."

Wynne, seeing a nervous Flora hovering beside the window, went over and took her by the arm.

"Bedtime, I think," she murmured, nudging her subtly across the chamber. "Let them talk."

Flora, terrified of interacting with the Arl now that he was conscious, nodded mutely. She allowed the senior mage to guide her out of the room, and down the main passage.

"Well done, Fiona," Wynne said after a moment, showing her into the same bedchamber that they had stayed in previously. Leliana was nowhere to be seen, presumably still in the kitchens with Zevran. "Are you exhausted?"

This question was pertinent; overworked mages were more susceptible to possession. Flora thought for a moment, then shook her head, surprised to realise that she was sleepy, but not drained.

"No," she replied with a yawn, divesting herself of shirt and breeches and changing into a set of plain cotton nightclothes. Drab and functional, they reminded her of those she had worn in the Grey Warden tent. "I'll be fine."

"Now." Wynne was letting down her own skein of white hair, combing it out before winding it back up in a tight bun. "I know that Alistair will be in soon enough. Allow me to stay here and chaperone you both. To prevent  _gossip."_

This was said in a tone that brokered no argument. Flora didn't know what a chaperone was but assumed it was something akin to the role performed by the Templars at a Circle Tower. She gave a mild shrug and slumped back on the blankets, her body overwarm from the energy channelled through it earlier.

"Where's Leliana?" she mumbled, turning her face against the cushion. Wynne gave a delicate  _harrumph_ of disapproval.

"Well, I last saw her disappearing into the pantry with the Antivan elf so I assume that she will be indisposed for a while."

Flora, not quite having the energy to laugh, let out a muffled snort into the blanket.

"I thought they hated each other."

Wynne raised her eyebrows, leaning over to blow out the candle and settling back on the couch.

"That means nothing."

* * *

 

Several hours later, Flora was drifting in and out of a light and dozing sleep, when someone shook her arm gently. She yawned and sat up, squinting into the darkness. The room was dimly lit by a sliver of moonlight creeping in through the gap in the long curtains.

"Alistair?" she whispered, conscious of the loudly snoring Wynne on the couch. He was already in his linen underarmour, and appeared somewhat unsettled, staring at her with shadowed eyes. She shifted over on the bed and leaned over to the extinguished candlestick, fumbling with the flint and tinder. He sat down on the bed as she lit it, letting out a slow exhalation.

Flora sat cross-legged on the bed, pulling her bare feet up onto her thighs, and waited expectantly. Alistair paused for a moment, then glanced at her.

"Why'd you leave?" he asked, keeping his voice down. Flora shrugged, self-consciously.

"I was tired. And I don't know how to act in front of  _nobles_ ; I don't want to do something wrong and get into trouble. What did you talk about?"

Alistair sighed, slumping back on the blankets and staring up at the wooden ceiling beams. Flora looked down at him curiously, tucking loose ropes of hair back into her untidy braid.

"Everything. About the maleficar, Connor's possession. What had happened to the village. You'll like this bit: he's planning a thank you feast for the villagers tomorrow evening. Show them that order has been restored. Coincides with Satinalia."

Flora beamed, reaching out to fiddle with a loose thread on the cuff of his linen sleeve. She knew that he had not yet finished; but knew her brother-warden well enough not to press him.

Eventually he closed his eyes, with a small grimace. "He's going to give us a caravan and supplies, for our journey to Orzammar. He'll go to Denerim once we return. Call for a Landsmeet."

Flora remembered Bann Teagan mentioning the Landsmeet in Redcliffe Chantry, the morning after the fourth assault. She nodded slowly, pulling at the loose thread to draw it out further.

"I'd hoped that he was going to put himself forward as a candidate for the throne," Alistair said after a moment, his voice hollow. "But he says that won't work. The nobles won't support such a tenuous claim."

He trailed off, a bitter edge to his voice.

"I never asked for this," he said to the ceiling, his eyes hardening. "I didn't have any choice in who I was born to. I can barely make decisions for myself, let alone an entire country!"

His voice rose slightly and Wynne stirred on the couch.

Flora let out a small sigh, settling back onto the blanket beside him with a grunt. The thought of Alistair becoming King of Ferelden was so strange that she could not fully comprehend it, and so simply chose not to.

"Tell me one of your Herring stories, Flo," he mumbled, glancing over at her as she lay beside him. "About fish, or sharks, or eels- I don't mind. I just can't think about anything else tonight."

"An eel  _is_  a type of fish," she replied drowsily to the ceiling, reaching out a finger to catch a bead of wax as it rolled slowly down the candlestick. "Alright, then. This story is called  _How the Salmon Got His Fin."_

Neither of them had noticed that Wynne's snores had stopped. Alistair rested his head back against the blanket, feeling Flora's head resting against his upper arm.

"Long ago, when the Maker had made all the living things in Thedas, He grew hungry," she whispered, lifting her hands in front of the candle. The Chantry's sunburst symbol emerged on the ceiling, cast by the enlarged silhouette of her thumb and splayed fingers.

"He asked his advisor, a small robin, what was the tastiest animal that He had created." Here her fingers moved again, the shadow twisting into a bird flapping against the white plasterwork. "The robin knew that the chicken was the tastiest, but he didn't want to sacrifice one of his fellow brethren."

Alistair smiled despite himself, watching the bird flap it's wings across the ceiling. "I wish men had as much loyalty as those birds."

"So instead the robin told the Maker that the salmon was the tastiest creature in Thedas. The Maker searched the Waking Sea until He found the biggest, most delicious looking salmon." The shadow reformed into a fish, swimming lazily back and forth between the beams.

"But the salmon did not want to become a meal for the Maker. So when the Maker tried to grab him, he swam away as fast as he could. The Maker only managed to pull on his back before the salmon escaped. And that is how the salmon got his fin."

Flora lowered her fingers and shot a sideways glance over at Alistair. He propped himself up on an elbow and peered down at her, noticing how the reflected candlelight made her grey eyes appear almost golden.

"What an interesting story. Do you think it could be true?" he asked her, a teasing edge to his voice. Flora rolled her eyes, shaking her head against the blanket.

"No!" she whispered scornfully, her brows drawing together. "As if chicken is tastier than salmon!  _Chicken_!"

The sheer incredulity in her tone made him want to laugh. Alistair stared down at her, saw her lips beginning to turn up in a smile, and then abruptly he didn't want to laugh anymore.

"Nothing wrong with chicken," he murmured, reaching down to move a loose strand of mahogany hair away from her eyes.

The strange sensation that Alistair had felt in the tent on the way to Haven, a tight coiling deep in his abdomen, returned in full force. He looked at her wide, curving mouth and found that he inexplicably couldn't move his eyes away. The inside of his own mouth felt dry and coarse, a hard pulse throbbed in his throat. He could feel the same nervous adrenaline rising within him as when he had faced down Darkspawn, but there was a different type of urgency about it.

Flora was gazing up at him curiously, her smile fading. Without thinking, driven solely by the mounting pressure in his core, he lowered his face towards hers.

" _Fiona!"_ Wynne's voice rang across the room suddenly, sharp and imperious. "You've left your staff in the Arl's bedchamber. It's irresponsible, especially with an untrained child in the premises."

Alistair recoiled so rapidly he almost fell off the bed while Flora sat upright with a grimace.

"But what if the Arl is in there?" she asked, plaintively. "I don't want him to try and  _talk_  to me."

"He's not; I heard him and the Bann descend to the ground floor a short while ago."

"I can get it," offered Alistair, helpfully. Wynne shot him a glare, the fierceness of which he could perceive even in the darkness.

"Nonsense," the old woman retorted immediately. "The girl has legs. I remember her using them extensively in the Tower. Tragically, to descend to the kitchens rather than ascend to the libraries."

Grumbling under her breath Flora shuffled out of the room, creeping barefoot down the passageway. Wynne, knowing that the journey would only take a minute, spoke quickly.

"A word of caution, Alistair. You have obligations –  _both_  of you – to the Wardens, and to Ferelden. You cannot afford to be distracted!"

Alistair spluttered indignantly, unable to meet her stare. "I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled, grateful that the low light hid the flush creeping across his cheeks. "I think of Flora as a sister."

"A man does not look at his sister in the way that you were looking at her just now," replied Wynne, softly. "Have a care."

When Flora shuffled back in clutching her staff, Alistair was under the covers with his back turned, subdued and unresponsive. She climbed beneath the blankets beside him, stubbing her toe on the wooden bedpost and hissing quietly beneath her breath. For a few moments, as she lay wide-eyed in the darkness, she wondered if he had fallen asleep. Then, beneath the blanket, his hand reached out for hers. Flora took it, and their fingers wound together tightly.

"'Night, Alistair," she whispered, resting her cheek against the cushion.

"Goodnight, my dear," he replied, squeezing her fingers between his own.

When Wynne spoke, it was with the malevolence of an Archdemon.

" _Go to sleep!"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: I did a lot of research about fish legends and mythology – I know that the fish getting it's fin is from Celtic legend originally, but I can't find a source. There was a really interesting one called the Salmon of Knowledge, which was fascinating but a little too complex for Flora to relate.


	38. Deep Breath, Chin Up, Eyes Straight

Chapter 38: Deep Breath, Chin Up, Eyes Straight

The next morning dawned crisp and clear. The Arl rode down to the frost-rimed village, miraculously energised after the combined efforts of the Ashes and Flora's rejuvenation. A grim-faced and combative Leliana accompanied him, stating loudly that she needed both  _physical and spiritual cleansing_  in the Chantry. A grinning Zevran overheard this as he lounged in the main hall, letting out a pointed laugh.

Bann Teagan was overseeing the gathering of supplies for the caravan that would accompany the Wardens and their party to Orzammar. Salted meats, bread and root vegetables were being carefully packed into straw-lined crates. Spare weapons and whetstones were brought up from the armoury and loaded into carts. Pether; the Tranquil who acted as emissary for the Circle, was personally overseeing the addition of his abundant stationary, ledgers and parchment. Several Mabari hounds wandered around, taking mild interest in the preparations and greater interest in the arriving food.

Flora, watching the bustling courtyard from the ramparts, realised that there would be at least another ten additional people accompanying them on the road to the Dwarven capital, in addition to a variety of carts and wagons. She thought back to when they had first started their journey; her, Alistair and Morrigan on the road to Lothering, avoiding puddles and awkward conversation.

In the corner of the main courtyard, Alistair had found some comfort in the familiar routine of morning drill alongside the Arl's knights. Dressed in plain linen attire to blend in, he practised line and formation with the other men and women. Alistair appreciated the instinctual nature of the sword thrusts, the mindlessness inherent in repetitive movement.

Despite living on the road for a month, eating sporadically whenever the opportunity arose, he was surprised to find that he had not lost any of his strength. He had never suffered through a gangly stage as an adolescent, had always been tall and broad-shouldered. It had been his bulky physicality which had first prompted the Chantry to submit Alistair for the notoriously demanding Templar training.

Despite the confusion and complexities of Fereldan politics, which hung over his head like a dark cloud; he found reassurance in the raw power of his body, in the readiness of honed muscle to respond to physical demand.

Now as he faced the sack torso of the training dummy before him, he envisioned Loghain's face on the blank wooden head. Feeling a twist of rage deep in his gut, he raised the sword.

Flora, now sitting on the edge of the ramparts and drumming her heels against the stone, jumped slightly as she heard a deep, dispassionate voice behind her.

"The strength is adequate, but his discipline is shoddy."

She peered over her shoulder to look at Sten, needing to tip her head upwards to take in his full height. He was also watching Alistair assault the training dummy, his eyebrows raised noncommittally.

"Do  _you_  plan on doing any training in preparation? At least the other Warden practises combat form. All I see you do is…  _consume_."

Flora shrugged, defensively. "I don't need to practise," she muttered, a distinctly sulky edge to her tone. Sten shot her a look, nostrils flaring. There was silence for a long moment. Beneath them, the training dummy's head, cleaved in two, rolled across the cobblestones.

"How is lingering here going to assist us in the slaying of the Archdemon?" the Qunari asked abruptly. Flora thought for a moment, then pointed down to the goods being loaded into wagons.

"Look, we've got proper supplies now, because we're here. And the Arl will speak for our cause in Denerim. And," she continued triumphantly, remembering. "We've already got the support of the mages, remember?"

"How many mages are there in the Fereldan Circles?" enquired Sten, a hint of curiosity creeping into his tone.

Flora shrugged. "About… eight hundred?" she said, vaguely.

The Qunari shot her a look. "Did you just make that up?"

"Yes." She went slightly pink, prying some moss from the stone with her fingers. "But it'll be enough. Especially if we have the King's army, the elves and the dwarves too. They just need to cut a path for us to get to the Archdemon."

Below them, Alistair lowered the weapon, his sword arm aching. The cobbles were coated with sawdust, before him was an unrecognisable mass of shredded sacking and splintered wood. As he looked up, panting slightly, a golden shield sprang up over the remains of the dummy. He raised his eyes to Flora, who was hanging over the ramparts with a hand outstretched.

"I think your opponent needs a break!" she shouted down at him, and he grinned back up at her.

"Warden Flora?"

The man's voice came from behind her, light and refined. She turned around and came face to face with three men; the Qunari having melted away into the shadows of the tower. Two of the men were clad in Redcliffe livery, flanking the elder in the centre. He was garbed in scarlet velvet, and wore a golden band around his forehead. It took her a moment to recognise Eamon Guerrin in his newly hale and hearty condition.

Immediately Flora was struck with horror at the fact that she had been gawping mindlessly at the Arl of Redcliffe. Not knowing what to do, she resorted to falling to her knees and pressing her forehead against the ramparts. As she stared gloomily down at the flagstones, she recalled performing a similar action in front of King Cailan, on the bridge span at Ostagar.  _It feels like a lifetime ago,_ she thought to herself, then realised that the Arl was speaking to her, extending a hand.

"Come, my child. A Grey Warden should bow to no one."

Mutely she clutched his fingers and rose to her feet, just then noticing that Sten had swiftly made himself absent. The Arl smiled at her through his greying beard, and his tone was both solemn and kind.

"I understand that I owe you gratitude on three counts," he continued, while his flanking guards stood silent and dutiful. "You participated in the defence of my village; assisted with my son's sickness; and helped me recover from the maleficar's poison."

She bowed her head, her eyes fixed on the Arl's polished leather boots.

"I was happy to be of assistance," she mumbled, wondering if she needed to suffix her sentences with  _my lord._ Flora wasn't quite sure where an Arl stood in Ferelden's social hierarchy, but she was certain that they were placed infinitely higher than a fisherman's daughter from Herring, Warden or no.

The Arl looked at the top of her head, mahogany hair bundled untidily at the side of her neck, and felt a twinge of puzzlement.

"Look at me, child," he said softly, and she raised her face to him. Eamon gazed at her for a long moment, his brow furrowed, taking in her solemn grey eyes, the long nose, even the angle of her jaw. She looked anxious, clearly worried that she had unwittingly erred.

"There's something familiar about your face," he murmured, almost to himself. "Where are you from?"

"Herring," she said, then grimaced apologetically when he looked oblivious. "It's a village on the north coast."

The Arl frowned, shaking his head. His flanking guards shifted from foot to foot, one of them distracted by a group of hunters passing through the main courtyard below. Two men were carrying a vast wild boar on a stake between them, drawing shouts and catcalls of appreciation.

"Herring? I am not familiar with it."

"It's not far from Highever," she said, and the Arl gave a long sigh of recognition, his eyes shutting for a moment.

"Do you know it now?" she asked tentatively, irrationally hoping that this powerful southern Arl had heard of her nondescript little village.

Arl Eamon gave her a thoughtful look, his head inclining in confirmation.

"I have come to a…sudden realisation, yes," he said quietly, ringed fingers coming up to stroke his beard.

"I understand that you leave for Orzammar tomorrow. Are you satisfied with the supplies we have provided? It is the least we can do, considering what services you and your allies have rendered to us."

Flora bowed her head gratefully, eyes darting down to the main courtyard, where the caravan had almost been prepared.

"Thank you very much for your help," she replied, politely. The Arl nodded back, smiling through his beard at her. He turned towards the edge of the ramparts and leaned against them, looking down into the bustling courtyard.

"Alistair speaks very highly of you," he said after a moment, gesturing down towards the small training area.

Alistair himself was leaning over a water butt, rinsing out his sweat-soaked linen shirt. His shock of dirty blond hair and tan skin- inherited from his father, King Maric – caused him to stand out against the typically paler Fereldan colouring of the other knights. The muscles in his back moved as he wrung out the damp material, his sword leaning against the wooden barrel.

"He does?" Flora repeated, as Alistair sensed eyes on him from above and turned around. Seeing her and the Arl standing together on the ramparts, he raised a hand in greeting.

"Yes, he is effusive."

Flora, who didn't understand the word, hoped that he would go on to clarify. Fortunately, Arl Eamon did.

"He said that you are his map and compass."

Seeing her frown, the Arl continued softly, watching her face.

"That you give him both  _purpose_  and  _direction_."

She stared up at him, her pale grey eyes pensive. He smiled, inclining his head in a gesture of gratitude. The weak winter sun glinted off the burnished band he wore around his forehead.

"I am grateful to you, my child. Unfortunately I believe that Alistair has always felt unwanted, which I am in no small part responsible for. His father rejected him, I know that he blamed me for sending him away to the Chantry. I'm afraid that before the Warden-Commander recruited him, he felt nothing more than a burden to everyone. He must have taken Duncan's death very badly."

Flora, who had always been confident in the love of her parents even through the four years of scorn at the Circle, nodded mutely. The Arl sighed, turned to look over Lake Calenhad. The sunlight reflected off the still surface of the water, flat and bright as a mirror.

"And now he feels as if he is being chosen for something that he doesn't want and has  _never_ wanted. I, in part, am to blame for that too."

Inclining his head, Eamon Guerrin said no more but continued his patrol. As he disappeared within one of the castle towers alongside his escort; Flora was left alone with her thoughts on the ramparts.

After a few moments, she descended the crumbling stone steps that led down into the main courtyard. Avoiding two maidservants packing the last of the salted meat into a wooden crate, she crossed the flagstones towards the training area.

Alistair, who had just finished pulling on the damp shirt, smiled at her as she approached with determined stride.

"What was the Arl talking to you abou- " he started, his words abruptly cut off when she threw her arms around his neck.

Despite their weeks of huddling together at night, Alistair and Flora did not tend to embrace each other during the day. It was still a rare enough phenomenon that Alistair could remember each individual occurrence; back to that first awkward moment in Lothering's Chantry when she had spontaneously put her arms about his waist and he had gone rigid with embarrassment.

Now Alistair had no hesitation in embracing his sister-warden's narrow waist in return; he held her, feeling her face against his damp shoulder. She still didn't say anything, simply clung to him as a drowning man would a chunk of driftwood. He didn't speak, not wanting to do anything that might cause her to pull away from him.

They remained in this way for several minutes, while the bustle of the courtyard went on around them. The last supplies were loaded onto the caravan, while food for the villagers' feast was brought in from nearby farmsteads.

Finally Flora drew away a little, moving her hands to his shoulders and looking up at him. Alistair gazed back at her, torn between a variety of conflicting feelings.  _She's beautiful,_ he thought suddenly, staring down at her solemn, fine-boned face.  _How have I never realised this before? Maker's Breath, I'm an idiot._

She didn't say anything, offered no words of explanation for the sudden display of affection. Her eyes flickered to the side and he saw that she had been distracted by a giant wheel of cheese, carried by two people with some difficulty. Smiling up at him with a slightly self-conscious shrug of apology, she kissed him somewhere to the left of his nose, then darted off in the wake of the cheese-bearers with a determined expression on her face. Alistair stared after her, the spot on his cheek where her lips had been burning like a brand.

Now that the caravan had been readied, the rest of the day was spent in preparations for the feast. The Arl was horrified at what his village had gone through while he – who should have been their first defender – had laid infirm. That morning he had attended a memorial service in the Chantry for those who had been lost in the village's defence; and now to reward the survivors' steadfast bravery, he was throwing open the doors of the castle. It was also intended to honour the Wardens and their guests, whose arrival had proven so fortuitous for Redcliffe.

Through sheer coincidence, the next day was also the first day of Umbralis and the festival of Satinalia. There would be food and music, warmth and hopefully some laughter – Eamon believed Alistair's warning about the approaching Blight, and knew that it would be the last such celebration for a while.

The kitchens were put to full use for the first time in weeks. All three great ovens had blazed from dawn, the head cook shouting orders until red in the face while sweat poured over his forehead. Gradually, the pantries and larders filled with all manner of traditional Fereldan dishes.

Inch by inch, the lower hall was transformed- long wooden tables had been brought up from storage and cleaned, holly hung from beams and tapestry hooks. The raised stone platform where the Arl would sit had been furnished with extra chairs for the Wardens and their guests. The Arlessa, distracted from her son by the opportunity to show off, ensured that some distinctly Orlesian elements were incorporated into both cuisine and décor.

Not all of the Wardens' companions were going to join them at the Arl's celebration, however. Sten, face contorting with disdain at such a public spectacle, had informed them that he would return on their departure the next morning, and promptly left. There was still no sign of Morrigan; who had flown down to the Wilds to check on the wellbeing of her mother and the spread of the Blight.

Zevran, whose native land of Antiva celebrated Satinalia with week-long debauchery, was slightly disappointed at the lack of masks and risqué garb. Lounging against the fireplace, he watched Alistair and a manservant carry a statue of Andraste up to the Arl's platform.

"No offence to our Maker's Bride," he commented, lip curling. "But why is  _She_  being brought up to witness the festivities? Is there to be no uproarious and wholly inappropriate behaviour? No fountains of wine? Not even any nude dancers?"

"Eamon is a pious man," retorted Alistair, lowering the statue behind the Arl's chair with a grunt. "Ferelden isn't like Antiva."

Zevran rolled his eyes, his gaze drifting over to where Flora was staring up at a vast hanging tapestry. She was enthralled, wondering if it was large enough to carpet her parent's entire hut back in Herring.

"My Rialto lily, aren't  _you_  disappointed that there won't be the traditional Satinalia orgy later?"

Alistair resisted the urge to shove the lewd elf and his grinning face into the fireplace. Flora peered at him over her shoulder, her brow creasing.

"I don't know what that is," she said, dubiously, and Zevran's eyes lit up.

"Well, why don't you forget this provincial buffet, and come to my chamber instead so that Zevran may enlighten you? I'm sure the lay-sister will also be happy to oblige. She was more than eager to last night."

This was directed at Leliana, who was crossing the main hall with a brace of rabbits slung over her shoulder. She shot Zevran a poisonous look and the elf laughed.

"I will throw you  _in the fire,"_ hissed Alistair, as his warden-sister's look of confusion deepened.

Flora, after been expelled from the kitchens for getting under too many feet, hoped to get back into the cook's favour by supplementing his ingredients. She spent the rest of the afternoon down by the lake, with the fishermen Bardon and Nat; far more comfortable on the dock with rod in hand than up in the big castle. The Arl still intimidated her by his social standing alone, and the Arlessa continued to cast ever more disdainful stares in her direction.

The jetty was still broken in the middle, where she had fallen into the water with the dead swarming on top of her. Averting her eyes, she squinted instead out at the far reaches of the Lake as it stretched northwards. For a moment she fancied that she saw the distant silhouette of Kinloch Hold, but then the sun moved behind the clouds and she realised that it was just a trick of the winter light.

"So, there's been rumours coming from the South," said Bardon measuredly, running his fingers through the tangled grey wires of his beard. "Nasty rumours. Refugees have started to arrive, passin' through. They're fleeing."

Flora finished reeling in her line and saw a juvenile mackerel flapping on the end of the hook. Feeling sorry for it; she pulled it free carefully and tossed it back into the still water.

"From Lothering?" she asked after a moment, and the old man nodded, eyeing her.

"They say that the Darkspawn are coming, lass."

For a moment Flora remembered the dream that had woken her in the tavern on the way to the Circle Tower – the Darkspawn swarming over the refugee camps like a flood of beetles, the Lothering Chantry bell pealing in despair, begging for aid which would never come.

She felt a cold trickle of fear slither down her spine at the same fate befalling Redcliffe, and every village and town in the whole of Ferelden. She wondered if the Orlesian Grey Wardens would bother to investigate why their neighbouring brethren had suddenly gone quiet; or if they would wait until the Blight was on the borders of Val Royeaux itself to act. Flora could not begin to comprehend the complex skeins of political rivalry woven between the different Orders; and she knew that even if Orlais was aware of the Blight, by the time they had assembled their own armies, it would be far too late for Ferelden.

Despite the clear and bright day, Flora suddenly felt the suffocating weight of responsibility on her shoulder. Losing concentration, she felt a sharp pain in her finger and realised that she had just sunk the tip of it into the fishhook.

Bardon noticed, and shook his head, giving her a stern look.

"You've got to watch yerself, lassie," he said, as she removed the hook and stared at the swelling bead of blood. It looked no different from before, despite the Darkspawn taint running through her veins.

She nodded, reflexively putting the finger into her mouth. Her cheeks began to glow, lit from within by the golden mist surging from beneath her tongue. Bardon reeled in another flapping salmon and tossed it in the wooden bucket at his feet. Fitting another lure, he cast out his line again.

"You won't be alone, at any rate," he said, glancing over at her again. "Ferelden itself will be at your back."

"Not if General Mac Tir has anything to do with it," muttered Flora gloomily, picking up a squirming maggot between newly mended finger and thumb and pressing it onto the hook. "He wants me and Alistair dead."

She cast the line out, watching her lure bob alongside Bardon's. Nat coughed, dropping a spratling on top of their catch.

"Well, the Arl will have a few words to say about that when he goes to Denerim."

Flora nodded, suddenly cheered. The fishermen's simple practicality reminded her of her father telling her younger self not to be so  _melodramatic_ , that if she took a  _deep breath,_ kept her  _chin up_  and  _eyes straight_  that all would be well.

"Deep breath, chin up, eyes straight," she said to herself, and Bardon nodded, reeling in his line as he felt a tug.

"Good advice, lassie."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: A bit on character motivation here - Flora is very empathetic, she's always felt secure in the love of her parents, and so Alistair's plight affects her a lot. She's still not got over her phobia of the nobility - she might be a Grey Warden, but she was only one for a month. She was a peasant at the bottom of the social scale for a lot longer! The advice from Flora's father - deep breath, chin up, eyes straight - is testament to his practicality, which inspires Flora to temper her own natural melodrama (I love that word). Also, lol, I did feel a bit disingenuous inserting a feast/dance at Redcliffe before carrying on to Orzammar - it's a bit like OK, YOU'VE JUST BEEN ATTACKED BY ZOMBIES BUT HERE'S A PARTY! But I felt like it might have been something that the Arl might do to revive spirits a bit in the village. And in game I'm still stuck in indecision about Bhelen vs Harrowmont...agh


	39. Satinalia

Chapter 39: Satinalia

Several hours later in the bedchamber, Flora watched Leliana try on and discard a variety of the Arlessa's imported silk gowns and matching headpieces. Isolde had found that she shared many common interests with the Orlesian lay-sister, including a mutual love of Nevarran scent and finely crafted shoes. Eamon's wife much preferred the company of the flame-haired bard than that of the two female mages; the elder with her near-constant expression of superiority, and the younger with her lowborn accent and general lack of refinement.

The Arlessa had apologised insincerely to Wynne for not having any attire suitable for 'the older lady'. Wynne, rolling her eyes, merely retrieved her more formal set of Circle robes and kept her hair in its customary tight bun.

Flora had never attended anything more formal than the annual Herring harvest celebration, which no one bothered to change their clothing for. It did not occur to her that she would need to wear something more appropriate that evening until the Arlessa cast wide and insincere eyes on her, suggesting that Flora might find something more her size from one of the elven servants. Isolde's gaze moved up and down Flora's slight frame with a hint of a sneer, then tossed her magnificent golden coiffed head and swept away.

Flora, gaping in panic, proceeded to run up and down the corridors in terror. Finally, one of the elven serving girls took pity on her and loaned her a plain grey dress. Flora, effusive in her thanks, took it back to the chamber to discover that it only just fell below her knees. Grimly, she pulled her leather boots back on, reasoning that the  _majority_ of her legs were now covered up. Her arms were bare and she hoped that it would not be too cold in the main hall.

Now she was sitting on the bed curiously watching Leliana fix a silk flower in her hair, using the mirror to guide her slender fingers. Wynne was leaning against the window, as the villagers made their way into the castle courtyard, many looking around in awe. Those still travelling up from the village carried torches to illuminate their way, tiny pinpricks of light streaming across the promontory bridge.

"This may be the last celebration that these people will have for a long time," the senior mage murmured, having also caught wind of the fleeing refugees from the south. "I wonder how much they know about the Blight."

Leliana gave a shrug, rising to her feet and gesturing Flora over. Flora went obediently, beaming as the Orlesian bard rotated on the spot.

"You look like a princess," she said genuinely, reaching out to touch the fine embroidery on Leliana's sleeve. The bard smiled back at her, then gently nudged her down into the chair.

"I am sorry that the Arlessa did not have anything suitable for you," she said, untying the leather thong keeping Flora's untidy hair in place at the nape of her neck. With some difficulty, she began to drag an enamel-backed brush through the thick, knotted skeins of hair.

Flora shrugged, grimacing at herself in the mirror as Leliana used brute force to wrench several tangles loose.

"Ow- it's alright. I feel more comfortable in this anyway."

Leliana nodded, then frowned as she plucked out a twig from behind Flora's ear.

"Your hair is very lovely; the shade of Antivan port wine," she commented, letting the heavy rope-like strands settle against the grey dress. "Are you sure you don't want it loose?"

Flora shook her head, determinedly. She was preparing herself for some serious eating during the night's festivities, and did not want any potential distractions. Leliana sighed, then shot her a brilliant smile.

"I have a compromise, then." Leaning down, she reached for a discarded pair of the Arlessa's shoes. They were pink velvet, with tiny silver hook and eye fastenings, decorated with grey silk ribbons. Gently, Leliana eased one of the long strands of ribbon free, running it through her fingers to straighten it. Gathering Flora's hair into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck, the bard knotted the ribbon into a large bow with a flourish.

"There! Some Orlesian glamour for our Herring native."

* * *

 

By sunset, the majority of the villagers had arrived. The first round of food was brought up from the kitchens, and a small group of local musicians vied for dominance with Isolde's Orlesian chamber group. The huge fireplace in the main hall was ablaze and many villagers threw a sprig of holly into it as they passed, following Satinalia tradition. The Bann was already downstairs, ensuring that sufficient food and ale was in place for their grateful guests.

An Orlesian ballad, underscored by slightly awed chatter, drifted up the main staircase. Here the Arl's guests would meet before descending the stairs and crossing the main hall to take their places at the top table.

The Arl and Arlessa, resplendent in matching silver and maroon, waited in silence beneath the vast portrait of Eamon Guerrin's grandfather. Zevran and Alistair were also ready, Zevran still dropping hints about possible opportunities for debauchery out of the Arl's earshot.

Leliana, who had delayed the other two with a last minute crisis of confidence about her outfit, led them down the passage towards the landing. Wynne, wishing that she had pled tiredness and stayed in the chamber with a book, followed wearily in her wake. Flora, simultaneously trying to pull down the skirt and tug up the neckline of the plain grey dress, trailed after them both.

When they saw the other half of their party, Flora almost failed to recognise Alistair. For the entire time that she had known him, he had lived in either armour or the linen tunic he wore beneath; not caring if his hair was untidy or if his chin bore several days of stubble.

Now, having been loaned clothing by Teagan, he almost seemed a different man. His hair was slicked back with water away from his face, and gleamed a burnished gold. Clean-shaven, the strong Theirin jaw was plainly visible. He wore a scarlet tunic lined with a fur collar that appeared to be worth more than the collective value of Herring village itself.

For the first time since she had known him, Alistair seemed more noble than Grey Warden, and it disconcerted her. The only flaw in the illusion was that he did not look fully content, small lines of strain visible at the corners of his mouth.

Irrationally shy, Flora hung back as Leliana greeted the Arl and Arlessa effusively, thanking Isolde for her kind loan of the clothing. Zevran spotted her lurking behind Wynne and sidled over, openly trawling his eyes over her figure.

"I like the look you've gone for, my flower. You look like a serving girl ripe for seduction."

Wynne exhaled under her breath, nostrils flaring, wondering if it was too early for her to claim a sudden and debilitating headache. Alistair, hot on Zevran's heels, made a beeline for her.

"Flo, I'm so uncomfortable," he muttered darkly as she smiled up at him. "I feel ridiculous. All I can picture is the other Grey Wardens looking at me and  _laughing_."

Flora shot him a sympathetic grimace, not noticing Isolde's look of cold disdain. Flashing her teeth in an artificial smile, the Arlessa called over to the girl.

"I'm sorry that nothing from my wardrobe was suitable for you. I do hope you don't feel too uncomfortable in the serving garb."

Alistair replied before Flora could lower her eyes and mumble a conciliatory response. He reached behind her head, touched the ribbon gently, and did not look at Isolde when he spoke.

"Flora doesn't need fancy clothing or- or silk shoes. She could be covered in Darkspawn blood and still be the most beautiful person in the room."

Flora smiled up at him and he stared down at her for a long moment, hazel eyes almost gold in the candlelight, before eventually returning the smile. He held out his arm to her, rolling his eyes theatrically.

"Take pity on me? I can't walk in there like  _this_ with everyone looking at me. They all know I used to work in the stables here."

She eyed his arm uncertainly, then stretched out an arm and grasped it as though she were hauling a rope. Without comment, Alistair reached up with his own hand and gently adjusted her fingers to rest on his forearm.

"Perfect, my dear. I can face anything with you at my side," he murmured in Flora's ear, his breath warm against her skin.

* * *

 

The main hall was full of awed villagers, mostly clustered around the stone walls clutching ceramic plates as though they were holding the tiara of Empress Celene herself. Some were dancing tentatively to the Fereldan folk music provided by the village musicians, only to flee whenever Isolde's chamber group cut in with a minuet or ballad. Several other local Banns had also been invited, all of whom greeted Arl Eamon fulsomely.

Isolde, head raised like a queen, was presiding over the occasion from her seat at the top table. She looked beautiful, severe and distant, like the statue of Andraste in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Despite her apparent stoicism, she was inwardly fuming at Eamon for spending half of the night deep in conversation with his villagers, enquiring as to how he could further assist with repairs and rebuilding.

Zevran had a private bet with himself as to how many rustic country girls he could bed in a single night. To his irritation, Redcliffe girls tended towards piety and he had only made one successful conquest so far; a rushed and unsatisfactory encounter with the blacksmith's daughter in a back passageway. Wynne had made her excuses after an hour and returned upstairs gratefully to read and finish her letter to Irving.

Leliana was in her element; it had been several years since she had been to such a large festive occasion. Even though it was Ferelden and several large dogs were lying around the perimeter of the hall, it was a rare chance for her to display her full social adeptness. Whenever the Orlesian melodies echoed around the hall, she was on her prettily-garbed feet, twinkling expectantly. She never wanted for a partner, and had soon made her way through the majority of the local banns. She rewarded Teagan with several dances, until a frowning Isolde bullied a groaning Alistair into taking his place.

Alistair, who had been made to serve at similar occasions as a child, wondered at his change in circumstances as he dutifully manoeuvred the lay-sister around the floor.

"You know, I know your eyes are elsewhere," murmured Leliana delicately, who greatly approved of Alistair's newly gentrified look. "But there's nothing wrong with having a little fun,  _no strings attached._ "

"What?" said Alistair, who had not been listening. Instead, he was peering over at Flora, who had not moved from the buffet table all night. Leliana followed his gaze, and let out a little irritated huff.

"I wonder if she is even pausing to chew? Or whether she simply  _inhales_ the food in?"

When the song finished, the lay-sister ditched Alistair abruptly and retreated to the warmer attentions of Bann Teagan. Alistair returned to the top table to take a seat beside a sullen Zevran, who was nursing a red mark on his cheek.

"Did someone reject you?" Alistair asked, taking another long gulp of ale. Zevran shook his head gloomily, his slender fingers caressing the stem of his own chalice.

"No. The blacksmith's daughter saw me using my considerable charms on another woman. She was not amused. These country women are so  _simplistic._ "

Alistair leaned back with a snort, met the icy stare of Isolde and rapidly retreated forwards again.

Meanwhile Flora could not remember the last time that she had been so wholly, and purely contented. She had eaten her way through several bunches of grapes, half a salmon, a large chunk of cheese and about a dozen small Orlesian pastries. Several people had asked her to dance, including Zevran and a scattering of banns, but she had turned them all down with a shy shake of the head.

Then, as she was leaning back against a stone column and wondering what to consume next, Bardon approached her tentatively. His grey, wiry hair had been slicked to either side and he wore a worn out waistcoat that appeared to have been passed down several generations. Flora smiled up at him, nodding down at the selection of freshly grilled fish spread over the table.

"Did you come for some food? I think I recognise the salmon you caught!"

Bardon shook his head, then stuck out his hand towards her, like a challenge. She stared at him, eyes wide, shaking her head rapidly. The fisherman let out a snort, canting his head towards the music.

"Come on, lass. I know you're a country girl, you'll have heard of this one."

Flora listened to the opening bars and realised that she did recognise the song, a popular Fereldan reel known as  _Gathering the Harvest._ Several other villagers were creeping into the centre of the room, others were clapping along to the beat. Arlessa Isolde's nostrils flared with disapproval.

"Don't turn an old man down," wheedled Bardon, and because he reminded her so much of her father, Flora relented, smiled and took his hand. Abandoning her plate on the wooden table, she allowed him to lead her into the middle of the hall.

At the top table, Zevran let out a squeal of outrage.

"She says  _no_ to the minor nobles, she says  _no_ to me – to  _me! Repeatedly!_ \- and she says  _yes_ to this ancient codger?"

Alistair, who had been contemplating the bottom of his pewter beaker gloomily, looked up in surprise. Beside him, Isolde's finely plucked eyebrows shot to the ceiling beams.

The dance started out slowly and Flora smiled up at Bardon as he rotated her carefully in her arms. For a man who must have been in his sixties, he was remarkably nimble.

"I might not be a sea fisherman, dragging boats around like your father, girl," he muttered in her ear, expertly turning her to face the fireplace. "But there's some life in these old bones yet."

Flora grinned at him, her feet reflexively responding to the familiar tune.

"I hope so," she whispered back, the grey skirt flaring around her knees as he spun her back around with a wiry arm. "The fast bit is coming up."

The clapping began to increase in tempo and volume as the villagers anticipated the last, lively section of the reel. As the music began to pick up, Flora envisioned herself back in Herring at the harvest celebration, clutching her father's arm. He had always insisted on dancing this song with her; it had been somewhat of a  _tradition_  between them. Closing her eyes; she lost herself in the familiar driving melody.

Flora threw her head back, strands of hair coming free from the ribbon and streaming out behind her like a pennant. She laughed as Bardon lifted her into the air and spun her about, squawking at him not to drop her. For the span of a song, she forgot about the Arlessa's disdain, the nightly whispers of the Archdemon and the suffocating weight of the Warden's responsibility.

"You know, they say that if a girl is a good dancer, she will also be good in bed," murmured Zevran artfully in Alistair's ear. "Your  _sister-warden_ has excellent rhythm."

Alistair was watching Flora, his face still as the statue of Andraste behind them but his mind racing. Beside him, Isolde let out a dismissive snort.

"Who wears leather boots to an occasion such as this?" she commented acerbically, looking to Leliana for support.

The music finished and a breathless Flora thanked Bardon, then approached the top table nervously. Despite having an assigned place there, she had spent most of the evening beside the food table or with the villagers. Her skin was pink, and her hair had half fallen out from its restraints, the ends of the grey silk ribbon trailing down her back. As she came closer, the Arl broke off his conversation with Teagan and smiled gently at her.

"Thank you, my lord and lady," mumbled Flora, lowering herself before them with her head bowed. "I'm going upstairs now."

"Child, you don't need to bow before us," reminded Eamon. Isolde's nostrils flared like a bull's.

Flora clambered to her feet, wincing slightly as her knee gave a twinge of protest at her exertions. Alistair caught her eye, tilting his head in Teagan's direction with a small grimace to indicate that he was still trapped.

"I'll be up soon, Flo," he said softly, his eyes lingering on her; she smiled back at him and gave a little nod.

As Flora sidled around the edge of the main hall, raising a hand in farewell to the other villagers, Isolde turned angrily on her husband.

" _Eamon!_ Why did you say that she did not have to bow? In Orlais, even Grey Wardens pay the correct degree of respect to the nobility! She is  _a nobody."_

Eamon let out a long exhalation, while Leliana raised her head curiously.

"You see, my dear, I'm not so sure that she  _is_ ," he replied evenly, as Isolde gaped at him. "I'll need to make some enquiries in Denerim to be sure, but if I'm correct..."

He glanced to one side to make sure that Alistair was not listening. The young Warden was too busy following the progress of his counterpart as she crept from the room, grabbing another bunch of grapes from the table as she passed.

"… _If_ I'm correct, then it may change everything."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: I used to do a lot of folk dancing when I was younger (Welsh dancing was a part of our compulsory physical education at school) and I love the contrast between its joviality and vigour compared with the formal constraints of the minuet. This chapter is poignant to me because it's now obvious (along with past clues) that Flora's parentage is not as simple as she believes it to be. So while she is enjoying the dance because it reminds her of her home and her family, the Arl's political mind is working complex machinations. In other news, I'm STILL torn between Bhelen and Harrowmont… I'm going to try and judge it based on what they would know at the time, rather than use the benefit of hindsight. Bhelen does come off as a massive twat, lol.


	40. I Find Myself Hungry, Now

Chapter 40: I Find Myself Hungry, Now

Some time later Alistair made his excuses and left, overly polite to hide his relief. He bowed to the Arl and Arlessa, receiving a warm smile and a sniff of disapproval from each respectively. Climbing the main staircase, he tactfully averted his eyes as he spotted Zevran in a clinch with a local girl behind a large statue of a Mabari. As the Warden passed, the observant elf saw him and raised a hand in greeting. Blushing, Alistair clambered up the rest of the steps two at a time.

The upper passage was deserted, candlelight from the wall sconces casting small pools of yellow over the flagstones. Quietly, Alistair leaned against the door to their shared bedchamber and peered inside. Illuminated by the moonlight, both the large bed and the smaller chaise were empty. Wynne was the only one of their party present, snoring loudly in a padded chair with her feet propped up on a footstool.

A slight frown creased Alistair's brow, and he began to retrace his steps back along the passageway. His attention was caught by a faint glow coming from the half-closed doors leading to the upper hall. Pushing them open he stepped beneath the stone archway into the darkened room, which was a smaller replica of the main hall below. Much of the furniture, including the chairs and tables, had been taken downstairs for the Satinalia festivities; the only source of light came from the fireplace at the far end of the room. Silhouetted in front of the flames, crouched over on the rug, was a slender and recognisable figure.

Flora smiled up at Alistair as he approached, grimacing as he reached up to loosen the collar of his scarlet tunic. She was kneeling on the rug, clad in overlarge nightclothes likely scavenged from the servants, her hair still secured in its untidy ponytail with the grey ribbon. Before her were spread several sheets of parchment, alongside a quill and inkwell. One page was covered in a haphazard and incorrect alphabet, while another was half-filled with crossing out and scribbles.

"Could you help me with this quickly?" she asked as Alistair knelt down in front of her, picking up the mangled alphabet. He sat back, frowning at the barely recognisable letters.

"What are you trying to do?" he asked, the light from the fire enveloping them both within a golden pool, the room beyond engulfed in shadow.

At first Flora made no reply and he looked across at her, curiously. She was gazing down at her fingers, her brow furrowed. There was a smudge of ink on her nose, and a second on her chin.

"I want to send a letter to my parents back in Herring," she said quietly, turning the parchment to show him what she had managed on her own. "They won't be able to read it, but someone at the Chantry could. I only just started. Can you tell me if it makes sense so far?"

Alistair read what she had written so far:  _HAG DA._ Unexpectedly, he felt a lurch of affection for his illiterate sister-warden, and reached out to gently wipe the still-damp ink from her chin.

"I'll help you. Here, give me the quill."

As he spoke, his thumb brushed against her lower lip. Immediately he felt a strange pulse from within, a deep throb from his core that sent liquid heat coursing through his veins. He withdrew his hand hastily, took the quill and waited for her to speak.

Flora dictated a short and perfunctory note that assured her parents that she was well, that she had left the Circle Tower but was not in trouble. She omitted the fact that she had joined the Wardens.

Alistair wrote her simple message out on the parchment in his orderly, careful hand, then slid it back to her with the quill. She took a fresh sheet and began to arduously copy out the shapes and forms of his letters, her brow furrowed in concentration.

He watched her as she wrote, the long sleeves of the cotton nightshirt rolled up around her elbows. The fire bathed her in amber light not dissimilar to the healing energies she drew from the Fade. Copper strands like heated wire ran through her dark burgundy ponytail, not usually visible in the weak wintery sun. She bit her lip as she wrote, making numerous errors despite having Alistair's exemplar copy resting alongside her own. The top button of the nightshirt was undone and he caught another glimpse of the collarbone that had plagued him since the Temple.

_What if you touched that hollow of skin just beside the fragile bone?_

Slightly horrified at himself, Alistair purged the thought from his head by inwardly reciting the opening verse of the Chant, which was all he had ever bothered to memorise.

Once he had reached the end of the first canticle, Flora beamed and laid down the quill.

"All done! Thank you for helping me," she said, turning her smile on him. He stared at her for a moment, while resignation and helplessness flitted across his face.

"You know, I thought Duncan was mad when he first recruited you," he said suddenly, the words spilling out almost involuntarily. "I didn't know why he didn't choose a senior mage, someone with… experience. More trained."

Flora peered at him uncertainly, still clutching the parchment. He shook his head and continued, his eyes half-closed as though unable to look directly at her.

"But this is why Duncan was a  _much_  wiser man than me."

He looked at the kneeling Flora's slender frame in the dim light, and marveled at her ability to seem vulnerable when she was capable of summoning a barrier which demons, Darkspawn, and even dragonfire could not penetrate.

"Now I see what he saw," he carried on grimly, unable to stop himself now. "You're the kindest person I've ever met, and the bravest. I- I don't know if it's just because of the circumstances that we're in, that there's only two of us left, but- "

Alistair broke off, feeling something akin to nausea churning in his gut. Flora was gazing at him, her grave grey eyes wide and thoughtful, still clutching the parchment to her chest. He took a deep breath, and launched himself past the point of no return.

"- But I care about you, and not just as my friend- though you are, the  _best_ one I've ever had, in fact. I- I suppose I could be getting this all wrong, and if I am, please forget that I ever said all this. Blame it on the Fereldan ale."

Alistair trailed off miserably, aware that he was stumbling over his words and making a mess of it all. He dropped his gaze from her face to the rug, feeling a cold, hard knot of sadness forming in his stomach.

"I probably  _am_  getting this all wrong, aren't I?" he muttered, more to himself than to her. "The other Wardens were right to call me an idiot."

Flora stared at Alistair, hunch-shouldered in his uncomfortable velvet tunic, his dark blond hair returned to its usual disheveled state. The fine-boned, arrogant face, which in reality hid lingering insecurity and a perennial lack of confidence, was lowered. His hazel eyes, warmed by the fire to a deep bronze, were assiduously inspecting the scattered parchment.

She remembered the Arl's words from earlier, about how no one had wanted Alistair for anything, neither as a son nor as a friend, until Duncan had taken an interest in him. She recalled how Eamon confessed that Alistair had always felt himself more of a burden than an asset to those around him. Rare, raw anger surged within her chest, targeted at several individuals; at the old King for abandoning a helpless baby, at the other Wardens for their derision and at Loghain for abandoning the closest person that Alistair had ever had to a father on the valley floor at Ostagar.

Driven by natural impulsiveness rather than rational thought, Flora leaned forward to broach the space between them, and pressed her mouth to his. The kiss was feather-light and fleeting, a momentary brush of lips that only lasted a second or two. Pulling back with the heat of his mouth burning on her own like a brand, she felt a flush rising to her cheeks and smiled self-consciously.

"It's strange," she whispered, her fingers clutching the parchment letter tightly against her nightshirt. "When I'm with you, I forget that I'm hungry."

Alistair stared at her for a long moment, disbelief and incredulity in his hazel gaze. Slowly, the corners of his mouth turned up in a wry smile.

"Maybe I'm not such an idiot after all, then," he murmured, reaching out his hand to cradle the back of her head, his fingers spreading through her hair.

Flora thought that he might be hesitant but he gave no pause, drawing her to him with a rare and wonderful certainty in his eyes. There was no hint of shyness in the confident pressure of his mouth against hers, just mingled joy combined with swelling desire. She had no time to think or even to breathe, and the only way to react was to yield and open her lips to his.

Despite his inexperience there was nothing tentative about the fierce command of his mouth, nor in the way that his tongue hungrily and insistently sought out hers. She tasted sweet and tart; like the grapes that she had been eating when he first saw her kneeling before the fireplace. He closed his eyes to try and commit every sensation to memory; the heat of her mouth, the curve of her spine through the nightshirt, the quick lightness of her breath against his cheek.

Alistair's other arm wrapped around her waist, his palm resting in the small of her back as he instinctively pressed himself closer. He could feel the warmth of her body beneath the thin cotton night and, unable to contain himself, he let out a soft grunt of longing against her mouth. Raw and unrefined desire, repressed for years within the Chantry, urged him to ease her down against the rug. The small, still-rational part of his mind sounded a wordless but potent warning.

With great reluctance Alistair withdrew, lifting his mouth from hers and removing his fingers from her disheveled hair. Flora appeared somewhat dazed and he assumed that he probably wore a similar expression. She was pink in the face, a flush creeping down her neck; her hair was half-released from its ponytail, grey ribbon dangling. Suddenly doubt and fear constricted Alistair's stomach, a powerful throb of uncertainty that he had made a vast presumption and acted upon it with ungainly haste.

Then, once she had recovered her breath, Flora smiled and he felt the firelight brighten around them.

"Strange," she whispered, shooting him an arch look. "I find myself hungry, now."

Alistair let out a half-choked combination of a groan and a laugh, reaching out to brush his thumb down the side of her face. His hazel eyes seemed to darken to near-black as he gazed at her.

"Maker, how are you so beautiful?" he murmured, cupping her chin with his palm and staring down at her face in boyish wonder.

"I get it from my dad," Flora whispered back solemnly and Alistair laughed, kissing her on the forehead while simultaneously marveling at how naturally all _this_  seemed to come to him. He had always believed that his decade in the Chantry, preparing him for the austere and noble life of a Templar, had extinguished the desires which seemed to come so readily to other young men his age. On occasion during their travels, the other Grey Wardens had discussed women from their past lives – a mistress, a young summer love affair ended too soon – but Alistair had nothing to contribute. He would sit awkwardly beside them, listening to his warden-brothers boast and laugh, and feel more alone than ever.

Yet with Flora, he found himself wanting _everything_ , his body urging him onward to actions that his mind did not even fully understand. He stared down at the top of her disheveled head as she bent forward to pick up the crumpled letter. When she smiled at him, he saw that her lower lip appeared swollen, or perhaps it was even bruised.

 _I caused that,_ he thought, with a start.

"Do you think I can still send this? I think I can still send this," she muttered, smoothing the creased parchment flat against the stone hearth with a palm. He nodded mutely, having seemed to have temporarily lost the power of speech. She clambered to her feet, clutching the letter in one hand.

"Come on," she said kindly, holding out the other hand towards him as he knelt before her. "We have a long journey tomorrow."

As he took her offered hand and rose to his feet, Alistair realised with a start that for several wonderful minutes he had forgotten about Orzammar, the slow creep of the Darkspawn and even the Blight itself. Wynne's words rose, unwanted, to the forefront of his mind.

_See that you do not get distracted._

Forcing the old woman's stern face from his head, he gripped Flora's fingers and they walked hand-in-hand like children down the shadowed passageway, then into the guest bedchamber.

Still clutching his hand, Flora picked her way through the dimly lit room, trying to avoid waking the sleeping Wynne. Leliana's narrow chaise was empty, and she wondered who the lay-sister was keeping company that night. Letting go of him, she clambered beneath the tangle of blankets on the bed.

"I'd put money on Bann Teagan," murmured Alistair, reading her thoughts as he climbed in beside her. He squinted at her face through the darkness, suddenly worried that she would no longer feel comfortable sleeping beside him now that their relationship had shifted in some strange and incommunicable way.

Alistair's fears were assuaged when Flora rolled against him, resting her chin on his shoulder and stretching a hand over his chest to put the letter on a side table. He put an arm around her shoulder, and sought out the fingers of her other hand. They slid into his own calloused palm, which had always been used for work or for fighting or for drill, and never before for holding another's – before her.

"'Night, Alistair," he heard her whisper from somewhere in the shadows below his chin. He held her tightly, irrationally worried that their kiss had been the product of some Satinalia spell and that all would be forgotten by morning. Then she turned her face up to him, her grey eyes opaque in the filtered moonlight, and with her smile came reassurance.

"Goodnight, my dear."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: This is a short chapter but it's quite self-contained – I did initially have 'the morning after' included too, but it didn't really fit in with the narrative flow. Also, I think this event is important enough to warrant its own separate chapter. At first I didn't realise how 'slow burn' the relationship between Alistair and Flora was going to be (forty chapters until a proper kiss?! Reaaaaally?!), but then it didn't seem to make sense for it to happen any earlier. I suppose it could have happened on the balcony after they drove out the demon from Connor, except then you had Wynne's untimely intervention (WYNNE-TERVENTION!). Also, it takes a special man for Flora to forget about her stomach, lol.


	41. On the Road to Orzammar

Chapter 41: The Road To Orzammar

As the night of Satinalia waned, Ferelden's troubles resumed. Word of Lothering's destruction had finally reached Denerim; and the townspeople muttered anxiously among themselves, wondering how much stock to place in rumours. Loghain remained insistent in his denial of a Blight, although several more nobles had now begun to question his certainty. His widowed daughter Anora was among those asking the loudest and angriest questions. The councilmen argued amongst themselves, the name of Alistair Theirin rising for the first time; while the slow and poisonous Darkspawn horde began to change direction, swinging eastwards.

Alistair, unaware that his name was being broached in an emergency meeting of the Royal Council, woke bleary-eyed to see a dark head of hair on the pillow beside him. He stared for a moment, confused, wondering if the half-light of dawn was playing tricks on his vision. Then Morrigan turned her face to his and gave an evil, catlike smile.

"Good morrow, fool."

The young Warden could not have recoiled more violently if he had woken beside the Archdemon itself. Limbs tangling in the blanket, he half-fell out of bed and hastily retreated against the wardrobe.

"What are you  _doing?!"_ he bleated, his tan skin several shades paler, checking frantically to ensure that he was still fully dressed. He recalled only too well what Flemeth had insinuated about her antics with visiting Templars. Morrigan rolled her eyes at him, exasperated.

"Calm yourself, Warden. I returned from the Wilds, and needed a place to recover. We were merely lying side by side, chaste as babes. Nothing to offend your ridiculous Chantry-instilled propriety."

Alistair glared at her, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and outrage. Not quite daring to turn his back on the bed, he stooped awkwardly to collect his Templar mail. On the narrow chaise Leliana mumbled but did not awaken, while Wynne continued to snore.

"Where's Flora?" Alistair muttered, retrieving his sword harness from the back of the chair. Morrigan gave a shrug, crossing one bare leg over another. He averted his eyes, staring fiercely up at the ceiling.

"I saw her on the ramparts when I arrived. She's with the Qunari. However, I have no idea what they were doing."

Retrieving a boot from beneath the bed, Alistair frowned in perplexion.

"She's with  _Sten?!"_

Meanwhile, Flora was standing on top of the ramparts, her linen nightshirt saturated by a wintery relentless drizzle. She was yawning, her staff drooping from one hand. The sun had only partially risen and Castle Redcliffe was bathed in mist, the occasional torch punctuating the gloom.

A dozen yards to her left, Sten nodded at her impassively. On his shoulder, he carried a large bill hook, the curved end vicious and gleaming.

"Go."

Flora raised her staff and the white-gold shield sprung forth. As she rotated the wooden length horizontally, the barrier expanded in both directions across the battlements. Sten raised his bill hook and crashed it with full force into the shifting field of energy. It made a clanging metallic sound, like the ringing of a bell, the polished metal hook sliding ineffectually off.

The Qunari nodded, then took several steps further back along the ramparts.

"Again."

Flora brushed damp hair away from her eyes, wishing that she had taken the time to put on adequate clothing before accepting Sten's offer. She had been lying awake beside a snoring Alistair as dawn broke, unable to shake the Herring-instilled habit of rising before the sun. The Qunari had glared around the doorway at her, suggested in a voice filled with contempt that she might find some value in  _practising,_ and offered his assistance with some early morning training.

It was more of a command than a request. Slightly scared, she had hastily pulled on a coat over her nightclothes and accompanied him out onto the castle ramparts.

As she narrowed her eyes, the barrier extended once more in both directions. The shifting energy grew less opaque the further it stretched; the grey stone becoming more visible through the fading light. This time, when Sten crashed his bill hook against the barrier, it sunk midway through the magic field and stuck there. Flora squinted along the length of her shield, saw the embedded blade, and grimaced. The Qunari shook his head, wrenching his weapon free.

"It's not solid enough. Inadequate!"

"I'd be  _more_ adequate after some breakfast," complained Flora, the damp linen nightshirt clinging unpleasantly to her knees.

"Your inadequacy could get a soldier killed!" retorted Sten, gesturing for her to try again.

Flora muttered something vaguely insulting beneath her breath, then tightened her grip on the staff. She closed her eyes, focusing on the cool pressure of the gold ring against her clenched finger. The distractions of the waking world faded away as she felt energy coursing through her veins once more, potent, vibrant and  _alive_.

This time the barrier surged out far more strongly, she could sense its vitality as the magic flowed from her staff. Keeping her eyes squeezed shut, no longer aware of the dampness of her clothing, she heard the metallic clang of Sten's blade striking the opaque barrier.

"Having fun?"

Flora opened her eyes, concentration evaporating as she heard Alistair's voice in her ear. Sten, who had been lunging forward for a second swing, fell through the rapidly dissolving shield and crashed against the rampart with a snarl of rage.

Alistair was already dressed for the day's journey in his Templar mail, the outfit accessorised with a tense expression. She sensed that he was nervous; possibly worried that the events of the previous night might have lessened in significance by the cold light of day. He stared down at her, anxious hazel eyes searching her face, waiting for her reaction to decide what his own demeanour should be.

Flora realised that, if she desired, she could make a light-hearted comment about how Satinalia often drove people to act impulsively – and  _unwisely._ This would dismiss their kiss as a moment of reckless abandonment and nothing more; she knew that he would be far too honourable to pursue the matter any further.

However, this was not what Flora desired. Ignoring the cursing Qunari as he rose to his feet, she shrugged at Alistair and peeled the soggy coat away from her nightshirt. Her damp hair was plastered to her cheeks and one bare foot rested squarely in a puddle.

"I don't suppose you have some bread rolls hidden up those sleeves," she breathed, walking her fingers up his mail clad arm before patting him lightly on the cheek. A relieved Alistair reached out to touch her fingers gently with his own gloved ones, and she smiled up at him. He grinned back, lifting his hand self-consciously to smooth down his rumpled blond hair.

"Sorry, Flo."

"It's fine. I'm probably un-banned from the kitchens today, right?"

"Only one way to find out, my dear."

As they made their way towards the steps leading down to the main courtyard, Flora turned around and beamed at Sten. The Qunari had retrieved his dropped billhook and was glowering in her direction.

"Thanks, Sten, I feel like we really accomplished something!" she yelled over her shoulder; to which he retorted with something venomous and derogatory in his native tongue.

* * *

 

By late morning, their caravan was ready to depart from the main courtyard of Redcliffe Castle. There were seven wagons in total, and ten additional members of their party, including Pether the Tranquil emissary. Several Redcliffe knights had volunteered to accompany them, led by a stout southern Fereldan named Cadrim. Additionally, there were those who would perform the roles of caravan cook, smith and leatherworker. To Wynne's disdain and Alistair's joy, the Arl had also loaned them several Mabari warhounds.

Eamon, who had just cause to be generous, had mounted each member of their party on a Fereldan Forder. Once they had secured the assistance of the dwarves, the plan was to return to Redcliffe. They would then travel east with the Arl until the highway branched into two. Eamon would take the northeastern fork towards Denerim to call for a Landsmeet, while the Wardens would continue east to the Brecilian Wilds and petition the elves for aid.

It was a good and solid plan, and the practicality of it reassured both Alistair and Flora.  _It's a long way from two Wardens in a Korcari swamp, waving a bundle of yellowed parchment in the air at any rate_ thought Alistair, as their caravan crossed the high stone promontory. Far below them, Redcliffe village rested quietly on the shore of Lake Calenhad, many of its inhabitants worse for wear after the exertions of the previous night.

Zevran also had a blinding headache, being more used to light and fruity Antivan wines than the strong ale typically consumed in Ferelden. He had chosen to forsake his horse for the blankets in the back of a wagon, snoring loudly and drawing disapproving looks from Wynne. Turning up the collar of her travel cloak against the biting east wind, she urged her horse onwards to converse with Pether.

It took them several hours to climb westwards out of the Calenhad basin. As when they had been travelling to Haven, they were headed towards the vast peaks of the Frostbacks. However, Orzammar lay further north than the strange little village, located at the end of a high valley. None of their party had visited the dwarven capital before, and it was marked intriguingly on their map with only a crudely drawn pair of doors.

Leliana, who was already drawing admiring glances from many of the knights for her fine horsemanship and skilful wielding of the bow, further enhanced her desirability by breaking into song. Her sweet, high voice rang out clear as a bell as they followed the old road, relating an Orlesian ballad about a minstrel and his Nevarran lover. Alistair, who had spent most of the journey dangling off his saddle to play with the Mabari hounds, surreptitiously encouraged them to bark a little louder.

"Drown it out, Barkspawn," he muttered under his breath.

Morrigan, swathed in furs and wearing a foul expression, let out a loud groan and ostentatiously plugged her fingers in her ears.

"This is torturous," she muttered darkly, spurring her horse onwards to the head of the party. They were passing through a large wood, the trees widely spaced enough to allow for a meandering path. Beside them lay the crumbling ruins of an ancient Tevinter highway. Sten, who alarmingly seemed to know Ferelden's roads and byways as intimately as the back of his hand, had preferred to make his own way to the dwarven capital.

Flora, who had the map spread out over the neck of her horse and Alistair's alphabet beside it, was trying to memorise the names of places. To aid her recognition she had drawn associated symbols beside each unintelligible place name. Denerim had a crown, Redcliffe a roughly etched keep. Herring, which she had made Alistair add to the northern coastline, naturally had a fish. She had not known what to put for Orzammar, knowing nothing about dwarves or dwarven culture. After a moment she recalled the face of the surface dwarf who occasionally visited Herring as a travelling smith; and triumphantly drew a large moustache beside the dwarven capital.

Seeing Morrigan spur her horse alongside Flora's own to escape the bard's song, the red-haired healer folded the map away and smiled hopefully at the witch.

"How were the Wilds?" she asked, as Morrigan squinted off angrily into the middle distance.

"The Darkspawn have reached as far as Lothering, but now mill there aimlessly. A second large force are travelling east, laying waste to the coast. They leave behind only poison and death in their wake."

Flora winced, wondering if she should reach out and touch the witch's bare arm in sympathy. After a flash of Morrigan's catlike glare, she thought better of it.

"I'm sorry," she said inadequately, trying to envision how she would feel if it were Herring that had been laid bare and broken by the horde. The thought of this was so horrific that she actually felt slightly nauseous. Morrigan shook her head, her beaded earrings rattling.

"The Wilds will recover; their roots go deep. 'Tis unlikely that the Darkspawn taint will penetrate its tangled heart."

The witch raised her eyes above the tree canopy, glimpsing the weak winter sun. Flora's horse shied at its own reflection in a shallow puddle, and she patted its neck, hastily.

"Calm down, horse. How about your mother?"

Flora remembered the intimidating old woman, who claimed that she had saved their life by transforming into a dragon and plucking them from Ishal's crumbling roof. At the time, both she and Alistair had believed that the old hedge witch was spinning a crafty lie – now, after everything they had seen- Flora was more inclined to believe Flemeth's tale.

Morrigan let out another imperceptible sigh, shrugging her shoulders.

"Mother's hut is empty, I know not where she is gone. Unfortunately I don't believe it will be the last I hear from her."

With a grimace but keeping her thoughts to herself, the witch turned her face away to indicate that the conversation was over.

There came a groan from the back of one of the wagons. Zevran's dishevelled head emerged, and his bleary eyes settled on Morrigan. Immediately, he sat up a little straighter.

"What have we here?" A charming smile curled its way over his face as he smoothed down his white-blond hair. "Do my eyes deceive me?"

Morrigan, who had passed no comment on the snoring elf on first seeing him in the back of the wagon, gave a loud and irritated sigh. Zevran stroked his chin with his fingers, eyes deliberately lingering over the witch's scantily clad figure.

"Finally, a woman in our party who choose to celebrate her figure with her clothing!"

This snide remark was directed at Flora, who was currently swaddled in three layers, including a shapeless woollen cloak. Zevran continued through a winning smile.

"Your dark beauty, so wonderfully exotic, it reminds me of the Dusky Bloom in Antiva City. You must be Chasind, yes? Or Nevarran?"

Morrigan hissed through her teeth, yellow eyes flashing.

"I preferred you when you were unconscious," she said with a snarl, turning her horse's head in order to retreat to the rear of the caravan; clearly preferring Leliana's singing to Zevran's flirtation.

Flora laughed openly at Zevran's expression as he scowled. The next moment he had turned his brilliant beam on her.

"How about it, my little Rialto lily? I already know what that body looks like beneath those many disfiguring layers. Fancy joining me back here in the wagon? There are blankets..."

"Yes," said Flora immediately, handing her reins off to a knight and clambering awkwardly from the saddle into the wagon beside him.

Zevran looked gobsmacked for a moment, then quickly rearranged his features into another charming smile.

"Cara mia, I knew you could not hold out forever," he started, stretching out a hand. He then stopped abruptly, as Flora climbed straight over his legs and went straight to a pile of baskets.

Lifting the covering cloths to inspect their contents, she located a large wedge of hard Denerim cheese. As she sat cross legged, leaning against the side of the wagon and unwrapping the wax paper, Zevran shot her a look of wounded outrage.

"I'm devastated! You would choose provisions over- " here, he pulled open the front of his tunic to reveal the bronzed and defined musculature of his chest, " – over  _this?!"_

Flora eyed him for a moment, then nodded and took a large bite of cheese.

* * *

 

Some time later, they had reached the heart of the woods. Their surroundings had been unchanged for the past few hours; acres of identical trees, their winter branches sparsely decorated with the last of the stubborn leaves. Only the crumbled marble spine of the Tevinter highway to their left confirmed that they were still heading in the right direction. It had rained twice, and the earthy path was quickly turning to mud.

Flora was half-wondering if anyone was going to bring up lunch, and whether she ought to do it herself, when she felt a peculiar  _pulling_ at the corner of her mind. Faint and persistent, it squirmed in the back of her skull, like a barely audible whisper _._ There was something horribly intimate and familiar about it, though she could not recall where she had last heard anything similar.

Feeling a lurch of dread, she reached for the ring on her small finger, felt the cold metal against her skin. Her knee throbbed dully from the riding and she knew that she was awake.

_Then what..?_

The next moment she heard Alistair, whose senses were more attuned than her own, give a hiss of warning. Suddenly she remembered where she had felt the same strange sensation before.

_Ostagar._

"It's Darkspawn," Alistair called grimly as he drew his horse alongside her own. "There must be a Deep Roads entrance nearby."

Flora nodded mutely, nearly dropping her staff as she fumbled for it. Alistair had already drawn his own sword, his expression darkening. He glanced over at the rest of the party, as the caravan ground to a halt.

"Stay back," he murmured, his head tilted to one side as he tried to ascertain their enemy's whereabouts. "If you get too close, they'll get their taint on you. Too much and you'll…change."

It had been nearly a month since Ostagar, and although they had fought bandits, demons and the dead since then- they had not run into any more Darkspawn. Flora swallowed, tasting bile in her mouth as she followed Alistair forward, frantically trying to remember the difference in strength between a Genlock and a Hurlock.

Wynne had taken charge of the caravan, bossily directing their retinue to keep a safe distance. Leliana had already clambered on top of one wagon, bow in hand and eyes ablaze.

Alistair descended from the saddle and ventured forward, shield in hand. Flora followed him, her foot tangling in the stirrup as she descended. Clutching her staff hard enough to stop her fingers trembling, she followed in his wake.

_He doesn't appear frightened,_ she thought to herself numbly as Alistair strode ahead of her down the road, jaw set and head high. The sun lit his blond hair and reflected off the Templar mail; he gleamed like a brand against the dull backdrop of the barren woods.

_No, he's not scared. He's angry._

Drawing confidence from his broad-shouldered figure, she raised her own chin and scuttled after him. Their retinue followed, the wagons drawing closer together. The knights drew their swords, faces pale and hardened.

The woods opened up into a small clearing alongside the old Tevinter highway. A low ridge of rock rose up from the earth to one side, indicating a subterranean entrance hidden somewhere within its shadows.

Cowering before the ruins of the highway were two dwarves, huddled behind a wooden cart. Alistair strode forward, hazel eyes blazing.

As soon as the elder dwarf spotted them, he gave a great shout of warning.

"It's an ambush! Watch out!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: I really enjoyed writing this chapter – though I did feel bad for Alistair, starting off his morning inadvertently waking up next to Morrigan. I also liked the little bit of Sten/Flora character interaction – at the moment, I plan to have him accompany Alistair and Flora into Orzammar, so I need to flesh their relationship out a little bit. And poor Zevran – Leliana has moved on, Flora is not interested and now Morrigan shows him only disdain! Also my chapter names are SO unoriginal lol.


	42. The Darkspawn Ambush

Chapter 42: The Darkspawn Ambush

The humming in the back of both Wardens' minds reached a frenzied crescendo as four Genlocks dropped from the trees, drawing their bows and taking aim at the party. A half-dozen Hurlocks rose up from the shadows beneath the ridge, their near-human faces contorted in bestial snarls.

A black-tipped jagged arrow hurtled through the air towards Alistair and he thrust out his shield to deflect it. The next moment a second whistled from behind him, soaring with deadly accuracy towards the nape of his neck. Flora, nearly slipping in a muddied puddle, thrust up her staff. Immediately a shifting shield of energy curved itself around her Warden-brother, the arrow caught quivering in the brilliant light. Cursing herself for being so slow to react, she scrambled towards him and he glanced over his shoulder to confirm her position.

As they fell into the familiar formation, back to back with his sword and her staff raised in readiness, Alistair let out a grim chuckle.

"Just like the old days," he murmured, alluding to when they had taken new recruits into the Wilds for the first stage of their Joining. Flora was too nervous to respond, her heart thudding against her ribs in a relentless knocking.

Then the attack came and she had no time to be frightened, her feet following Alistair's as the shifting shield rose up around them. Knowing that she could not sustain a constant barrier, she had to make immediate decisions about when to expend her energy. She had to judge in a split-second whether Alistair could deflect an incoming blow himself, avoid it entirely; or whether she needed to intervene.

Alistair retrieved his sword from one Hurlock's stomach with a grunt, blackened matter coming out with the withdrawn blade. The next moment there came a deafening metallic clang as a rusted polearm came up against a gleaming whitegold sheath, deflecting a thrust that otherwise would have impaled the side of Alistair's abdomen. He used his shield to knock the Hurlock back, then thrust his sword into its neck, preferring quick over clean kills. Then the Warden had to raise his shield once more as a Genlock, twin hooks raised, barged against him. Alistair lurched back before bracing himself, feeling Flora stumble as he barged into her.

"Sorry!"

"It's fine," she breathed, having been knocked to her hands and knees.

Meanwhile Leliana had already taken out two Genlocks with her impeccable and deadly aim, arrows whistling as they flew straight to embed themselves in seething corrupted flesh. Morrigan and a pallid Wynne were preventing three more Hurlocks from advancing on the caravan, a wall of arcane fire channelled between their staves. Zevran, snarling from a distance, had produced throwing blades from his boot and had just successfully blinded a final Genlock archer.

The other members of their retinue, who save for Morrigan had never seen Darkspawn in the flesh before, were shocked at the animalistic brutality of their attacks. They were single-minded in their viciousness, fighting with tooth and claw if they were disarmed. Injury made no difference to them; and only a mortal blow could stop their relentless assault.

A bloodied Flora, still kneeling in the mud, gaped as Alistair's sword carved a bright scythe in the air above her, decapitating a scrawny creature in a single blow. Grabbing her staff, she scrambled to her feet and brought up a barrier just in time to prevent her fellow Warden from taking a knife-thrust between the shoulder blades. She felt a rising wave of panic, threatening to chase the air from her lungs. _Too close!_ she thought, panicked.  _That was too close._

_These are the creatures that killed Duncan,_ thought Alistair behind her, filled with grim purpose.

He pulled his sword out and swung it backwards at an angle, cleaving the beast's ribcage open. Both he and Flora were now splattered in cloying Darkspawn blood, the blackish-scarlet substance more sludge than liquid. She could feel its sour taste in her mouth, incongruously reminding her of the Joining.

Then Wynne gave a shout of warning but it was not directed at Alistair and Flora. Instead she was calling to the two dwarves cowering beside the wagon. A Hurlock, armed with no weapon except for its own oversized teeth and claws, was advancing across the clearing towards them. It opened its mouth, jaw hanging low, and gave a bestial snarl.

Flora lowered her staff towards the two cowering dwarves; whitegold energy sparked in the air but they were beyond the reach of her barrier. Shooting a desperate look over her shoulder, she saw that Alistair was facing only a single Hurlock. Impulsively she thrust her staff into the mud, a shifting shield springing up around it to encompass her brother-warden as he parried a blow from a rusting scythe. Skidding slightly in the mud, she ran across the clearing towards the trapped dwarves.

The elder had backed away from his wagon, diverting the Hurlock's attention from the younger. He retreated to the ridge, shouting and waving his arms, his face white but steadfast. The Hurlock turned towards him with a snarl.

Flora was just about to raise her hands when something heavy landed on her head and shoulders, causing her to stumble onto her hands and knees for a second time. After a few moments of confusion she realised that it was a  _net,_ clumsily crafted from chains. Ominous dark stains already coated the rusted metal links.

She stared at it in confusion, then the elder dwarf let out a yell of fear. Unable to escape the heavy tangle of chain, she crawled forward and stretched out a hand towards him. A golden sheath of light sprung up around the dwarf and the Hurlock lunged ineffectually against it. Flora felt a deep yawn of tiredness in her mind as she struggled to maintain both the barrier emanating from her staff in addition to the one around the dwarf.

The Hurlock then thrust itself towards her with a throaty growl, but the net which had trapped her now protected her from its bared teeth and claws. Hot, rancid breath blew against her face as she recoiled, feeling her concentration waver. She saw the dwarf approach from behind, yelling at the Hurlock and bravely reaching out to try and pull it away from her.

Then there was a roar far louder and more terrible than anything that had come before – and horribly familiar. In a blur Flora recalled where she had heard that sound before –  _on the top of the Tower of Ishal_ – when the earth trembled beneath her.

A vast behemoth erupted from the Darkspawn tunnel beneath the ridge, bursting forth like some malevolent demon tearing through the Fade. Flora had just enough time to glimpse an ogre, horned and scaled, clawing its way from the soil; and Alistair turning to face it, his mouth dropping in shock. Then she felt herself, the Hurlock and the dwarf falling as the loosened damp soil subsided beneath them.

They did not fall far but Flora landed hard on her arm and felt the distinctive snap of bone; the dwarf was yelling in terror in her ear. Through a sharp twinge of pain she thrust up her good hand through the chain netting and yellow light sprung forth; then there was only darkness and silence. She felt earth fall on her face and turned her head to one side with a grimace.

"Hello? Lassie?"

For a moment Flora wondered irrationally what Bardon was doing so far from Redcliffe. Then she realised that the voice in her ear did not belong to the old fisherman; this tone was deeper and had a distinct brogue. She opened her eyes and saw the dwarf's face beside her shoulder, his grubby features illuminated by pale yellow light. The dwarf exhaled in relief on seeing the recognition in her eyes.

"Stay with me, good girl. Not sure what'd happen if you let that thing drop."

Flora followed his stare, up to where a muted gold shield held back a mass of damp, loosely packed soil. She realised that her right hand was still stuck rigidly upright, maintaining a barrier that was preventing the ceiling from caving in on their heads. The dwarf was partially sprawled over her, she could feel his barrel-like torso pressing her into the earth.

"Sorry," he muttered, seeing her wince. "I think that ogre brought us down into the tunnel. Earthwork's all collapsed."

"You know what it is?" she replied hoarsely, taking a deep and unsteady breath. The dwarf nodded, letting out a long sigh.

"I might be Surface now, but I lived in Orzammar for twenty five years, next to them Deep Road tunnels. Led the occasional expedition in there too – for plunder, not to try and  _kill_ them, I'm not completely mad," he added hastily, shifting his weight to try and give her more room. She grimaced, feeling her mind waver as an electric jolt of pain shot up her limp left arm.

"I'm  _hurt_ ," she said stupidly, feeling tears rising. "I'm not used to being hurt."

A fleck of dust was in her eye and she did not have a free hand to brush it away. The dwarf grimaced, eyeing the barrier warily as it flickered, reflecting her waning focus. Some loose soil fell silently from the ceiling.

"Now, I don't know much about magic," the dwarf said nervously, shifting his gaze back to Flora. "But I think you should try to focus on the shield rather than your arm. At least until your friends dig us out."

"That's easy for you to say," retorted Flora, gritting her teeth as a new lurch of fear jolted her. The net, unbelievably, was still partially covering her- she could feel the cold metal links resting against her collarbone.

"True enough. They're probably preoccupied with the ogre, along with my boy." The dwarf paused, his tone suddenly raw with grief. "My poor Sandal. He wouldn't even know how to defend himself."

_The ogre charging forward on all fours, bared teeth and brute power. How long did my staff's barrier last? Long enough?_

"Alistair is with them," said Flora after a moment, then sneezed as dust settled inside her nose. All of a sudden, she felt very cold. "I trust his strength above anyone else's. He'll be fine, even without me."

The dwarf nodded, clinging to the flimsy reassurance she offered.

"I'm Bodahn Feddic, merchant and rare goods dealer _._ Nice to meet you; even in these… unfortunate circumstances. And you and your friend Alistair must be Grey Wardens, right?"

Flora blinked, turning her head sideways in the earth to stare at him.

"How do you know?"

The dwarf smiled, blood trickling from a gouge above his eyebrow.

"Who else would charge forward into a field of Darkspawn? You two looked like you knew what you were doing."

"Until I fell into this hole," pointed out Flora, gloomily. "I'm Flora, of Herring."

"Herring? I'm not familiar with it."

"Nobody is," she mumbled, taking another glum look at her limp arm. It was bent beneath her at an awkward angle, and she could feel nothing in the crumpled, dangling hand.

"Well," replied Bodahn, letting out a sigh. "I suppose we can't do much except wait for 'em to dig us out."

They waited for what seemed an eternity, but must have only been a few minutes more. Then they heard voices above their heads, muffled through the loose earth. The next moment, daylight punctured the scattered soil and a shovel hit the gleaming barrier with a clang. The shock reverberated down Flora's outstretched arm and she yelped, wincing and closing her eyes against the sudden daylight.

" _Here they are!"_

She lowered her hand, feeling a rush of exhaustion as the barrier above them dissolved.

Bodahn was lifted up first, effusive in his thanks. Flora heard a joyous voice calling out something that sounded distinctly like  _Enchantment!_

Then an arm reached down to grab her good hand and haul her up out of the hole. She blinked in the afternoon sun as the Tranquil, Pether, dropped her arm. He, alongside one of the Redcliffe knights, had lifted her out.

Several yards away, Zevran dusted soil from his hands as he released Bodahn into the care of his son. He glanced around, hoping that someone had witnessed him single-handedly hauling the dwarf's bulk up from the ruined tunnel.

Beside them, a bloodied and pale Alistair dropped the chain net, his face grim-set. Clotted Darkspawn blood was matted in his hair.

"You scared me to death," he said lightly, though his eyes were dark and bruised with fear.

As he strode towards her, Flora looked around in bewilderment, unsteady on her feet. The corpses of the Darkspawn they had slain earlier lay piled in one corner of the clearing, in an attempt to restrict the spreading stain of their tainted blood. Morrigan was beside them, her staff held out as flame poured forth from its blackwood head. Slowly, the mass of bodies began to smoulder.

The low stone ridge where the Deep Roads entrance lay was almost entirely caved in, the earth lying bare and exposed. Nearby, her staff was impaled in the mud, a thin and intangible barrier still hovering around it. And in the centre of the clearing, too heavy to move, lay the bloated corpse of the ogre.

Flora stared in confusion, and when Alistair went to embrace her, she cringed. He drew back, his gaze moving quickly over her body as his voice rose in alarm.

"Flo, what is it? Are you hurt?"

She nodded, and then he saw her arm hanging loosely at one side. He reached for it and she reflexively shrunk away from him. He stared down at her, jaw tightening, before guiding her towards the wagons and sitting her carefully on a crate.

"Wynne!  _Wynne!_ "

"The Maker has showered us with blessings!" enthused Leliana as she appeared from behind the trees with bow still in hand. "Oh, good, they dug you out."

Her smile faltered slightly as she saw the pale Flora, hunched over on the crate with her arm dangling loosely in her lap. Alistair, equally white-faced, crouched in front of her. He removed his mail glove, before reaching out and brushing strands of bloodied hair away from her face with exceptional care.

"My brave girl," he murmured, and she noticed a large, congealing cut above his eyebrow. "You need to stop falling into things. Lakes, Darkspawn tunnels."

Flora tried to smile at him, but it came out more a twisted grimace. Then Wynne was there, kneeling beside her with one of Leliana's knives.

"Let's see what we're dealing with," the senior enchanter said, slicing open the sleeve of the linen shirt. Flora hissed in pain and Alistair reached for her other hand. Their fingers laced together and she gripped his, more tightly than she had ever done in sleep.

Wynne peeled apart the divided linen carefully, peering down at Flora's lower arm. The entire length was swollen and covered in bruising, purple and navy blotches disfiguring the pale flesh. At one end, a suspicious bulge distended the skin. Flora took a quick glance, then almost gagged.

"It's definitely broken. That's the bone dislodged," said Wynne briskly, as Alistair gaped down at his sister-Warden's slender arm in horror.

"Can you fix it?!"

Wynne closed her eyes for a moment, gauging the reserves of her mana, then shook her head.

"I need some time to recover, my magic is drained from our encounter. And I doubt that our hedge-witch has the capability to heal it. No, Flora, you'll either have to wait or fix this yourself."

Flora hung her head, while Alistair gaped in disbelief. Wynne sharpened her tone, the senior enchanter speaking to the apprentice once more.

"You're young and strong," she said briskly, fixing her pale blue stare on Flora's slumped shoulders. "There's no reason why you can't do it. I can sense that you aren't drained."

Wynne then turned away to address Leliana, who was gingerly retrieving her arrows from the ogre's pale, bloated flesh. They looked as ineffectual as needles against the creature's muscular bulk.

Alistair, who had seen Flora fix dozens of broken limbs in mere minutes, nodded tightly. Flora looked at him and he reached out, brushing his thumb gently over her eyelashes.

"You had some dirt in your eye," he said softly, gazing at her. "Come on, Flo."

He lifted her other arm, guided her hand into the right place. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, gripping it lightly.

"Look, I'll hold, you heal."

Flora closed her eyes, focused on the cool metal of the ring around her finger. Golden mist surged from beneath her bitten nails, bathing her skin in yellowish light. She dropped her head and  _exhaled,_ feeling the strange prickling of energy as it absorbed into the injury. Grimly recalling how she had bungled the healing of her knee, she forced herself to focus. Her fingers coaxed the energy over the swollen flesh, directing the flow of the creation magic.

Slowly and tentatively, she felt the broken bone edge itself back into place. She  _exhaled_ once again and sensed the two halves knitting together, marrow surging forward to seal the break. Her fingers moved over the inflamed muscle, and she felt it subside. Opening her eyes, she saw that the bruises had paled to faint blue smudges.

Experimentally, she wriggled her previously limp fingers, then lifted her arm and flexed, testing its movement. There was no pain, only the faint tingling of energy as it faded from her skin, yellow particles dropping to the damp grass. Morrigan, having finished incinerating the pile of lesser Darkspawn, advanced on the ogre with her staff lowered.

Kneeling before her, Alistair lifted Flora's hand before his face and turned her slender fingers from side to side in admiration.

"Maker's Breath," he murmured, running his calloused thumb over her knuckles. "There's more power in this hand than in the whole Royal armoury. My clever girl."

He raised her hand to his mouth and gently kissed each of her reddened fingertips, one at a time; then pressed his lips against the centre of her palm.

"Wynne will see," whispered Flora conspiratorially, widening her eyes at him.

"She's too busy watching the ogre go up in smoke, like everyone else. I always suspected Morrigan had pyromaniac tendencies."

As Alistair smiled up at her, she reached out with her other hand and brushed her thumb over the cut on his brow. The yellow mist surged forward beneath her nail, leaving cleanly healed skin in its wake. He exhaled, leaning forward to slide his arms around her waist.

"Do you never run out of energy?" he murmured against her ear, deliberately brushing his lips against the skin.

Flora shrugged, peering at him with her inscrutable grey gaze.

"Don't know. I suppose I need someone to  _put me through my paces_  to find out," she replied innocently, and he exhaled unsteadily, letting out a half-laugh.

"Stop."

The next moment, Zevran stuck his head over the top of the wagon and smiled archly.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," he purred, stroking his chin as his dark gaze crept curiously over them. Alistair withdrew his arms from her waist as if he had been electrocuted.

"I have no desire to watch the beast burn. Fereldans have some strange interests."

The elf stood, leaping down from the wagon with catlike grace. He circled Alistair appraisingly, before inclining his head in begrudging respect.

"I wanted to congratulate you, Alistair."

"Congratulate me for what?" replied Alistair suspiciously, leaning back as Flora clambered to her feet, giving her arm an experimental shake. Zevran raised his eyebrows, lifting a finger in the direction of the clearing.

"On your skill in dispatching the ogre. I have rarely seen such a display of controlled brutality. It was remarkable."

Alistair eyed the elf, trying to detect any hint of gentle mockery or teasing in his tone. To his surprise, the Antivan appeared to be sincere in his praise.

Before he could respond, Leliana arrived to inform them that Wynne had requested their presence in the clearing.

"Better go; we've been summoned. Why don't we put Wynne forward for Queen of Ferelden, she's bossy enough," muttered Alistair darkly, following in Flora's wake.

"The dwarf merchant has proposed that he travel with us," she said briskly, glancing across at Bodahn. "He has trade contacts over Ferelden, which I believe will be useful."

"Our motley crew continues to expand," commented Morrigan with a roll of her eyes. "What now?"

Wynne took out her own copy of the map, pointing to their location with a finger. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, half-hidden by a veil of silvery cloud.

"We could either camp here for the night, or press onwards to the river," she explained, gesturing with a finger. "These are the two most suitable locations."

There was an expectant silence. Flora wondered why no one was speaking, then realised that the rest of their retinue was looking towards her and Alistair to make the decision. With a jolt, she remembered that  _they_ were the ones who wielded the ancient treaties; that the aim of this whole journey was to further  _their_ goal of gathering an army.

Alistair glanced sideways at her, and she realised with even greater wonder that he too was looking to her for guidance. Even Morrigan was gazing towards her expectantly, with the usual impassive amber stare. Flora swallowed, resisting the urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, then cleared her throat.

"Let's keep going," she said, slightly awkward. "If we get to the river, you'll be able to wash off the taint."

To her surprise, Wynne inclined her head in acknowledgement, and the caravan began preparations for the resumption of its journey.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: So this was my interpretation of the Wardens meeting Bodahn and Sandal, the dwarven merchants. I decided to make the fight a little more dramatic for a number of reasons – I wanted to show how much of an asset Flora could be on the battlefield (her shield protects Alistair from three separate blows), but also indicate how her reckless impulsivity can lead to near disaster (i.e. breaking formation to assist the dwarves). It also slightly makes me laugh that Flora's worst injury yet is totally self-inflicted, lol.


	43. Song From the North

Chapter 43: Song From The North

They reached the river camp without further incident, setting up the tents in a hollow of earth beside a small waterfall. Those who had come into closer contact with the Darkspawn quickly headed off to the river to wash. Bodahn Feddic and his son set up their wagon at the side of the clearing beneath a rock overhang. Morrigan, disinclined to socialise as usual, had set up her own nestlike structure just within the trees.

Alistair and Flora, now practised at putting up tents, were able to assemble three before one of the Redcliffe knights dared to intervene. He appeared nervous, his eyes cast towards the ground as he approached the third tent that they had assembled.

"Excuse me, Wardens, but neither of you have to do this. That's why the Arl has sent us."

Alistair sighed, driving a peg into the earth with the heel of his boot. On the other side of the tent, Flora was sitting back on the earth, pulling one of the guy ropes taut.

"And  _why_ shouldn't we help set up the camp? We're more than capable."

The knight shrugged, looking somewhat self-conscious. Flora took pity on him, clambering to her feet.

"They probably want us to go and wash," she suggested, holding out her arms. She was splattered with Darkspawn blood, but Alistair was covered in the foul matter - even his hair was matted in ruddy clumps.

"No one wants to look at us while preparing for dinner. It'd put them off their food. Not me though." Indeed, to the general disgust of the rest of the caravan, she had eaten a sandwich and two apples while still drenched in the Darkspawn taint.

"Well," muttered Alistair, stamping the last peg into the earth with slightly more force than necessary. "Ladies first. I think I'm capable of setting up one more tent."

Flora eyed him as she passed; he clearly thought that the Arl was trying to give him special treatment.

While Flora was down by the waterfall, Zevran came by to assist Alistair with the final tent. Several of their retinue had already prepared a cooking fire, and had assembled the grill over the flames. Two of the knights were hovering dutifully around Leliana as she reclined on a crate like a queen, relishing the attention. After her display of prowess with bow and arrow that afternoon, they were even more enamoured.

"I have to distract myself from the provinciality of these Fereldans," Zevran murmured, slinging the canvas over the wooden scaffolding with a shake of his head. No matter how energetically he exerted himself, his braided white-blonde hair seemed to remain in place.

"And I also need to distract myself from the image emblazoned in my head: I wandered down the river to see if I could espy one of our lovely ladies bathing – Leliana or the dusky beauty, not your warden-sister – and instead I was afflicted with a sight  _most_  traumatising."

Alistair began to methodologically drive the pegs into the earth, one at a time. There was a foul taste in his mouth, a rancid bitterness clinging to the underside of his tongue. It was a nauseatingly familiar sensation – the result of being in close proximity to the taint.

"Why? Did a bear try and disturb your perfect hair?" he asked, taking a swig of water from his pouch. Zevran's lip curled and he shook his head with a grimace.

"No. The only one who I caught a glimpse of – was  _Wynne_."

"Oh." Alistair grimaced, then raised his eyebrows superciliously as he surveyed their handiwork. "Well, it serves you right for trying to spy on people."

Zevran let out a bark of laughter, loud enough to attract the attention of those beside the campfire.

"Don't spout your sanctimony at me, Chantry boy. Anyway,  _you're_  one to talk."

He dropped his voice slightly, and Alistair took an inadvertent step backwards as the elf advanced closer, dark eyes alight with curiousity.

"What  _did_ I interrupt earlier at the clearing? I saw you embrace your sister-warden behind the wagon. You looked very…  _familiar_ with one another."

Alistair felt heat rising to his cheeks, grimly grateful that the natural tan of his skin went a long way in disguising his blushes.

"I was just hugging her," he retorted defensively, taking a nervous glance over his shoulder to where a damp-haired Wynne was scribing a letter beside the fire. "I was relieved that she was alright. She's not used to being hurt."

"Ah, but I am skilled in all the ways of touching another," murmured Zevran, his fingers caressing the hilt of the blade at his waist. "I was, after all, raised by whores. And there are ways of touching a person to offer comfort, and ways of touching them for – other reasons."

Alistair dropped his gaze, unsure whether it was the taint in his mouth or Zevran's insinuation that was making him feel unsteady on his feet.

"She's my sister-warden," he muttered, the words ringing hollow to his own ears as he recalled the press of her mouth against his the previous night, in the upper hall of Redcliffe Castle. "Of course I care about her. There's only two of us left."

Zevran raised his eyebrows, a wicked smile playing over his face. Behind him Leliana broke into a mournful Orlesian ballad, to the continued rapture of her admirers.

"But she's a pretty girl, in a  _provincial_ way," continued Zevran, artfully. "Very Fereldan-looking. And you're a young man, with all a young man's… _urges._ You must have entertained thoughts."

Alistair let out a groan, feeling the beginning of a headache at the base of his skull.

"Can we not talk about this? Is that possibly an option?"

Zevran raised his eyebrows, gesturing over his shoulder.

"I'm not the only one with  _suspicions_. Wynne has pitched her tent practically on top of yours."

Just then Flora returned shivering from the river, wet hair hanging over a clean shirt and breeches.

"All y-yours," she mumbled, clutching her bloodied clothing beneath an arm.

Alistair trudged off down the dark bank, feeling the flush continuing to creep down his neck. Flora watched him go, her eyes narrowed.

"Did you enjoy your bath, my little Fereldan flower?"

"We're the same height," countered Flora, dropping the tainted bundle on the grass and deciding that she would deal with it later. "And no, I hated it; it was  _freezing._ "

Zevran followed her over to the campfire, where the company had split into smaller groupings. The servants kept to themselves, several finding entertainment in hurling sticks for the Mabari hounds. Pether and Wynne were deep in conversation, both pouring over an old text. The knights were gathered around Leliana as she continued to strum the lute, while Morrigan had pitched her camp as far away as possible from the offensive love ballad.

The stars overhead glowed like pinpricks of light through a blanket, the moon waning into a slender crescent. It was a mild night, the wind had died down and the company did not require additional heat beyond that provided by the campfire. There was an air of defiant merriment about the camp; their expanded numbers seemed determined to enjoy themselves in the face of the Blight, as though aware that pleasant nights were now numbered.

Flora, who had spoilt her appetite by eating her way through an entire loaf of bread earlier, was now suffering from indigestion. She lay flat on her back beside the fire, staring up at the stars and trying to remember what her father had taught her about the constellations.

"We should reach Orzammar in two days," murmured Wynne, closing the book and nodding at Pether as he rose. "Hopefully the dwarves will not take much persuading."

"They can't say no, if we have the treaties," said Leliana, who had grown bored of her prospective suitors and their slavish flattery. She turned her back on the knights and dragged her crate closer to their side of the fire.

"Ouch," moaned Flora, clutching her stomach. Wynne shot her a look of disdain.

"I'd have more sympathy if you hadn't brought it upon yourself with your incessant greed."

Alistair joined them beside the fire in his tunic and breeches, happier now that the Darkspawn taint had been purged by the frigid river water. He reached for a bottle of ale and took a long swallow, closing his eyes.

"I can still taste Blight in my mouth," he announced, continuing to gulp at the neck of the bottle. "It's not very nice. Do you ever get that?"

This was directed down at Flora, who was still sprawled on her back in the grass. She shook her head, attention caught by an owl making a silent dive into the field beyond.

"Mhm," she replied, distractedly. "No, not really. I think my body just – neutralises it. I don't know."

In reality, Flora had no real understanding of  _how_ the healing magic she channelled actually worked- if there were laws determining its strange properties, she was unaware of them.

"Alistair?" Leliana paused in her casual thumbing of the lute and glanced over at him, her pale blue eyes warmed by the glowing embers. Alistair looked up at her, feeling a slight sense of trepidation. He had not forgotten her proposition at the Satinalia festivities.

"It was a magnificent sight to see, you taking on that ogre. Such precision, such controlled aggression."

Alistair relaxed slightly, then self-consciously waved a hand.

"Just part of the services we Wardens offer," he said lightly, taking another gulp of ale. Leliana smiled, brushing her thumb over the lute strings gently.

"I shall devote an entire verse to your strength and prowess," she informed him, plucking a simple, tuneful melody.

Alistair grunted, placing the bottle down in the earth beside him. Zevran, reclining nearby, gave a wicked smile.

"Don't forget to mention how the other Warden skilfully fell in a hole."

From her position in the dirt Flora tilted her head to scowl at him and he winked back up at her.

"Don't pull such faces at me, my Rialto lily. You know it drives me  _wild_."

Leliana cleared her throat, which those familiar with her knew was a sign that she was about to sing.

"Please, no more depressing Orlesian ballads about stabbed lovers and mass murders," said Alistair hastily. "Do you know anything from Ferelden?"

The bard raised her eyebrows at him, twisting one of the small pegs that tightened the lute strings. The rest of the camp had fallen quiet; the dwarves having retired to bed and the knights either asleep or on watch. Even the Mabari hounds had fallen quiet, sated after a generous helping of cured meat.

"Of course I do," Leliana replied, a perturbed note creeping into her tone. "I have collected songs from all over Ferelden. Very well, I shall give you one from the northern coastlands, a favourite of mine."

She began to sing, her high and lovely voice caressing the melody of a simple folktune. The verses were plain and poignant; about a woman who watched her husband leave in his fishing boat every day and prayed to the Maker for his safe return.

As soon as Leliana finished the opening bars, Flora sat bolt upright as if jolted by a stray lightning spell. She stared at the lay-sister, eyes widening in recognition, all thoughts of indigestion gone. She had heard the melody before; it was an inextricable part of the tapestry of her childhood. The village women sung it as a lullaby to soothe children, lovers hummed it to one another across the pillow.

She'd heard her mother sing it to her father, more times than she could count.

Flora, who did not have a musical bone in her body, had often tried to remember what the song had sounded like during her years in the Circle. The melody, cruelly elusive, had slipped continually away from her. It was a sound that she associated with Herring as surely as the sound of the sea itself.

Now, for the first time in over four years, she heard the song once again. It might have been in an altered key, the words sounding slightly differently due to Leliana's Orlesian accent; yet it was the melody that she remembered, the song from home.

As Leliana continued to sing, Flora crawled over to her on hands and knees, then came to a halt beside the crate upon which the bard rested. Closing her eyes and allowing herself to bask in the familiarity of the melody, she leaned her head against Leliana's knee. Then she didn't speak or move a muscle, only rested her head there and listened with her eyes squeezed shut. When Leliana finished the song, she reached down and spread her palm affectionately over the top of Flora's head.

"I am pleased that I was able to bring you joy. It is the aim of every bard to draw out great emotion from their audience."

Flora sniffed twice, hard. When she brought her fingers to her face, she could feel that her cheeks were damp. A wave of homesickness rolled up within her, strong and inexorable as the rising tide.

"Thank you," she whispered hoarsely, clambering awkwardly to her feet and almost knocking over the piled-up cooking utensils. "I think I will go to the tent now. I want to keep it in my head forever."

The others murmured their good nights as she picked her way through them, save for Alistair, who also got to his feet. Ignoring the flared nostrils and disapproving stare of Wynne, he followed Flora into the shadows of the darkened campsite. The warm glow of the fire did not encompass the tents; which were lit only by a weak moon and several dotted stars.

Alistair leaned down, parting the canvas flap and ducking inside the tent. Their bedrolls were half buried beneath a tangle of blankets; both his pack and Flora's satchel lay haphazardly in a corner.

Flora, who had entered the tent several seconds before him, had just slumped back onto a bedroll. She was half-humming the melody in a slightly-flat tuneless hum , unsuccessfully trying to fix the notes in her memory. Already the tune was slipping away from her, elusive as a lingering dream in the waking world.

He let the canvas drop behind him and lowered himself to the bedroll beside her. She peered up at him, her eyes gleaming in the faint sliver of moonlight intruding through the gap in the folds.

"Flo," he murmured, reaching out with a thumb to intercept a tear as it rolled down her cheek. She sniffed wetly as he gazed back down at her, his own hazel eyes appearing almost green in the shadows. Resting on an elbow, he propped himself up alongside, close enough for them to share the same bedroll.

"Do you think I'll ever go back to Herring?" she asked, and he was silent for a moment. His natural instinct was to comfort her and tell a reassuring lie; but she was his also his fellow Warden and he wanted to be honest with her.

"I don't know," he said after a pause, his voice soft and full of regrets. "I'm sorry, my dear."

She closed her eyes tightly, unsuccessfully trying to arrest the remainder of the tears before they could escape from beneath her lashes. Alistair bent his head forward and pressed his mouth against one cheek and then the other, tasting salt and dampness on his lips.

"Don't cry," he murmured against her skin, reaching out to brush a hand over the rumpled top of her head. "I hate it when you get upset, it makes me crazy."

She opened her eyes and blinked at him dubiously; he hastened to explain.

"Not like that. I mean - it makes me want to do anything to stop what's making you sad. And…I never can."

Flora stared up at his handsome, deceptively arrogant face; behind which lay a self-depreciatingly humble character. She brought up her hand and touched his chin, feeling two days' worth of stubble, the blond hair near-invisible. Others would have recognised his resemblance to Maric – his son had inherited the strong, angular jaw of the Theirin bloodline – but it did not occur to Flora, who did not look anything like her own parents.

"But you do always make me feel better," she replied, reaching to cup his cheek gently. Alistair felt the soft pressure of her fingers like a brand on his skin; igniting a spark within his chest. Unable to help himself, he leaned forward, waiting for her to stop him. When she didn't, he pressed his mouth against hers.

This kiss was different from their first; there was no initial hesitancy on Alistair's side, only a raw need that he couldn't quite comprehend. Within moments he had parted her lips with his own, his fingers gripping the back of her head. Flora could taste desire on his tongue, along with the ale he had drunk at dinner; his breath hot and erratic against her cheeks. She slid an arm around his neck and he rolled on top of her, suddenly wanting there to be no space between them.

As soon as Alistair felt her body beneath his, he faltered. He opened his eyes and saw himself as an observer would – heaving himself on top of her as clumsily as any horse seeking to rut in the stables. He pulled back as if scalded and she blinked up at him, confused.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, with an inward groan, his desire quenched as thoroughly as though Wynne had personally dumped a bucket of cold water on his head. "I- lost myself for a moment there. I didn't mean to- do….that. I couldn't help myself. Sorry."

The inward groan became an outward one as he heard his own verbal flailing. Furious with himself, he sunk back onto his own bedroll and put a hand over his eyes. The next moment he felt pressure on his hips and looked up, only to see Flora above him, her knees either side of his waist. She gave a small shrug, raising an eyebrow as if challenging him.

"Is this any better?" she whispered, leaning forward so that he could hear her. Thick ropes of dark red hair had fallen loose from her untidy topknot, hanging down either side of her face. He grinned up at her, the desire surging back like a blast of heat from a stoked forge.

"Much better," he murmured, reaching to draw her down towards him. Unable to wait for her face to reach his, he raised his own head and met her mouth halfway. Alistair could taste the apple she had eaten earlier, tart mingling with sweetness on her tongue. Dazedly, he became aware of a strange coiling tension deep within his own belly, like a spring slowly being pulled taut.

" _FIONA!_ What in the Maker's Name do you think you're  _doing?!"_

Flora sat bolt upright, eyes widening. Alistair peered past her to see Wynne's face framed in the gap between the canvas entrance flaps. She was glaring at them both with an expression reminiscent of the Archdemon itself.

"Get off that poor boy immediately," she snarled furiously at a chastened Flora, who scrambled to obey. "We're going to have a serious talk in the morning. Now  _go to sleep,_ both of you. My tent is mere yards away and if I hear anything  _inappropriate_ , I'll be bringing my bedroll in here."

This dire threat issued she shot them both a parting glare, with an especial scowl reserved for Flora. As she withdrew, the canvas flaps dropping closed behind her, Alistair let out a snort of laughter. He quickly muffled it, not wanting to draw further ire from the senior enchanter.

Flora groaned, shooting Alistair a baleful look as he covered his lower face with the blanket.

"I don't know why you're laughing," she hissed at him, grey eyes wide with indignation. "I'm going to get an  _eight hour lecture_  tomorrow from a senior enchanter. I thought those days were behind me when I left the Circle!"

Alistair grinned, reclining against his bedroll and holding out his arm.

"Come on, my dear," he murmured, raising his eyebrows at her. "And do try and restrain yourself, won't you? After all I'm just a poor, innocent Chantry boy."

She scowled but settled down against him; her body reflexively curling against his familiar shape. He reached out for her hand and she slid her fingers into his. They were quiet for a few moments, Flora lost in thought and Alistair listening intently, trying to ascertain whether Wynne was indeed eavesdropping on them from the next tent.

"She's an intimidating lady when she's angry," he muttered in her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "I think I'd rather face the ogre again."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I love writing camp scenes! I also liked the idea of the song bringing back memories of a place for Flora - I don't know if I have a more audio-based brain, but there are lots of songs I associate with a certain place or time. It sounds very stupid, but whenever I listen to Marina and the Diamonds (specifically 'Mowgli's Road'), I remember walking down a certain street in my college town on the way to get a Subway sandwich. Lol! It's such a strong association that whenever I hear the song, I can almost TASTE the sub in my mouth! Flora has no musical talent whatsoever - she's practically tone deaf - but I liked the idea of the folksong bringing back memories of her home.


	44. You Have A Certain Rustic Appeal

Chapter 44: You Have A Certain…Rustic Appeal

The next morning dawned crisp and clear, the Maker appearing to have blessed them with another mild winter's day. Despite the size of their company, the disassembly and packing of the campsite took far less time, mostly due to the increased number of those willing to help. They were breakfasted and well underway before the sun had fully ascended the peaks of the Frostbacks.

Snow lined the path as they continued on the northern road, the occasional sign confirming that they were closing the distance to Orzammar. Bodahn, who had travelled the foothills extensively and knew them like the back of his hand, had shown them a route that would take a day off their journey.

Wanting to avoid increasing Wynne's ire towards Flora, Alistair kept his distance from her as they journeyed north. Instead he occupied himself with the Mabari hounds, encouraging them to jump up to meet his hand as he rode alongside them. During rest breaks he threw sticks for them to fetch, although often these ended up splintering in their over eager jaws.

"Ah, good to see you communing with something on your own intelligence level," Morrigan had commented acidly, unable to resist the jibe. She had become increasingly irritable as the day progressed, anxious at the prospect of venturing into the vast subterranean complex that housed the Dwarven capital.

Zevran let out a snide cackle, his eyes sweeping admiringly over Morrigan.

"You would go down well in Antiva City," he said, with an arch nod. "You could have your own salon. Noblemen would line up outside for you to dominate them. To lash them with your acerbic tongue, and then lash them- with  _other things_."

Morrigan shot the elf a look of pure disdain. "You're the most repulsive creature I've ever met," she breathed, her eyes amber slits.

"And you are the most exotic," he countered without missing a beat.

Flora, meanwhile, had spent the last few hours trying to avoid Wynne. She had managed this so far by listening to Leliana complain about the dwarves' 'stubborn' refusal to accept the Maker's love.

"They worship the  _Stone!"_ the bard exclaimed incredulously as their caravan travelled along the base of a shallow valley. Low fir-covered hills rose to either side, the occasional bird-of-prey visible wheeling about the treeline. Every so often, they heard a screech of triumph as another small creature met an unfortunate end at the claws of a larger predator.

"They worship stones?" asked Flora hastily, catching a glimpse of Wynne spurring her horse onward to approach them. Leliana shook her head in vigorous outrage, sending the small braided strands in her hair flying.

"No, it's their religion. Well, it's more of a philosophy. A way of life. It dictates everything that they do. And it's also  _blasphemous_."

_Sounds like the way that Herring folk worship fish_ , Flora wanted to comment light-heartedly, but worried that Leliana would also find that heretical. Then, to her horror, she heard an acidic voice in her right ear.

"Fiona, a word."

Slowly, Flora turned around, bracing herself. She already anticipated what she was going to see: Wynne's imperious face, hair pulled tightly from her face, eyes staring daggers. Moments later, her suspicions were confirmed.

Groaning inwardly, Flora tugged on her horse's reins.

"Slow down, horse," she muttered darkly, feeling an ominous sinking sensation in her stomach as Wynne pointedly allowed the rest of the caravan to overtake them. Flora's horse fell into step beside the senior enchanter's, and the older woman waited until a gap had opened between them and Bodahn's wagon.

"So, Fiona." Wynne's voice was light and carefully measured. "Warden Alistair seems very taken with you."

Flora blinked and nodded, a vacant expression creeping onto her face. Wynne's tone sharpened.

"Don't think you can tune me out like an apprentice might do a nagging Templar – or like you must have done your instructors at the Circle Tower."

Flora sat up a little straighter in the saddle, looking chastened.

"Sorry," she mumbled, hanging her head. "I am listening. And it's  _Flora,_ by the way."

Not appearing to have heard, Wynne let out a sigh and reached down to pat her own horse's neck.

"I suppose this was inevitable really," she said, almost to herself. "You're a pretty girl, with a certain… _rustic_ appeal."

Flora did not know what rustic meant, assumed that Wynne had intended to say  _rusty,_ and frowned in confusion. Further ahead in the caravan, Alistair hurled another stick for the Mabari he had named Barkspawn, letting out a loud cheer when the dog caught it in mid-air. Flora narrowed her eyes at him, resentful that  _he_ had been the one to initiate the kiss, while  _she_ was paying the price for it.

"And he was raised in a monastery, poor naïve lad," continued Wynne, with a slow shake of the head. "Although apparently the Chantry didn't have him for long enough to instil their suspicion of mages within his mind."

"Oh, they did," Flora hastened to explain. "When Duncan first assigned Alistair to me, he used to make a barricade of breastplates between our bedrolls."

"Ah." Wynne raised her eyebrows, guiding her horse around a puddle. "Clearly, he has overcome his initial misgivings, based on what I saw last night."

Flora grimaced, willing herself not to blush. As one with typically pale-skinned Fereldan colouring, this was easier said than done. Wynne let out a sigh, squinting up to where an eagle circled slowly and leisurely against the sun.

"He is inexperienced. He doesn't know much about- what goes on between a man and a woman."

"Neither do I!" retorted Flora indignantly, roused from her embarrassment. "I don't know anything about it. I've never done it- _any_  of it – before!"

Wynne blinked, taken aback.

"I always thought that you had had a dalliance with that curly-headed lieutenant at the Tower," she mused, adjusting her stirrup skilfully in the saddle. "You know, Greagoir's aide. Rutherford?"

Flora shook her head, her grey eyes wide.

"I didn't even know that he liked me," she muttered, recalling his desperate confession within the arcane cage at the Circle Tower. "I spent most of my time at the Tower snacking in the kitchen. Or sneaking up to the roof."

Wynne raised her eyebrows, thoughtfully. "Snacking and sneaking, hm. You did have an expression of shock when he professed his hidden desire for you," she conceded, referring to the same incident. "Well, that's surprising. But, my point is unchanged."

Flora eyed her warily, as Leliana broke out into song once more in front of them.

"You two are Grey Wardens, and have a duty to fulfil. You cannot let any personal feelings obstruct you from this task. And  _additionally_ \- "

Wynne paused, her eyes moving ahead to Alistair. He had just broken a stick from the bare branches of a nearby tree and hurled it down the path. The Mabari set up a new storm of barking, as Morrigan began to pour forth a stream of irritated invective.

"Catch, Barkspawn!" he yelled, as the witch snarled at him.

"You know he is heir to the throne," Wynne stated abruptly, turning her pale blue eyes on Flora. "He is the only viable challenger to Anora and Loghain's rule."

Flora grimaced, shading her eyes as the sun crested a low peak and bathed the valley in mellow, late-afternoon light.

"He doesn't want to be, though," she said helpfully, the concept of  _King_ so far removed from her own experiences that she could not comprehend it. Although she had spent several weeks in the company of Cailan, he had seemed more battle-hungry adolescent than imperious ruler. She could not reconcile her memories of the petulant, impulsive young man with his role as leader of an entire nation.

"Well, Alistair may not have a choice," countered Wynne, sternly. Flora grimaced, feeling a wave of sympathy for her warden-brother.

The older mage glanced sideways at the younger, raising her eyebrows. She looked at Flora's fineboned profile; her high cheekbones and long nose, and did not state  _and you're lowborn._ Instead, she went with the argument she was more certain of.

"And you're a mage, healer or no. The Landsmeet will never accept you as Queen."

Flora gaped, let out a shriek of laughter, then began to cackle so hard that she lost her balance. Helplessly she slid off the saddle and toppled into a nearby bush. The caravan came to a halt as those further ahead turned to cast perplexed looks over their shoulders. The leaves on the bush trembled as Flora continued to laugh from within its depths. Wynne glowered down at the foliage, lowering her voice to a hiss.

"Get out of there immediately. You're drawing attention to yourself."

It was too late; Alistair had seen the empty saddle on his sister-warden's horse and had ridden back to investigate. Flora scrambled out of the bush, wiping her streaming eyes on the back of her sleeve.

"What's tickled you?" asked Alistair curiously, catching Wynne's beady stare out of the corner of his eye.

"Wynne told a very funny joke," Flora mumbled, clambering back up onto her patient, long-suffering mount.

Alistair eyed the grim-faced Wynne somewhat dubiously. "She did?"

Flora nodded mutedly, trying to avoid collapsing into a second round of cackles. Alistair paused before her, his mount beside her own. Carefully he reached out and plucked a stray leaf from her hair, letting it drop to the path.

She smiled at him and he grinned back; she then looked away quickly, doubly self-conscious under Wynne's poisonous glare.

* * *

 

They rode on for several more hours, until the sun had sunk low enough that it became too dangerous to navigate the rapidly ascending path, which shelved steeply away on one side. The tents were set up in a wide rocky alcove, before a vast pair of stone doors set into a cliff face. At least sixteen feet tall, they dominated the small cluster of tents; and Bodahn identified them as an old entrance into the Deep Roads. Fortunately they had long fallen out of use, and Alistair confirmed that there was no sensation of any lingering Darkspawn presence on the other side.

A fire was built and a watch established; the motions of setting up camp now well-practised. Morrigan, who hated both evening socialisation and the barrenness of their campsite, disappeared off to make her own camp in a more familiar environment. Soon, meat was roasting on the fire, much to Zevran's dismay.

"More meat! I despair at these Fereldans," he muttered to himself, practically tackling Wynne in gratitude when she produced a brace of apples from Redcliffe's orchards. Alistair was still trying to teach Barkspawn to successfully fetch a stick, rather than chasing after it and crushing it in his jaws.

It was over dinner that Bodahn first brought up the rumours of dissension in Orzammar, over their meal of meat and assorted root vegetables. He had many contacts along the trade routes and more who still dwelt beneath the surface in the underground capital. Alistair half-listened, barely understanding the complex dynamics of dwarven dynastic politics. Wynne nodded with far greater comprehension, her brow crumpled in a frown.

Leliana meanwhile had decided that she was going to join Alistair in his quest to develop his sister-warden's literacy. Using stationary supplies donated by Pether, the bard spread several sheets of parchment over the dusty earth and wielded a pencil like a weapon.

"This is where we are going," the woman explained in her thick Orlesian accent, scribing  _O-R-Z-A-M-M-A-R_ with her distinctly ornate calligraphy. Flora stared down at the A, usually a letter that she recognised as ending her own name and starting Alistair's, then scowled.

"It doesn't look like an A," she mumbled through a mouthful of apple, swallowing. Alistair, who had one ear turned in their direction even while he was training the Mabari, called across the campsite.

"Leliana, you need to make the letters really  _simple and basic,_  or she won't recognise them. None of your fancy Orlesian twirls and swirls. You aren't writing to the Empress."

The loudness of his voice caught the attention of several others, including Wynne and Bodahn. Zevran let out a wicked smile, waving the dagger had had been sharpening.

"With a face like yours, my lily, you don't need to bother learning to read!"

Then Alistair noticed Flora's expression and let out a groan, immediately dropping the stick for Barkspawn to devour. Striding across the camp, he dropped to his knees beside Flora and reached for her hands to grip them tightly in his own.

"That came out all wrong," he murmured, bowing his head in contrition. "Sorry, Flo. You know I'm an idiot."

She slid her fingers between his in an emulation of their nightly fish-rope ritual.

"You're not an idiot, and I do need them to be simple and basic," she stated, with a mild shrug. "I appreciate everyone who is helping me."

Alistair smiled at her, then realised that he did not want to release her hands. He gripped them even more tightly, until an impatient Leliana thrust a sheet of parchment under Flora's nose. Upon it, she had written the name of the dwarven capital in blocky, detached lettering.

Between them, Alistair and Leliana taught Flora the place names for the locations they would be visiting on their journey – Orzammar, Brecilian Forest, Denerim.

"So if I get lost, I can find out where I am by looking at the signs," Flora beamed, misspelling Brecilian for the third time in a row. "How do you spell Herring?"

After confirmation from Alistair that yes, it  _was_ spelled exactly like the fish, Leliana showed her. Flora frowned for a moment, recalling how she had ended the letter to her parents several nights prior, using Alistair's guide sheet. Picking up the pencil, puzzling over the words for several minutes, she slowly and laboriously produced  _flora lov herring_ in the middle of the parchment. Alistair felt a swelling of disproportionate pride as he looked at the large, crooked letters, several of them back to front.

"My clever girl," he murmured, as she beamed at him. The next moment Zevran broke the silence by letting out a cry of delight, discovering several bundles of wrapped winter peaches in a previously unopened basket. As Flora departed in rapid haste, a prisoner to the demands of her stomach, Alistair and Leliana were left looking at  _flora lov herring._

After a few moments, Alistair reached out and took the parchment, folding it up and tucking it within the inner pocket of his tunic.

As the party broke apart later that evening with many individuals beginning to retire to their separate tents, Wynne shot Flora a pointed glance.

"As you may have noticed, my tent is immediately adjacent to yours," she murmured, pale blue irises fixing her younger counterpart in place as firmly as any paralysis spell. "I may be in my grey hairs, but my hearing is as sharp as a fox."

Flora nodded solemnly, bowing her head. "Yes, ma'am," she said obediently, while Wynne narrowed her eyes. She could feel the senior enchanter's stare on her back as she followed Alistair into their tent.

"I never thought I'd say this, but a grassy field seems like a luxury compared to this," her brother-warden complained, grimacing as he lowered himself onto the bedroll. The lumpen pallet did nothing to cushion the body from the hard rock below. Flora sat on the bedroll beside him, blanket around her shoulders, fingers busy massaging the tension from her sore knee.

"I find it more comfortable than the beds in Redcliffe Castle," she replied honestly, as Alistair raised his eyebrows at her. "I'm more used to it."

Alistair eyed her for a moment. The light from the campfire silhouetted her features against the canvas.

"What was Wynne talking to you about earlier?" he asked, reaching out to take over the massage of her knee; his fingers stronger than her own. Flora nearly laughed out loud as she recalled Wynne's ominous warning about the King's Council never accepting her as Queen. She was on the verge of repeating it to Alistair but was struck by uncertainty, recalling how irritable he got whenever his parentage was brought up.

"She told me to stop taking advantage of you" Flora informed him instead in an undertone, with a solemn nod. "I'm a wicked  _rusty_  girl tempting you with my loose country morals."

"Rusty?"

Alistair let out a snort of incredulity. Suddenly, they heard Wynne give a sharp and deliberate cough from the other side of the canvas. It was so close that she almost could have been in the tent with them, and contained a definite element of  _beware: I'm listening._

Flora looked up at Alistair and put a solemn finger on her lips. He eyed her for a moment, then reached out and gently moved her hand away. Very quietly, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against hers, soft and soundless.

Neither of them had yet broached the subject of the changing nature of their relationship. Alistair, whose mind had started to venture into alarming territory far beyond his personal experience, tried not to think about it too carefully. His heart had always dominated his head when it came to deciding a course of action. Flora, equally inexperienced, believed that it was simply part of the natural progression of their friendship.

"Night, Alistair," she whispered as he retreated, his eyes focused fixedly on her lips. Her hand reached out into the darkness and met his halfway, already stretching out for hers.

"Night, Flo."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: I like this chapter even though it can seem quite 'filler'-ish – although I've never been much of a believer in filler, in my experience that is where a lot of character development takes place! I wanted to develop Wynne and Fiona- FLORA'S relationship a little more in this one- Wynne clearly comes off as the domineering, bossy senior enchanter who can't quite shake the Circle hierarchy off when it comes to the once-apprentice who now wears the mantle of Grey Warden. However, I think she does demonstrate an element of concern towards Flora, when she warns her that she could never be Queen. Although Flora takes it as a hilarious joke, Wynne does seem to be concerned about Flora's future wellbeing if she allows herself to fall for Alistair. In this chapter Flora hasn't quite summoned up the backbone to fully defend herself against the senior enchanter yet, but next time…. Wynne is going to interrupt something a little more risqué between the two Wardens, and this is going to trigger a lot of drama!


	45. A Belated Present

Chapter 45: A Belated Present

_The Archdemon tore through the Veil as though it were tattered cloth, bright and terrible as any ancient warlord from Thedas legend. The horned head, hanging low like a great snake, turned towards her. Hooded eyes, small, black and malevolent, blazed with remorseless anger._

_I_ see  _you!_

_She looked up at it for the briefest of moments, before terror washed over her like a dark and rising tide and she fell to her knees and covered her face._

As Flora's raw and frightened shriek pierced the night, Wynne groaned and put her fingers to her ears. The sound echoed around the campsite, waking the majority of their party.

Leliana also recognised the sound, giving a grimace of sympathy into the darkness. Beside her, Zevran sat bolt upright and reached for his blades.

"It's just sister-warden having a bad dream," the bard muttered, pulling the blanket up over her ears. "Don't worry, brother-warden will take care of it. Now  _ssh,_ or people will know you're in here!"

The Redcliffe guard on watch rushed to the source of the noise; yanking open the tent's canvas flap with sword drawn.

Alistair glanced over at the knight, shaking his head.

"It's fine," he hissed as he slid an arm around a trembling Flora. "She had a nightmare. Don't stab us, please."

Teeth chattering, Flora crouched beside him on the bedroll, feeling the frantic beating of her heart against her ribcage. Gradually she became aware of Alistair's body against her own, solid, muscular and reassuring.

"Hey," he murmured, moving a strand of sweaty hair out of her eyes. "You're alright; you're awake.  _It's_  not here. Only me, and I'm not quite as scary as an Archdemon. Except to my enemies, of course!"

As his fingers lingered on her cheek she swallowed, her heartbeat eventually beginning to slow its frantic pace. She was only half-listening to Alistair's words; responding more to the familiar sound of his low, refined drawl. He peered down at her face through the darkness, brushing his thumb gently over her eyelashes.

"Good girl. Did you- see anything else? About what _it's_  up to?"

She shook her head and he nodded, running his palm up and down her narrow back.

For several minutes they remained huddled together while Flora slowly regained her composure. Alistair rejoiced in the fact that, despite being raised in cold and loveless isolation at the Chantry, his ability to provide comfort to another had not been lost, but merely buried.

Finally she sniffed, sat back on the bedroll and wiped her hand over her eyes.

"Sorry for waking you up," she mumbled, her voice slightly hoarse. "And everyone else. I'll have to apologise tomorrow."

Alistair gazed at her for a moment, then half-smiled.

"Hey, Flo?"

She grunted, eyeing him.

"You know on Satinalia, it's customary to exchange gifts?"

Flora shook her head, brows drawing together. He reached out to touch her cheek gently, realising that in a humble village such as Herring, the gift-giving was most likely not expected.

"Well, I never gave you a present before, so I wanted to give you one now."

She gazed at him curiously as he reached inside the inner pocket of his quilted jacket, and brought out something that glinted in the moonlight. Resting in the palm of his hand was a silver Chantry amulet, the inexpensive type often sold by lay-sisters and travelling merchants. It had a fine crack running down the centre, as though it had once been split in half. Flora stared down at the necklace as he held it out, eyes wide.

"It used to belong to my mother," Alistair murmured, lifting it up to dangle by its crudely-wrought chain. "It was the only thing I had to remind me of her. When the Arl sent me away to the Chantry, I threw it against a wall – idiotic, I know. I thought I'd never see it again, but…"

Here he paused, swallowed.

"Arl Eamon gave it to me before we left. He'd had it repaired."

Flora looked down at the amulet, then back up at Alistair, her eyes searching his face. He looked up and met her confused gaze, then smiled, his shoulders rising in a slight shrug.

"Flora, I want you to have it."

She stared at him, her grey irises silver in the moonlight. He reached out and touched her cheek gently, almost reverently.

"I know we've only known each other a few months but- we've been through so much together. I feel like you're my family. Sister-warden."

Even as his mouth formed the word  _sister,_ his eyes spoke of something different, warm and intimate. Flora smiled up at him, feeling a solid lump in her throat.

"Thank you," she whispered, slightly croakily. "I promise I'll look after it."

"Promise me you'll look after  _yourself_ ," he murmured, unclasping the amulet and reaching forward. She lifted her hair out of the way and bent her head forward. Alistair placed the chain around her neck, and she could feel his breath warm against her ear. He adjusted the amulet as it rested below the hollow of her neck, fingers brushing over bare skin. Moving his hand away, he watched her dark red hair settle back against her shoulders.

"Thank you," repeated Flora, reaching up to touch the cool metal. He nodded at her, suddenly not trusting himself to speak for fear of what he might inadvertently say.

She thought for a moment, her brow furrowing. Alistair watched the minuscule movements of her face, the slight curling downwards of her mouth, the small line between her eyes that appeared when she frowned.

"I need to give you something in return," she said finally; glancing at the leather satchel resting at the foot of the tent. She had scant possessions of her own; the few things she had brought from the Tower had been lost at Ostagar. Alistair shook his head, his eyes moving over the faint freckles on her nose.

"You don't need to give me anything, my dear," he replied, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders. Flora frowned for a moment more, then reached down and swivelled the small gold ring from her little finger. The skin beneath it was a shade paler than the surrounding flesh, and felt curiously naked.

"No, Flo," Alistair replied immediately as she held it out to him, the moonlight glinting off the engraved  _F, C._ "That's from your home."

She shook her head, reaching for his hand and placing the ring in the centre of his palm.

"I hold Herring here, and here," she replied, touching her breast and head in turn. "Not in  _things_. It won't fit you, it's almost too small for me. I've had it since I was a child."

He brought the ring closer to his face and gazed at it, running his thumb over the cool metal. It was grubby and smeared, but as he rubbed it gently, the gold shone with a burnished brilliance.

"Flo, this is valuable," he said after a moment, his rudimentary knowledge of metalworking confirming that the ring was crafted from old gold, in its purest form. "Where did you get it?"

Flora gave a shrug, running her fingers over the amulet around her neck absentmindedly.

"I've always had it," she mumbled, as he placed the ring carefully in the inner pocket of his tunic. "Why?"

Alistair opened his mouth to question her further but then his eyes drifted once again to the few scattered freckles on her nose, pale smudges that were barely discernible in the shadows. Inexplicably, his heart rate surged. Flora stared at him for a moment, in mild alarm.

"What's on my face?" she asked nervously, reaching up to feel her cheeks. He shook his head, letting out an embarrassed half-laugh.

"I was just wondering if you had freckles anywhere else," he said, then inhaled sharply, horrified at himself.  _Maker, what did I just come out with?! Idiot!_

Flora eyed him for a moment, then turned away and swivelled to face the canvas. Pulling her hair over her shoulder; she reached behind her to grip the trailing linen ties of her shirt, which laced closed beneath the back of her neck. Loosening the ties, she let the shirt hang open to show the pale skin, from the nape of her hairline to the base of her spine.

It was the first time he'd seen her bare back since the stolen glimpse he'd caught in the Chantry Mother's office in Redcliffe. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes moved over the unblemished skin, marked with the occasional freckle.

"They're in the shape of _the boat,"_ Flora whispered towards the canvas, referring to the constellation known as  _Peraquialus._ "Do you see?"

He inhaled, nodding slowly. Raising a finger, he traced the shape of the celestial ship over her naked back, feeling his heart beating a fast and staccato rhythm against his ribcage.

"In Herring," Flora muttered, peering over her shoulder at him. "We say that when a fisherman dies, his soul is carried on the  _Peraquialus_ for all eternity, sailing through the stars and looking down on those below."

"Do you want that to happen to you too?" Alistair murmured, leaning forward and pressing his lips against the side of her neck, just beneath her ear. Feeling a lurch of trepidation, he paused to gauge her reaction. She made no protest, only tilting her head to one side. Taking this as a sign of acquiescence, he moved his mouth slowly down her neck, ardency compensating for inexperience.

"I do like looking down from high places," she whispered as he bent his head over her shoulder, gently kissing the bare skin. "But I'm not important enough for my soul to win a place on the  _Peraquialus."_

Alistair exhaled against her ear, his breath coming hot and erratic. The restless tension in his core had returned, urging him to keep pressing forward _._ The wordless and visceral command came from deep within his own body, more persuasive than the Archdemon's whispers. He returned his mouth to her neck, pressing his lips slightly harder against the exposed skin this time; he wanted to be less gentle now, maybe even leave a mark there-

_Maker's Breath!_

"Flo," Alistair mumbled against her hair, steeling himself as he drew back from her. "Do your shirt back up, my darling."

She turned around to peer at him through the shadows, clutching her linen shirt as it draped around loosely around her chest. He wondered at how solemn and lovely her face was; and thought that it was also somehow  _misleading_ , since she was not at all solemn.

Alistair reluctantly dropped his eyes for a moment and glimpsed the bare collarbone that had lingered in his thoughts since the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He hissed between his teeth, forcing his gaze back to her face.

"What?" she asked, confusion creasing her brow.

Alistair groaned, his eyes now fixed determinedly on the canvas ceiling above their heads.

"Because, sister-warden," he stared through gritted teeth. "I'm experiencing some  _unbrotherly_ thoughts right now."

Flora peered at him, wide-eyed; then both of them jumped a foot in the air as Wynne thrust her head through the canvas. The senior enchanter's eyes focused immediately on Flora, clutching her shirt to her chest, her slender back bare and turned towards Alistair.

" _Fiona_ , I'm now thoroughly unsurprised that you developed neither literacy nor competency at the Circle," hissed Wynne, pale blue eyes gleaming as the half-light of predawn flooded the tent. "If advice and instruction provided simply went in one ear and out of the other. Do you not remember our talk from earlier?"

Flora recalled Wynne's insinuation that she desired to be Queen, and let out an inadvertent cackle. This was possibly not the best response she could have chosen; Wynne's nostrils flared angrily and she reached in with a long arm to grab Flora's elbow.

"And now I find you  _half-naked_  before the poor boy," the formidable old woman snarled, as Alistair gaped in horror. "You can come and practise your shielding with me instead."

Flora squealed like a kicked Mabari as she was dragged out of the tent, hitting her face squarely against the damp canvas.

"I was just showing him my boat freckles," her diminishing voice protested as Wynne manhandled her away. "He asked!"

" _Boat freckles!_ Is that what they call them nowadays? I'll never understand young people."

Alone in the tent, Alistair sat alone in the tangle of bedroll and blankets, his mind racing. There was quiet for a few moments, then the distinctive humming of arcane magic filled the air. Several minutes later, he heard Flora squeal in pain and outrage. He scrambled out of the tent, to see his sister-warden nursing a reddened hand. The senior enchanter was pacing in small circles, shaking her head.

"Unacceptable! You let your concentration slip, Fiona – that could have been a man's life!"

Flora, tears stinging her eyes as she cradled her burnt hand, finally lost her temper.

" _My name is FLORA!"_ she howled at the older woman, her pale eyes raw as an open wound. "I don't ask for much, but I  _do_ want to be called the right thing!"

Wynne gaped, stopping abruptly in her pacing. Flora's shout had roused several others in the camp, heads emerging from tents and blinking, bleary-eyed. Zevran, hastily ejected from Leliana's tent, grumbled and rubbed the back of his head. Alistair stood still, staring in mild disbelief.

"You must be patient with this old lady- " began Wynne, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. Flora cut her off abruptly, her cheeks flushed.

"I know! I know I must be patient, I must always be patient, but I'm  _tired of being patient!_  I'm trying so hard, I always try and do my best, and no one ever appreciates it."

She threw her staff against the rocky ground with a clatter, then slightly regretted it as the wood gave an ominous crack. Wynne, who for the first time appeared slightly contrite, raised a conciliatory hand.

"Child, calm yourself. It won't do you any good to get upset."

"I am upset!" retorted Flora, brushing away dampness from her cheeks roughly. "I'm tired of people glaring at me, and mistrusting me, and looking at me like I'm going to kill them. I'm just trying to do the best I can.

"You're a mage," Wynne replied, her tone soft and regretful. "People will always look at you thus. You cannot expect anything different."

Flora sighed, looking around at the other members of their party who were now fully awake and staring at her with their jaws slack.

"Fine, but I at least expect them to call me by my right name," she muttered, dropping her eyes.

"Alright, Flora – I'll do my best." Wynne inclined her head, and Flora nodded, ashamed now of her outburst. She reached down and picked up her staff, running her fingers over the binding charm to make sure it was still secure.

"Sorry," she muttered, staring at her feet as she directed this to the rest of the camp. "It's the second time I've woken you tonight. Someone tie me up and gag me tomorrow night."

"Happy to oblige!" interjected Zevran, with an arch, catlike grin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: It was fun to write Flora sticking up for herself finally! I still don't think Wynne is going to approve of her relationship with Alistair for the time being, but hopefully when she lectures her in the future, she'll nag using Flora's correct name! 


	46. Gherlan's Pass

Chapter 46: Gherlan's Pass

Their caravan made an early start, taking a winding canyon road that curved between two jutting peaks. At this altitude the wind was cold and biting; both Wynne and Pether wore extra furs over their mages' robes.

Leliana, who much to Zevran's amusement ignored him during the day despite nightly visits to his tent, was holding court once more over the knights of Redcliffe. Sitting with perfect posture on her grey steed, she tossed her hair prettily around her ears and bestowed charming smiles on her admirers.

Already that morning, the bard had regaled them with two songs of her own composition. She had begun a third, before Zevran snidely pointed out that her high, powerful voice might trigger a landslide. Leliana had glared at him; but he shot such a suggestive look at her in return that she had fallen silent, a slight flush to her cheeks.

Much to everyone's amusement, Wynne had been trapped by Bodahn and his sweet, simplistic son Sandal. The senior enchanter nodded with a rictus smile, her horse plodding beside their trundling wagon as he regaled her with rambling stories about various services that he had provided to the Circle in the past.

"And then there was a black onyx, cursed with misfortune, that I sold to a senior enchanter in Ostwick," he informed her, brushing his moustache with his fingertips. "Let me tell you where I got  _that_ little beauty..."

Wynne groaned under her breath as their caravan approached a curving ridge. Her eyes were fixed on Alistair and Flora, who were riding at the head of the party. At first, Flora had tried to avoid her brother-warden. Gloomy from the previous night's lecturing, she wished that her shields were also able to protect her from Wynne's barbed words.

Her clumsy attempts to nudge her steed away were no match for Alistair's expert horsemanship. He brought his mount alongside her own, and wriggled his eyebrows at her until she reluctantly laughed.

"Why are you trying to avoid me, sister-warden?" he murmured, his horse falling into step beside her own. Flora shot him a malevolent look, the reins wrapped tightly around her fingers.

" _You_ kissed  _me,_ but I was the one who got told off for about eighteen years," she complained in an undertone, aware of Zevran desperately trying to eavesdrop behind them. Alistair grinned at her, reaching out to tuck a thick rope of dark red hair back into its leather tie.

"Don't sulk, my dear. You were just so lovely that I couldn't help myself."

Flora manipulated her features into the most hideous contortions that they were capable of, then turned her face towards him. Alistair almost fell off his mount, but recovered manfully.

"Stop, or I won't be able to restrain myself," he returned, raising his eyebrows at her. "Anyway, she can't call me  _prince_ and then try to boss me around. If I want to ride with you, I'll ride with you. And sleep next to you, and- and  _kiss_  you if I want to… And if  _you_ want to. Obviously." A hint of colour rose to his stubbled cheeks.

Flora, it being against her nature to remain sullen for long, beamed at him. They rode together for the rest of the morning; mostly in companionable silence. Over lunch, they compared their own adolescent experiences of confinement – her in the Tower, and he in the Chantry.

After they had eaten, the scowling Wynne made a firm excuse to abandon the merchant dwarves and nudge her horse forward to the front of the caravan. They were travelling through a crudely hewn stone passage, lit by bracketed torches.

Flora was snickering away at Alistair's eerily accurate impersonation of Arlessa Isolde.

"Oooh," he breathed, batting his eyelashes. "You're from  _where?!"_

"Herring," replied Flora dutifully, stifling her giggles against her sleeve. Alistair rolled his eyes and let out a sigh, continuing to put on an outrageously exaggerated Orlesian accent.

" _Alors_ , I'm  _so_ sorry. It must be so awful not to be noble and rich, like me."

"Look!" squeaked Flora, nearly falling off her horse by this point. "It's Bann Teagan!"

" _Teeeeegan!"_

Flora hid her face against the mane of her horse while Wynne gaped in disbelief.

"Maker, why?" the senior enchanter appealed to the heavens under her breath, nudging her horse pointedly between the two of them. "Leaving the fate of Ferelden to these children. It is a cruel jest you make."

Alistair grinned at the old woman, giving her a helpless shrug.

"It's only a bit of humour. We Wardens are quite into that, you know. Distracts us from the Darkspawn, and our impending premature deaths. As well as being the only two Wardens in the middle of the first Blight for four hundred years."

Wynne raised her own eyebrows archly in return.

"You would have made a great comedian," she observed, her tone deadpan. "And Flora an exceedingly good cackling fishwife."

"Ha! You called me  _Flora_!" exclaimed Flora triumphantly, while the old woman scowled. "You do know my name, you do know…"

She trailed off as their horses rounded the corner of the passage, and emerged at the base of a steeply sloping valley. Snow-clad pines rose up on either side, interspersed with exposed rock crags. In the near distance loomed a mountain, a lone peak veiled in cloud. There could be no denying that the landscape was desolate, but there was a strange beauty in its starkness. High above, an eagle circled with a golden eye out for prey.

"Gherlan's Pass," breathed Wynne, taking a deep inhalation of the clean air. "The gateway to Orzammar."

Before them, flanking the road like vast sentries, were two stone-carved Dwarven sentinels. The twin statues towered high above their heads, each with a hand raised in warning. Each granite palm was larger than the circular shields carried by the Redcliffe knights.

"I wouldn't like to pick a fight with one of those," muttered Alistair, as the rest of the caravan emerged behind them.

"Their purpose was to warn Surface dwellers that they were nearing Orzammar's entrance," interjected Bodahn from behind them. "Impressive, aren't they? Nobody can work the stone like a dwarf."

Their party passed between the two vast statues and headed towards the base of the mountain, which Bodahn had informed them was named Aeducan's Rise. As they continued to travel along the now-paved road, merchants and foot-travellers began to pass them, going the other way. Many of the occupants were dwarven, but none appeared eager to talk. Only a handful replied to Bodahn's cheery greeting, much to his confusion.

Just as the sun began to dip below the highest ridge of the Frostbacks, their caravan arrived in a small clearing, near the foot of the Rise. They drew up beside a flight of stone steps, impassable for horses and wagons.

The Redcliffe contingent began to set up camp, while Flora disappeared off behind a wagon with Leliana to make herself presentable. Alistair, who had turned down Zevran's offer to rub a polishing cloth over his Templar mail, was shifting from foot to foot nervously.

"I've never been underground before," he informed Wynne, who shrugged a shoulder. She was sitting with her feet up on a crate, fingers against her temples.

"Keep an eye out for giant spiders," she replied maliciously, which made him even jumpier. Flora emerged from behind the wagon in a clean shirt and leather tunic, hair somewhat tamed. Retrieving her staff from where it had been leaning against a tree, she raised her eyebrows at Alistair.

"Ready?"

He nodded, glancing at her. "Got the treaties?"

She patted her breast, where paper rustled beneath the leather tunic. It had been decided that the two Wardens would petition the dwarves alone; the denizens of Orzammar were notorious for their mistrust of 'surfacers.' No trouble was expected- the dwarves were not hostile, and they were under obligation to offer assistance during a Blight. Additionally, as Alistair had jovially pointed out earlier, they did not have to worry about demons and abominations like they had encountered at Kinloch Hold– dwarves had no connection to the Fade.

"The Assembly will most likely offer you accommodation tonight, so we will see you in the morning," Wynne informed the both of them as they prepared to head up the stairs. "Good luck."

Alistair and Flora made their way up the stone steps, which led to another isolated section of road. The sun was half-sunk now, bathing the trees around them in shadow. Somewhere amidst the firs, an owl gave a lonely cry.

The young warden glanced sideways at Flora, aware that this was this the first time that they had been truly alone since the upper hall at Redcliffe Castle. Fortunately, a rigid sense of duty overrode his baser urges and he restrained himself to only looking.

"Wynne mentioned something about  _giant spiders,"_ he began, and then stopped abruptly as they both heard something large striding through the trees towards them, branches breaking beneath a substantial weight. Flora reached for her staff as Alistair's fingers tightened around the pommel of his sword.

Sten appeared from the shadows between two pines, his bare and scarred chest bloodied. He was grim-faced and dragging something heavy behind him. His eyes focused on the two Wardens without surprise, as though he had predicted the exact moment and location of their meeting.

"Sten! You should have told us about your secret shortcut," began Flora cheerily, then trailed off when she saw that he was hauling a battered man along by a leg. The man had clearly been bruised and beaten, his face swollen beyond recognition.

"What did this poor sod do to annoy you? I'd like to know so I can avoid repeating his mistake," muttered Alistair as Flora blinked, her eyebrows shooting into her hairline.

Sten slung the man onto the road before them, his expression neutral. The man let out a hoarse groan of pain.

"This man is a bounty hunter," the Qunari stated, voice flat and unchanging. "News of your travels has spread and Mac Tir's reward rises with each passing week. This man and his ilk were preparing an ambush for you. I overhead."

Seeing Alistair lost in the rage that consumed him whenever Loghain's name was mentioned; a pale Flora spoke up instead.

"How do they know who we are?" she asked, glancing down with trepidation at the injured man. Sten swung his booted foot into the man's ribcage, baring his teeth in a snarl.

"Tell him," the Qunari instructed, as the would-be bounty hunter let out a fresh moan of pain.

"Two Wardens," wheezed the man, pausing to cough up red spittle onto the gravelled road. "Bearing the guise of Templar and apostate. He with yellow hair; and she with red."

Flora, momentarily distracted by Sten still referring to her as a man, glanced over at Alistair. He swallowed his anger and returned her stare, with a slight grimace.

"Loghain knows it's us that survived," she said, and he gave a tight nod in reply.

"Even if he suspected before, he somehow knows for sure now. I wonder how he found out?" he mused out loud, as the man let out another moan of pain at their feet.

Flora shrugged, as Sten gazed at them both with impatience glowing in his small, ember-like eyes.

"It matters not," he stated, gesturing abruptly towards the foot of the mountain. "We must continue to Orzammar and conclude business with the dwarves."

Flora nodded mutedly, eyeing the battered man with mingled resentment and sympathy. As she was about to suggest healing him and letting him go, Sten reached down and twisted his head with violent efficiency. There was a loud crack as the bounty hunter's neck broke and she winced, looking away.

Alistair, who had no time for bounty hunters or assassins, nudged her.

"Come on, let's go and get the dwarves," he muttered as Sten fell into step behind them, like a vast and silent shadow. "The larger the army at our backs, the more we have to challenge Loghain with."

"The army is for the  _Darkspawn_ ," Flora reminded him with a reproachful look, and he sighed, giving a begrudging nod.

The three of them walked on in silence until they came to another set of zig-zagging stone steps, hewn roughly into the rock itself. Flora distracted herself from her aching knee by directing a question to the Qunari, as he ascended the steps behind them.

"So, I heard you refer to me as  _him_ earlier," she said lightly, using her staff to help propel herself upwards. "Do you still think of me as a man?"

Sten glanced up at her for a moment, his brow creasing.

"Of course," he replied, effortlessly overtaking her. "You cannot change what you are."

Flora beamed, amused at the thought of herself as a man. To her relief, the steps ended abruptly at the lip of a sweeping stone plateau. Several merchant stalls were clustered against the rocky cliffs, mostly occupied by dwarves. A large circular sundial decorated the centre of the plateau, around which several other dwarves were clustered. Red banners fluttered in the wind, their edges tattered. At the base of the mountain, a vast pair of stone doors had been cut into the rock itself, topped with a vast relief of crossed hammers. Dwarven sentries in gilded armour stood guard at either side; blocking the path of several armed humans, who appeared to be mid-argument.

Despite himself, Alistair was impressed. He had seen Dwarven architecture before when Duncan had taken him to a Deep Roads entranceway, but never on such a vast scale. Even from this distance, the smell of burning coals drifted through the cool air.

"Why do they need such big doors when they're so short?" asked Flora, her concerns more prosaic. Alistair grinned at her, hazel eyes flashing.

"Don't know. Maybe they're compensating for something?"

As Flora snickered like a Chantry boy hearing his first lewd joke, Sten remained silent, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

They crossed the plateau towards the vast stone doors, drawing closer to the petitioners as they clustered around the impassive dwarven sentries. One of the three humans appeared to be a mage; while the others were clad in armour and bore swords. As the Wardens approached, one dark-haired man's voice rose indignantly above the rest.

"Do you think I care about your petty  _deshyr_ squabbles? I am Imrek, ambassador to King Loghain, and I demand an audience with the blasted Assembly!"

The sentries stood impassive while an older dwarf in a gold-threaded tunic shook his head, irritably. The Wardens and Sten drew close enough to hear the response he gave.

"Do you think we care about your so-called King, when our own King Aeducan is so recently returned to the Stone and factions vie for power in the wake of his death?"

"King Loghain demands that the dwarves show their loyalty!" insisted the man who had named himself as Imrek. "You  _will_ allow us entry!"

The dwarf in the elaborate tunic scratched his beard, while the sentries looked on.

"I have said no to you for a week, what makes you so certain that I will now say yes?" he replied quietly, to which Imrek let out a loud growl of frustration.

"Did you say  _King_ Loghain?!" interrupted Alistair, his jaw dropping. Both parties turned to look at him, the finely-attired dwarf letting out a groan of disbelief.

"Not  _more_ would-be guests," he muttered, shaking his head. "Stone, why do you now send me turmoil outside the city as well as within?"

Flora reached inside her shirt and brought out a sheaf of parchment. As she shuffled through the papers, distinguishing them by their differing seals, she reflected that in hindsight it would have been a good idea to place the dwarven contract at the top. After accidentally dropping them at the gaping Imrek's feet and having to hastily gather the pages back up; she thrust the parchment with the crossed-hammer seal towards the dwarf.

"We need to see the King, or- " She faltered, recalling the dwarf's earlier statement about their former leader  _returning to the Stone,_ which sounded ominously final. "Or, um- his successor."

The dwarf in the gold braid tunic leaned forward, bringing a magnifying lens to his eye and peering at the document. After a moment, he gave a reluctant nod.

"This permits you to seek an audience with the Royal Assembly. In the wake of the King's death, I am not sure what aid they will be able to offer, but… you are entitled to try."

Loghain's man, Imrek, let out a guffaw of disbelief.

"Maker, are you toying with me?" he interjected tightly. "You're letting these inside? What manner of papers  _are_ those?"

Flora glanced at Alistair, but he appeared frozen in place; mind working frantically behind a rictus expression, dissecting the implications of  _King Loghain._

"These are Warden treaties," she said, ignoring Sten's grunt of disbelief. "We're building an army against the Darkspawn. There's a Blight."

Imrek let out a long hiss between his teeth; his men visibly reaching for their weapons. This was enough to jolt Alistair from his preoccupation, as he also reflexively placed his fingers on the hilt of his sword.

"Perfect: humans squabbling on my doorstep," muttered the dwarf, throwing up his hands and retreating out of harm's way. "I just had these flagstones washed."

"The Grey Wardens are traitors," muttered Imrek, his dark eyes blazing. "They left King Cailan to die on the field at Ostagar."

"Actually, your man Loghain left King Cailan to die on the field- " began Flora, but was interrupted by the man raising a hand.

"Lying  _bitch!"_

As he attempted to strike her in the face, she brought up the gleaming barrier in a heartbeat and thrust it outwards, sending him staggering back. Immediately Imrek's mage raised his staff, only to get bodily tackled by Sten. Alistair drew his sword, his mouth falling open in outrage.

" _What_  did you just call her?" he demanded, then brought his shield up just in time to block a heavy two-handed swing from Loghain's ambassador. Flora, fumbling for her staff, brought the wooden end down hard on the second soldier's head, then thrust out a hand to shield Sten from the mage's sudden burst of flame.

Alistair, who had both superior strength and youth on his side, was able to knock Imrek's blade from his hands in seconds. Holding the tip of his sword at the kneeling man's throat, he nudged it forward slightly.

"Yield and apologise," he murmured, while Sten used the protection of the barrier to freely thump the mage's head against the stone steps.

The second soldier hovered in place, eyeing Flora with panicked suspicion, his raised blade trembling. She shrugged mildly, openly inviting him to make an attempt on her. Wisely the man thought better of it; instead, he turned his back and fled towards the safety of the market stalls.

"I said, yield and apologise," repeated Alistair, steel entering his tone. Loghain's ambassador let out a groan, then raised his hands in surrender, letting his weapon drop.

"I yield," he muttered, then yelped as Alistair dug the point of the sword in a little harder.

"And?"

" _I'm sorry_!"

A slightly relieved Alistair raised the tip of his sword to allow the trembling Imrek to clamber to his feet. Despite his bravado, the young Warden had not wanted to kill someone who was only following the orders of a deceitful superior.

"Go back to Loghain," he muttered, letting the man stumble away "Tell him his time on Ferelden's throne is running out."

Flora waved at Imrek's back as he staggered down the steps, leaving his unconscious mage at Sten's feet. She turned back to the finely-dressed dwarf, stuffing the treaties back inside her shirt, having fought one-handed for the duration of the altercation.

"So can we go and see your Assembly then?" she asked, and the dwarf let out a sigh.

"For all the good it'll do you, I suppose so."

The silent sentries stepped to one side to allow them to pass. The dwarf pushed against an embedded stone panel in the base of the vast door, cunningly disguised to appear invisible from a distance. A smaller door swung inwards, and he gestured for them to enter.

"I am Farric, gatekeeper to the Hall. I'll escort you to the Guard-Captain so he can process your mage."

Flora's smile faltered slightly, and she and Alistair glanced at one another. Then Sten gave an impatient cough from behind, and after a quick glance at the fading daylight, Flora hastily stepped into the red-tinted shadows.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: This was a fun chapter to write – I needed to show Sten some more attention, and I think he'll enjoy a trip into the Deep Roads (not). Anyway…. I couldn't resist sneaking in the Isolde impression by Alistair. TEEEEGAN


	47. Orzammar

Chapter 47: Orzammar

They emerged into a high-ceilinged hall, vaulted and ancient, lined with stone pillars wider than Ferelden's oldest trees. Narrow channels were carved into the floor itself, carrying streams of molten metal that served as both ornamentation and a source of light. Torches also blazed in elaborate sconces affixed to the walls. Between the pillars stood vast statues of dwarves holding various tools- four men and two women were depicted in total. Upon each statue's base was a bronze engraved plaque.

"Orzammar's Hall of Heroes," stated their guide proudly, his voice echoing around the vaulted ceiling. "Impressive, no?"

Sten, who cared not for diplomacy, was about to reply in the negative. Alistair shot him a pointed look and shook his head slightly.

"It is very impressive," the male Warden replied, coughing slightly. There was a faint smell of burning on the air, the same metallic tinge that belched from any smithy forge. "Quite warm, though. Don't you ever get a bit…  _sweaty_?"

"The Stone's embrace is always warm," replied Farric, as Flora squinted down at one of the bronze plaques. "And these are statues of our noble Paragons- dwarves who have made great contributions to our society."

"C-A-R-I-D-I-N," recited Flora, who had been diligently studying her letters during their journey. Farric nodded, bowing his head reverently as he gazed up at the statue's stern and impassive face.

"That is Paragon Caridin, First-Of-His-Name. He's got a connection to you Wardens, actually. Created a golem army using a special anvil to defend against the First Blight, centuries ago."

"I've never heard of golems," breathed Flora, following Farric down the centre of the hall. Alistair, wishing that he wasn't wearing such tight-fitting mail, followed behind with a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. Sten continued to look thoroughly unimpressed.

"Only the lowest creatures make their home in the ground," the Qunari stated as they waited at the rear end of the hall for Farric to consult with the Guard-Captain. "Worms, rats. Darkspawn."

"Ssh," hissed Alistair, frowning up at the stoic-faced man. "We're meant to be asking for their help.

"B-R-A-N- " began Flora as she squinted down at the bronze plaque at the base of a female dwarven statue. Alistair narrowed his eyes at the engraving.

"-K-A. Branka," he finished, as Farric returned with a second heavily armoured dwarf.

"Ah, Stone keep her safe," murmured Farric, glancing up at the woman's stern face. "And hopefully, return her to us someday. Two years she's been gone."

He did not elaborate further, but turned to the Guard-Captain. The dwarf stepped forward, his eyes fixated on Flora's staff.

"Now, you two lads are alright" he grunted, as Sten's nostrils flared at being referred to as a  _lad._ "We like fighters here. Warrior caste is the strong arm of Orzammar society, just as the smiths are its beating heart. But  _you_ , lassie- "

Flora dutifully lowered her eyes, used to being inherently mistrusted. The Guard-Captain sighed, producing something from behind his back.

"Well, as you know, we dwarves have no magic. And no way to defend ourselves against it, see? So- you'll need to be restrained before we let you wander freely around our city. No casting. We'll need to confiscate your staff, and..."

He held out a pair of iron handcuffs.

Alistair was outraged on Flora's behalf.

"This is ridiculous!" he protested, even as Flora unslung her staff from her shoulder. "She's a healer."

"Be that as it may, she must adhere to our rules for as long as she walks our streets," admonished Farric sternly, taking the plain length of wood.

"It's fine," muttered Flora, turning to allow the Guard-Captain to snap the cuffs shut around her wrists, clamping them behind her back. "It's a city, it'll be safe."

"A city in the midst of civil war, it sounds like," hissed Alistair, looking more unhappy by the second.

"You are permitted to take them off when speaking to the Assembly, or in private rooms," the dwarf replied, handing the key to Sten who took it wordlessly. "If you are seen in public without them on, you will be detained and questioned."

"It's just for a bit," Flora mumbled placatingly as Alistair cursed under his breath. "We need their help."

"This is ridiculous," he complained, his hand reaching for her shoulder. "She's a Warden and should be treated with respect, not bound like chattel."

"She's a _mage_ , and therefore dangerous," countered Farric, raising his bristling eyebrows. "And since she  _is_ a Warden, we have not used the customary gag, to prevent the speaking of spells."

"Maker!" exclaimed Alistair as Flora interjected quickly.

"Thank you for your assistance," she said replied politely, with the same sweet and patient smile she had used on Isolde. Muttering under his breath, Farric led them through another set of stone doors.

They emerged into a gargantuan cavern, as if the entire inside of the mountain had been hollowed out and used as a supporting structure. Clusters of buildings had been constructed on a series of stone shelves, in clearly defined tiers. Carved pillars and buttresses provided additional support for the higher ledges. Despite the dizzying height and mass of the construction, it appeared ancient and unshakable. Below them, a vast pool of molten liquid glowed a bright yellow; like some inverted sun.

Squat iron braziers provided additional sources of light, dotted along the curving stone ledge between various mercantile stalls. Buildings were hewn into the face of the rock wall itself, different varieties of signage indicating shops, taverns and dwellings. Beneath the calls of shopkeepers and chatter of commoners, was the constant undercurrent of the forge in action. It was primal, stark and utterly magnificent.

Alistair and Flora both stood gaping, stopped in their tracks by sheer awe. Even Sten allowed a grudging flicker of admiration to cross his features, before his expression quickly retrieved to a state of unamused neutrality.

"I can't believe this is real," breathed Flora, her grey eyes wide with disbelief. "How can such a place be real? Pinch me so I know I'm not in the Fade."

Sten reached out and pinched her arm, hard enough to leave a bruise. She yelped, shuffling away hastily.

"Alright, I'm convinced!"

"Topsiders often react this way when they see the wonders of Orzammar for the first time," stated Farric proudly. "And they wonder why we do not wish to leave- "

He was interrupted by the sound of raised voices. Preoccupied by the vastness of the space and the rising tiers of the dwarven city, they had not initially noticed the confrontation that they had stumbled into.

Two groups of dwarves faced each other in front of a frightened merchant, both clad in the garb of nobles. One group wore red sashes, while the other bore blue cloth badges upon their silken chests. Farric groaned under his breath, withdrawing hastily to retrieve the Guard-Captain.

"Lord Harrowmont is a mere pretender to the throne!" yelled one dwarf in a red sash, his fist rising in the air. "He speaks soft words while plotting usurpation!"

"Bhelen is the true usurper here," hissed back a bearded dwarf from the opposing faction. "Have you not heard the rumours that he assisted the King's return to the Stone?"

"Lies! Lies and slander!" snarled back the first dwarf, and before anyone else could react, a dagger flashed through the air. Flora reflexively went to raise her hands, but succeeded only in rattling the manacles behind her back. The blade sunk deep into the chest of the bearded dwarf, plunging straight through the blue badge and into his heart.

The red-sashed dwarves ran, including the perpetrator of the murder. After a few curses, the blue-badged contingent fled in the opposite direction. The merchant trapped behind them let out a moan as the body of the dwarf leaked dark scarlet over the stone floor.

Flora went to the victim and awkwardly dropped to her knees, without much hope. After a moment, she shook her head, with a helpless shrug.

"I can't do anything," she mumbled, as Farric re-emerged with the Guard-Captain. "He's dead."

The Guard-Captian let out a growl of frustration as he came alongside her to inspect the corpse. Flora glanced up at him.

"If I'd had my hands free, I could've shielded him. Just saying," she added hastily, as the dwarf glowered down at her. Farric caught sight of the now bloodied blue badge, and let out a sigh.

"That's one of Lord Harrowmont's men. You should put extra guards near his estate tonight; there's bound to be a reprisal from Bhelen's men."

Alistair groaned, avoiding the spreading puddle of blood as he crossed over to Flora. With her bound hands and travel-sore knee, she was having some difficulty clambering back up. Reaching down, he helped haul her to her feet.

"Why can't anything just be simple?" he complained. "I think Wynne must be right: the Maker  _is_ toying with us."

"I'm sorry that you should find us torn by factional rivalry," the gatekeeper replied with a shrug, as a small crowd of commoners gathered around the body, muttering darkly. From their general lack of surprise, it appeared that politically inspired violence was not an infrequent occurrence.

"Anyway, the Assembly will be closed by now. You should get some rest, sample some of our dwarven ale. There's a tavern on the east side of the Commons that won't rip topsiders off  _too_ much. Good luck with your petition tomorrow."

With that, Farric left them as the Guard-Captain began to disperse the muttering crowds.

"Typical  _deshyr;_ spilling blood in the Commons rather than in their precious Diamond Quarter. Leaving us to clean up their mess, as always," grumbled one, patting the distraught merchant on the shoulder.

Sten shouldered his weapon and glanced down at the two of them with customary disapproval.

"I am going to find a whetstone and retire to this tavern," he stated bluntly. "I suggest that you do not get intoxicated or caught up in political squabbles. Or- " here, his eyes fell on Flora. "Cause a  _public disturbance_."

"Why am  _I_ more likely to cause a public disturbance?!" demanded Flora, addressing the Qunari's back as he wove his way through the gawking crowd. Alistair let out a sigh, leading her out of the gathering throng. Rumours appeared to spread fast through the dwarven Commons; whispers of  _Grey Wardens_ followed in their wake.

"I wish Duncan was here," Alistair said suddenly, peering over the ledge to the vast pool of molten metal below. Despite the lengthy drop, the rising heat was so intense that he felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "I bet if he was here, the Assembly would see him tonight."

Flora shrugged, watching him flick a small stone shard into the man made caldera.

"I wish he was here too," she replied, giving a small shrug as best. "But we have to do the best we can without him. We'll see the Assembly tomorrow and make them help us."

"Yes, Warden-Commander." Alistair gave her a mock salute and she let out a cackle almost as loud as the one she gave in response to Wynne's comment about becoming Queen.

"Don't make fun of me. Then we get the elves, get an army, punch Loghain in the face and kill the Archdemon. Maybe not in that order."

"I'd do a lot more than punch his face," muttered Alistair grimly, but cheered by this notion. They began to meander around the perimeter of the Commons, while Alistair elaborated in highly graphic detail what he would do to Loghain given the chance. Flora listened with a grimace, partially appalled and partially impressed by the breadth and creativity of his ideas. Her arms, still pinned behind her back, were beginning to cramp.

Alistair's description of what he would then do with Loghain's remains took them past several market stalls, a half-dozen dwellings hewn into the rock face, and a nug trader's chaotic stand. There seemed to be forges and fires everywhere, interspersed between buildings and stalls, some attended but many left to smoulder.

"And finally his manhood,  _or lack of it,_ I'd- "

The tantalising smell of roasting meat was enough to halt Alistair midway through his graphic spiel. Flora, with finely attuned senses, immediately honed in on the source – a cook shop set into the rockface. Behind the stone counter, meat sizzled on an open grill.

"How much?" Alistair asked, approaching the female cook and gesturing to the skewers. The dwarf eyed them both, blonde hair caught up in two tight coils beside her ears.

"For Grey Wardens? No charge!" she announced, handing him two skewers. "Orzammar is behind you and your cause."

Delighted, Flora bowed her head gratefully. Even Alistair looked impressed, if slightly bewildered, as they continued on their way around the Commons perimeter. They passed a group of dwarves, slightly drunk, enthusiastically placing bets on the outcome of something called a  _Proving._

"Gossip spreads faster here than through the Chantry sisters," he commented, taking a bite of one skewer and holding the other out to Flora. She leaned forward and took a bite, mumbling agreement through a full mouth.

"Mmph- or through the Circle."

"Did you say the  _Circle?!_ " A young redheaded dwarf approached with a wide smile across her face. "You did, didn't you? Have you ever- "

Her pale green eyes fell on Flora's hands, bound behind her back, and widened imperceptibly.

"You're a  _mage,_ aren't you?! I recognise those bindings. Are you from the Circle?"

"I lived there for a while, but I'm a Warden now," replied Flora, as the girl practically capered with joy.

"I knew it! I knew it! I'm Dagna. I've been studying magic since I've been little, and I want nothing more than to go to the Tower- I'm reading a book on ancient Tevinter runecraft at the moment and it's absolutely  _fascinating_."

As the dwarven girl prattled on with careless enthusiasm, Flora gazed at her and realised that they were probably the same age; both just shy of two decades. She felt a twinge of sadness at the gulf that divided them – the careless girl caught up in her own selfish dreams, hopes and boundless enthusiasm; and herself, the Warden upon whose shoulders the fate of Ferelden rested.

"But dwarves can't do magic," said Alistair, scratching the back of his head in bemusement as Flora stared off unhelpfully into space. "You can't become a mage."

"I can still study certain parts of it!" replied Dagna, obstinately. "Potion making, rune crafting, enchantments… please could you put in a good word for me at the Circle?"

Alistair elbowed a quieter Flora, who blinked and gave a slightly introspective nod.

"Yes, of course," she mumbled. "Dagna. Got it."

As they neared the end of the ledge, the terrain became rockier and less defined. Various abandoned mining equipment, from carts to shovels, were scattered beside the rock face. Alistair nudged the still brooding Flora gently, drawing to a halt.

"Are you alright? You're suspiciously quiet."

"Oh," she replied, blinking. "Sorry, I was just – wondering. About things. How they might have turned out differently."

Alistair gazed at her and didn't need to question any further; her grey eyes were as clear to read as inked words on parchment. He paused, then reached up a hand, rubbing a thumb over her cheekbone affectionately.

"My dear," he murmured, tracing the fine-hewn outline of her chin. "I would go through my whole life again –everything, bad and good, and make the exact same choices, because they've all led me to this moment, standing here with you."

He leaned forward and kissed her gently, on the mouth. It was brief and soft, the kind of kiss that a parent might settle on a child's forehead, more comforting than passionate. Yet it felt equitable to any of their previous kisses simply because it was  _public_ , illuminated by blazing firelight instead of being wreathed in shadow. And although they were surrounded by strangers, dwarves who barely took any notice, the openness of it somehow felt momentous, as though they had taken a great step forward together into unknown territory.

In the reflected light of the molten metal, he could see a flush rising to her cheeks as he drew back. He smiled down at her, and she grinned back up at him, shy and pleased.

"Can't you picture Sten watching us with some Qunari spy lens, ready to report back to Wynne?" she breathed ominously and he laughed, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and kissing the top of her head.

Then they both felt it, a sinister magnetic pulse that rolled up from the rock below their feet, a lure that neither could ignore. Insidious and subtle, it fixed itself in the brain like a hook, pulling inextricably downwards.

"Darkspawn," breathed Alistair, glancing around them. "But where?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I love the whole underground aesthetic of Orzammar (which I definitely spelled ORZHAMMAR for about a million updates, oops). Although you suffer no penalties for being a mage in-game, I used a bit of creative license to envision that actually, dwarves might apply sanctions to visiting mages. The political/factional rivalry stuff is also fascinating to me as a historian. I wish we got more in-game lore on it!


	48. Tapster's Tavern

Chapter 48: Tapster's Tavern

Flora glanced around them with some trepidation, as if expecting a swarm of Hurlocks to burst from the stone dwellings.

"There must be a Deep Roads entrance within the city," muttered Alistair, putting a hand to his head.

Almost as quickly as it had come, the call dissolved away, leaving only a faint persistent twinge in the back of the mind. Flora squinted at the shadowed rockface ahead, where there were no dwellings or market stalls. Instead, dwarven sentries were silhouetted against the stone ediface, standing guard before a cavernous dark entrance.

They approached, and the dwarven patrol stiffened slightly. Several pairs of eyes dropped to where Flora's hands were still cuffed behind her back.

"Hold," said their leader guardedly, his mouth nearly hidden beneath an impressively braided moustache. "There's no patrol scheduled for tonight in the Deep Roads. No one is allowed in there until the morning."

"Dwarves are going  _in_ there?" asked Flora in disbelief, as the mine commander gave a slight incline of the head in response.

"Aye, lassie. Ostensibly to search for the lost Paragon Branka, though I'd surmise that many also intend to scour the old thaigs for artefacts."

"Pilfering our heritage, Ancestors damn them," muttered another dwarf, his tone bitter. Flora thought back to the statue of the mysterious _Branka_  in the Hall of Heroes, while Alistair frowned, shifting the weight of his shield on his back.

"Aren't they worried about the Darkspawn?" he asked, recalling the unnatural twinge at the back of his mind that indicated their tainted presence.

The mine commander gave a shrug.

"The tunnels aren't as swarming as they would normally be. I assume they've dug further down, beyond the older thaigs."

"Or they're on the surface," replied Alistair, his tone measured. The dwarf shook his head, moustache bristling as he glanced at the dark cave entrance.

"No, lad, the Darkspawn always dig downwards. The only time they go to the Surface is… if there's a Blight."

His voice trailed off as he looked back at the two humans, eyes widening in sudden realisation. Alistair gave a slight nod, and the dwarf paled.

"Stone save us all," he muttered, while his companions shifted and glanced nervously at one another. "So I assume you're Wardens, then. I suppose if you wanted to go into the Deep Roads, I'll not be stopping you."

"We don't," replied Flora hastily, while Alistair nodded in agreement. "We're just here to petition the Assembly for help."

The mine commander spat onto the dusty rock, contemptuously.

"Good luck getting the  _deshyr_ to see reason," he muttered, as Flora eyed him warily. "They're more concerned with their power struggles than with Surface problems."

* * *

 

Following the guard captain's directions, Flora and Alistair made their way back around the perimeter of the Commons, towards the tavern which claimed to only slightly overcharge 'topsiders'. Although both of them were now yawning and it must have been late evening, there was no change in the city's light levels to reflect the encroaching night. The channels of molten metal gave off a constant reddish glow, regardless of hour.

Tapster's Tavern was set into the stone cliffs of the Commons' eastern wing, squat and solid. There were two dwarves sprawled and snoring on the steps, the reek of ale emanating from stained clothing. Flora edged around them cautiously, lacking her usual sense of balance due to the handcuffs restricting her hands. Alistair held the door open; and then both Wardens came to a halt as they had their first view of a dwarven tavern. Fortunately for Alistair, the dwarves favoured high and vaulted architecture, and so he did not need to stoop. Stalactites drooped from the ceiling, like stone fingers pointing towards the flagstones.

Buxom waitresses weaved around drunken patrons with raised trays, collecting empties and distributing fresh tankards. Every seat was occupied by men and women alike, while alcohol-tinged laughter filled the air. On a raised stage, a patron was howling a song about his burning desire to become a  _Paragon of Drinking._ In the opposite corner, a dwarf clad in noble attire held court, waving his tankard to emphasis his meandering point. Ale splashed onto his rapt attendants, who either did not notice or did not care.

A gaping Flora followed Alistair as he nudged his way cautiously through the crowded tavern, heading towards the bar. After almost slipping on a puddle of spilt alcohol, she hastened to catch him up. He ordered a small helping of the weakest ale for himself, and water for Flora. After enquiring if he  _really_ intended to make that order, the barmaid shot them both a contemptuous look, and sullenly went to fulfil his request.

"So, you're the Wardens then," murmured a voice from beside them, unusual in that it sounded only slightly intoxicated. Flora turned to see a dark-haired dwarf draining the last drops from a large tankard. Dropping it on the bar with a clatter, he inclined his head in greeting, nearly falling from the barstool.

"I like Wardens," he said indistinctly. Flora lowered her face to the pewter cup of water as it sat on the bar, unable to lift it to her mouth.

"Met a few of them on Deep Roads expeditions in the past. Including the top one- now, what was his name? Doona, Dunning…"

"Duncan," muttered Alistair in a strained voice, gazing at him intently as Flora raised her face from the cup. "You met  _Duncan_ in the Deep Roads?"

"Aye, lad," replied the dwarf, a hiccup escaping his half-open mouth. "Never saw anyone fight like that before. Watched him take down a half-dozen Darkspawn singlehandedly. Saved our skins, if I'm honest."

Alistair nodded, feeling the old grief surface once more in his chest.

"That sounds like the Warden-Commander," he murmured, a raw edge to his tone. The tavern seemed to darken around him as Loghain's betrayal and Duncan's death left a bitter taste in his mouth. Anger surging up from his stomach like bile, he downed the tankard in several gulps.

Flora, who had noticed the shadow growing in Alistair's eyes, could not put a hand on his arm to comfort him. Instead, she leaned forward slightly on the barstool and rested her forehead against his mail-clad shoulder. After a few moments, he felt the pressure and reached up a hand to touch her head, fingers sliding through thick, ropelike strands of hair.

"I wouldn't mind a few Wardens to accompany us on this foolhardy mission tomorrow," the dwarf muttered, sliding a coin across the bar in exchange for another tankard of ale. "Bhelen's mad if he thinks the Paragon could still be alive after two years. No, he'll end up killing us all in the Deep Roads, on this foolhardy mission."

They left him to his ominous muttering, the barmaid gesturing them towards a side corridor. She had informed them that the Qunari had already retired to his room, one of the two at the very end of the passage.

Alistair was the only one capable of knocking and did so tentatively, eyeing the wooden door with some trepidation. Sten answered after a few moments, ducking down to peer through the doorway. Alistair, at six foot, was able to move comfortably within dwarven architecture; but the seven foot Qunari was clearly just too large. A dark bruise on his temple indicated that he had already fallen victim to the ceiling beams.

"Do you mind…?" Alistair ventured, gesturing towards Flora, who turned around obediently. Wordlessly, Sten retrieved the key and used it to release the cuffs. As Alistair took the manacles from him, Flora stretched her arms with a grimace of relief.

"So we'll go to petition the Assembly first thing tomorrow morning," Alistair stated, as the Qunari gazed at him impassively.

"After breakfast," clarified Flora, inspecting the reddened flesh where the manacles had dug into her skin. She followed Alistair across the passage to the room opposite, which the barmaid had informed them was theirs. It was identical to Sten's; a small, square chamber with a fireplace, all furnishings appearing to be carved from stone.

To Flora's relief when she went to sit on it, a pallet mattress and blankets rested on top of the narrow stone bed. Pulling off her boots one at a time, she yawned, absentmindedly running her fingers over the sores on her wrists. As golden light flowed from her nail beds, the reddened skin healed in seconds.

"It's boiling in here," she mumbled, eyeing the lit fire balefully. "I don't know why they even bother with fireplaces."

Alistair was sitting next to her in his tunic, having taken off his mail surcoat on entering the room. When he made no reply, she glanced sideways at him. He was staring at the wall, although his eyes were distant. The hazel irises appeared bruised, shadowed and sad. His jaw, the one likeness he shared with Cailan, was rigid.

Flora gazed at him anxiously, knowing full well what had brought on this melancholy. She had seen him flinch as though struck when the dwarf had brought up Duncan in the tavern.

"I keep dreaming about how he died," Alistair said suddenly, his voice hollow. She listened, feeling her heart beating rapidly within her ribcage like a trapped bird.

"Not about him being killed by Darkspawn," he clarified with some difficulty. "I mean- how he must have died…without hope. Knowing that the Wardens were gone, that the Blight was going to spread unchecked. That he was the Warden-Commander who had failed Ferelden."

His voice faltered slightly and he grimaced, gazing down at his clenched fingers. Flora paused for a moment, then shook her head confidently. Wrapping a slender arm around his neck, she rested her chin on his shoulder.

"Do you know," she whispered in his ear, her breath light against his skin. "I don't think that's how it went at all."

Alistair twisted his head to stare at her and she gazed back at him, her grey eyes as clear and bright as mirrors.

"You don't?" he asked, and the raw hope there was painful to hear. She shook her head, determinedly.

"I think Duncan knew that if anyone was going to survive Ostagar, it was me and you," she said, quietly. "I think that he died knowing that we would live, and that we would do  _exactly_  what we're doing now. Building an army to take the Darkspawn on. Preparing to challenge the Archdemon. I think he died full of hope."

He stared at her, his hazel eyes searching her face and finding no doubt there.

"You really think so?" he asked her, and she nodded, assuredly. The corners of her mouth turned upwards, and she smiled at him.

"I  _know_  it," she replied, and he received her words like a benediction, feeling a wave of sadness and release wash over him. Reaching out, he took her chin in his hand, stroking her cheek with gentle calloused fingers.

"If anyone deserves a place on the  _Peraquialus_ sailing the stars for all eternity, it's our Commander," she whispered, her grey eyes searching his own. "I can picture him up there, looking down at us. And he feels no hopelessness, only  _pride_."

Alistair stared down at her solemn, lovely features for a long beat. All of a sudden, he realised that he was in love with her; and that he had been in love with her for some time.

Feeling his mind lurch, he wondered unsteadily when the exact moment that she became something _more_  than just sister-warden to him had been.

_Was it when they had first entwined their fingers at night, or when she had impulsively embraced him in Lothering's Chantry? Perhaps even earlier, when she had thrust the treaties defiantly in the air outside Flemeth's hut and announced that they were going to build an army? Or maybe it was when she strode into Lake Calanhad, threatening to swim to the Circle Tower to reach the mages and obtain their aid._

Flora gazed anxiously up at him, wondering if she had been presumptuous in her confident declaration about Duncan's final thoughts. Her brother-warden looked as though he had seen a ghost, staring wide-eyed into space over her shoulder.

"Alistair?" she whispered and he blinked, as though she had roused him from a waking dream. He gazed at her in bewilderment, and Flora scowled.

"Why are you looking at me like I've grown a third head?" she muttered, as he gaped at her, dumbstruck. "Is Morrigan behind me or some- ?"

He reached out and placed his calloused fingertip on her lower lip, stopping her abruptly mid-sentence. She stared at him curiously, watched him take a deep and steadying breath.

"Flo, I… "

He didn't know how to say it, and so he kissed her instead; hoping lips and tongue could communicate the depth of his feeling in a more primitive way. She opened her mouth to his, yielding to his desperation-fuelled desire, fingers reaching to smooth his rumpled hair. Then – he wasn't quite sure how – he was on  _top_  of her; his mouth seeking out her neck as though he was a starving man whose hunger could only be satiated by her skin. He groaned against her collarbone, feeling her body moulding into the angles of his own as he pushed himself clumsily against her. It was at once strange and familiar, base instinct alone propelling him onwards.

Just then the wooden door, which they had neglected to lock, flew open with a bang against the stone. Sten stormed in with a dark glower, his cinder-toned eyes focused on the two of them.

Flora recoiled and hit her head against the stone wall, while Alistair fell off the bed entirely.

"The senior enchanter warned that you could become sidetracked from your mission," he stated as Alistair let out a loud groan from the rug. "I was listening and heard suspicious noises."

The Qunari glanced down at Alistair, unimpressed. Alistair flushed, but stared back defiantly.

"Right, that's  _very_  creepy."

"I will ensure that you remain focused on our mutual goal. With  _no_  distractions," Sten continued as Flora grumbled, rubbing the back of her skull. Sten proceeded to lie down on the stone floor in front of the fireplace, flat on his back.

"Really?" asked Alistair, still dumbstruck at the sudden turn of events. " _That's_ where you're going to sleep?"

From his feet, the Qunari shot him a malevolent look.

"I already have severe doubts about the competency of you both. This only serves to confirm my mistrust."

Flora cupped her chin in her hand and peered down at the Qunari, curiously. The next moment, she thrust one of the blankets down on top of him; it landed on his face. He removed it, staring up at her.

"You are very annoying," he informed her, as Flora beamed. "I dislike you intensely."

The next moment, he had used the blanket to smother the dying flames, plunging the room into darkness. Alistair, clawing himself to his feet and nearly tripping over their tangled boots, clambered onto the narrow bed. Flora had huddled against the wall with her back pressed to the stone; he could see her face illuminated by the embers in the grate. From the shadowed contortions of her mouth, it appeared that she was trying not to laugh. She held out an arm and he slid beneath the blanket alongside her, drawing her close to him. From the gentle quivering of her body, he could feel that she  _was_  laughing, her face pressed against his shoulder.

"If either of you have a biological need to service, I suggest you visit a specialist provider. I do not know the word in your language." Sten's voice drifted out of the darkness and Alistair gaped silently. Flora ground her face even harder against his shoulder, letting out a muffled snort.

"I think we're fine, thanks," Alistair muttered, resting his chin on top of his sister-warden's head. Her hand reached for his and their fingers wound together reflexively. He felt her yawn against his chest and gripped her more tightly, pulling the blanket up over them.

"'Night, Flo."

"'Night, Alistair. ' _Night Sten!_ "

The Qunari pointedly ignored her, rolling over to turn his back on the bed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Another short-ish chapter, but I didn't want to randomly shove the Assembly stuff in with this, since I think it's important. I also don't know exactly when Alistair would have fallen in love with his sister-warden; it did take nearly thirty chapters for him to even kiss her (!) It had better not take another thirty chapters before he actually gets the guts to tell her how he feels. I think the part of this chapter I enjoyed writing the most was Flora's theory about Duncan being on the Peraquialus (I hope I spelt that right), the constellation in the shape of a ship. It's a bit of a Herring legend that the bravest fishermen get to ride on this ship in the stars for all eternity, and Flora definitely would award Duncan a place on board. I think she just feels comforted by the notion that he is somewhere out there, watching over them.


	49. The Noble Deshyr of Orzammar

Chapter 49: The Noble Deshyr of Orzammar

They woke early the next morning, Sten rousing first to practise his customary meditation. Once finished, the sight of the two Wardens whispering quietly together beneath the blankets filled him with irritation, and he reached out to shake Alistair with uncaring roughness.

"It is time to awaken. The Assembly opens soon."

Alistair groaned, sitting up and feeling the small of his back throbbing. The thin pallet had not disguised the bed's stone base, which had not proven to be a comfortable place to rest. Beside him, his sister-warden yawned, rubbing the sleep blearily from her eyes.

"How do you know it's even  _time to awaken,_ anyway _?"_  Alistair mumbled, as Flora swung her legs over the stone ledge with a grimace. "It could be the middle of the night. We can't see the sky!"

The Qunari eyed him, deeply unimpressed.

"My body is fully attuned to the passage of time," he stated bluntly, eyeing Alistair as though the young Warden had the mental capacity of a small child.

They washed separately in the tiled washroom at the end of the passage. Despite the ubiquitous presence of molten metal, forges and other sources of heat; the only water provided came straight from an underground spring and was frigid.

The main tavern was half-full despite the early hour, eliciting another scowl of disapproval from Sten. Only Flora, whose hair was knotted in a damp bundle at the side of her neck, was in the mood for breakfast. Alistair, in between gulps of weak ale, brought spoonfuls of broth carefully up to her face. She opened her mouth dutifully to receive them, her hands once again cuffed behind her back. Sten began to pace the confines of the tavern, only stopping after accidentally striking his head on a low beam.

The barmaid pointed them in the direction of the so-called Diamond Quarter, the upper level of the city where the Assembly was located.

"Aye, they're no bigger than us and yet their doors are twice as large, you can't miss 'em," she said scornfully, removing Flora's empty bowl. "Alternately, just follow the stink of pretension."

* * *

 

The Commons was bustling with activity, every market stall occupied; throngs of dwarves milling around either haggling or haranguing the merchants. More still were gossiping, curious eyes following the progress of the two Wardens and the Qunari as they made their way around the perimeter. Although Flora's cuffed hands initially drew sidelong glances of suspicion, the muttering soon began to coalesce around the phrase  _Grey Wardens._

Alistair had travelled with Duncan extensively enough that he was used to the attention that being a Warden brought. He was not unfamiliar with the quick, darting glances, the more blatant staring and the just-about unintelligible whispering that followed in their wake.

Flora, who was not accustomed to being such an object of scrutiny, found it much stranger. Murmurs followed close behind them like shadows, many of them darting around her and Sten.

"Is he a Warden?"

"Surely not! He's one of them  _Qunari_. Foreigners."

"Don't matter to the Wardens. They let anyone join. Criminals, murderers,  _mages_. Look, she's bound."

"She don't look  _that_  powerful."

Flora scowled as they passed the nug trader, not enjoying being grouped with the worst denizens of Ferelden. The only one who appeared to pass their scrutiny unscathed was Alistair. His height, build and classically handsome features aligned far more with their expectation of how a Warden  _should_ appear.

"Everyone's looking at us," she hissed unhappily as they approached a vast pair of stone doors, ornately carved with geometric patterns. "I hate being stared at."

Alistair, who barely felt the heat of the curious gazes, gave a mild shrug.

"I found it strange at first too," he offered, watching the gate guards stiffen at their approach. "Duncan said I'd get used to it."

"Hold! What business have you in the Diamond Quarter?" snapped one of the guards as they came to a halt. Both sets of dwarven eyes were focused suspiciously on Flora's bound hands.

"We need to see the Assembly," Alistair began, then looked flummoxed as one of the guards let out a sharp laugh.

"Ha! The  _deshyrs_ are far too busy arguing amongst themselves to listen to topsiders."

"You're best off waiting until a Paragon returns," added the second, and both guards snorted in simultaneous derision.

Flora stepped forward, reflexively going to retrieve the treaties from her shirt, as she usually did in the face of potential obstacles. The next moment, she realised that her arms were fixed behind her back. It reminded her of how the Templars had taken her from Herring, bound like a prisoner, and she scowled to herself.

"We aren't waiting for anything," she retorted, irritation spilling over into her tone. "The Darkspawn won't wait. The  _Blight_  won't wait. Our business is with your d-desh- deshny-  _nobles_ , not with you. So, move!"

The gate guards raised their eyebrows at one another, but begrudgingly stepped aside to allow them passage. Alistair eyed Flora's narrow back as they began to climb the flight of steps leading to the upper level.

"Hey, Flo, you sounded almost like Duncan back then!" he said admiringly, staying behind her in case she lost her balance. Flora snorted, focusing on each step and trying to ignore the aching pain in her bound wrists.

"I was thinking more bossy fishwife from Herring," she muttered, then came to an abrupt halt as they emerged into the Diamond Quarter.

Unlike the bustling atmosphere of commerce and conviviality of the Commons; the air of the upper level was laden with governance and ancient politic. Vast stone edifices towered to either side, their architecture no less impressive for being built on a precipice. The rock itself had been cut, carved and polished until it gleamed; the omnipresent molten metal flowing through ornately decorated channels.

The people here moved with solemn purpose, their clothing heavy and velvet. The dwarves of Orzammar lived and died by their caste system, and those who inhabited the Diamond Quarter occupied the highest societal rank. They swept past the Wardens, casting them curious and slightly derisive stares.

"Do you get the impression that they're looking down on us?" muttered Alistair, as a passing dwarf with gemstones decorating a studded doublet curled his lip at them.

Flora nodded, wide-eyed.

"Which they somehow manage despite being so much shorter," she whispered, at which Alistair snorted in appreciation. Sten remained silent, barely registering the stares and murmurs. He had been focused instead on the excessive number of guards patrolling the streets.

* * *

 

The dwarven Assembly was not difficult to locate. The stone edifice towered above them, solid and intimidating, dominating the neighbouring estates. Its mere presence seem to impose order and authority upon the city spread before it. Like the other larger buildings, this too had a number of sentries posted before the entrance.

They paused outside as it suddenly dawned on Flora that they were just about to enter the presence of nobility – possibly  _dozens_ of them. The Arl and Arlessa of Redcliffe alone had been intimidating enough, and now they were about to petition the highest ranking members of dwarven society. She already felt like a fish out of water in this incomprehensible underground kingdom, with its rigid castes and customs. The fact that one could not even wander certain areas of the city without the correct birthright bewildered her.

The sentries had clearly been warned of their arrival, and made no comment as they approached the stone pillared entrance. Sten had informed them bluntly that he would remain outside, having no interest in the specifics of the negotiations. He vanished off in the dark shadows between two estates, stealthy despite his size and they approached the stone edifice, Flora fell a step behind Alistair, dropping her gaze to her feet. He was about to nudge open the door when he noticed that she wasn't beside him, and looked around in confusion.

"What's the matter?"

Flora shifted from foot to foot, casting an apprehensive glance towards the polished wooden door.

"Maybe you could just go in there," she muttered, feeling the iron cuffs digging into the skin of her wrists. "You're more like what they expect a Warden to be, anyway."

Alistair frowned down at her. This did nothing to counter her statement, as he resembled Cailan far more with his features in a scowl.

"What do you mean? You're a Warden too." He narrowed his eyes at the self-conscious Flora; having spent several months in her near-constant presence, he was intimately familiar with her body language, the cant of her head and position of her shoulders all carrying a certain meaning. "What is this  _really_  about, Flo?"

She paused for a moment, then shrugged helplessly.

"If I lived down here, I'd be in one of their lowest castes," she muttered to her feet, as a city crier began to shout in the distance. "They're  _nobility._ How can I look them in the eye? How can I  _talk_ to them? I'm just a fisherman's daughter from Herring."

Alistair sighed, taking a few seconds in order to decide how to respond. Finally he reached out and smoothed the collar of her linen shirt, adjusting it to lie flat.

"Flo, you know I'm the son of the King, right?" he said, surprised that the words seemed to come more easily to him now.

Flora eyed him warily, a slight frown on her forehead. He continued, warming to his subject.

"But you've never had any problems talking to me. I'm just a person. Just as they are. So just… try to think of it that way instead. Their ears work the same way. Talk to them as you would anyone else."

She smiled at him, comforted by his reasoning. He returned the smile, his fingers lingering on the linen collar of her shirt. He could see the silver Chantry amulet resting in the hollow of her neck, cool and heavy against her skin.

"That's very wise," Flora mumbled, forcing herself to raise her chin and straighten her back. Alistair gazed back at her, his stare warm; then a sentry at the Assembly doors gave a pointed cough.

"When you two have finished staring into each other's eyes…! This is a main thoroughfare you're blocking!"

The receiving hall of the Assembly was long and low, with several branching wings. Various retinues, waiting for their respective nobles to finish in the Assembly, milled in factional groupings. Flora stared at the walls; embedded in the stone were display cabinets, in which a strange blue rock formation was growing. Twisted and strangely organic, it gave off a muted glow.

"Is that- ?"

Alistair nodded, pausing behind her to stare into the glass-encased space.

"Lyrium. Raw, not refined. I've seen it arrive at the Chantry to be processed, for the Templars."

Flora eyed him curiously, but then a dwarf with a long white beard interrupted her before she could question him.

"Grey Wardens? The current Assembly is in progress, but you can observe from the viewing balcony."

They followed him through a side passage and up a narrow flight of stairs. Putting a finger to his lips, the old dwarf pushed at a wooden door. On the other side, they could hear raised voices tangling together like skeins of wool. They emerged onto a stone platform which discreetly overlooked a large circular chamber. Noble dwarves, both male and female, were seated in a ring, many of them half-standing and gesticulating at one another. Angry words drifted up to the high, vaulted ceiling, while a dwarf dressed in a steward's outfit attempted to keep order.

"Bhelen has held ambitions to the throne since he was a boy!" yelled one red-faced dwarf, spittle flying from his lips. "It is well known!"

"And since when have we dwarves punished anyone for having ambition?" retorted a woman on the opposite side of the chamber. "Is it not our tradition, to pass throne from parent to child?"

There was an answering roar of agreement, though several dwarves also shouted in opposition.

"But we dwarves also value  _honour_ above all things, and Bhelen has demonstrated himself clearly lacking in this area!" This came from a young dwarf with a heavy gold chain slung around his shoulders.

"Aye! Lord Harrowmont has proven himself an able and dedicated leader."

" _Harrowmont lackey!_  Go back to Tapster's, opportunist!"

The session devolved into further shouting and thrown accusations. Flora stared over the edge of the balcony, thoroughly unimpressed.

"What are they arguing about?"

"Who should take the throne," muttered Alistair grimly, feeling bitterness under his tongue as he envisioned the potential for similar scenes in Denerim. "What a mess. Seems like there's civil war brewing here as well as on the surface."

Flora scowled, peering down at a large dwarf in a purple waistcoat who had burst several buttons with the outraged heaving of his chest.

"What a waste of time," she hissed, leaning forward over the balcony. "Can I shout  _PICK ONE OUT OF A HAT_?"

Alistair let out a muffled snort of surprise and amusement, shaking his head.

"Don't you dare, dearest," he murmured in her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "They'll probably feed us to the nugs."

"What about  _GIVE US AN ARMY,_ then?" suggested Flora, directing a dark stare down into the crowd of arguing nobles. She patted her breast, feeling the crumpled parchment against her skin. "What if I throw these treaties at their heads?"

Alistair had to stifle a laugh, although it would most likely have gone unnoticed by the squabbling nobles below.

"Aren't you a bad girl today," he breathed, raising his eyebrows.

"I'm  _always_  a bad girl on Tuesdays." She shot him a sly little smile that made his stomach tighten.

The chief steward, who had tried vainly to calm the gesticulating and belligerent crowd, eventually lost his temper. He brought a hammer down on a metallic plate, sounding a resounding crash that finally brought the arguing to a halt. The dwarven deshyr quietened, in begrudging acknowledgement of the chief steward's authority.

"Enough! We shall not disgrace our Ancestors by sitting in these ancient seats and squabbling." the chief steward snapped, his voice drifting up to the stone viewing balcony. "Until this Assembly can once again engage in civilised discussion, I am calling a recess."

The lords and ladies of Orzammar filed out, casting baleful looks at one another but restraining from blatant antagonism. Alistair nudged Flora carefully, aware of her bound hands and not wanting to knock her off balance.

"Let's see if we can catch him."

They hurried back down the narrow flight of steps, coming to an abrupt pause in the antechamber. The velvet-clad deshyr were flocking out of the dismissed Assembly, muttering and casting baleful looks at members of the opposing faction. The chief steward, wearing a forest-green robe and a harried expression, caught sight of the two Wardens hovering to one side. He made his way through the well-dressed crowd, and bowed slightly in apology.

"Forgive me, I knew that Grey Wardens were here but – matters have been fraught in our city, recently. Please, come into my office. I am Bandelor, the Assembly's chief steward."

Alistair and Flora followed him into a small circular room, where a desk overflowing with papers sat squarely in the middle. Before they could sit down, Bandelor made a slight embarrassed gesture at Flora.

"Please, you can take off those cuffs. I am not so fearful of your kind as my brethren. I'll vouch for you if anyone disturbs us."

A slight groan escaped Alistair's lips as he glanced over at her.

"Sten has the key. I could always go and find him, I think he's just outside-..."

He trailed off, watching Flora narrow her eyes in concentration. The next moment, the yellow barrier expanded from her wrists like a second skin, pushing relentlessly against the iron cuffs. Seconds later, the lock sprung open and the cuffs dropped to the stone tiles. Flora blinked and the barrier evaporated into a mist of golden particles, fading away before they reached the floor. Alistair gaped at her, eyes widening as his stare moved between her and the discarded cuffs. She shrugged back at him, rotating her sore wrists with a wince.

"You can get out of the cuffs?!"

"Mhmm," she nodded with a slightly apologetic smile, taking a seat in front of Bandelor's desk and reaching inside her shirt. "Try silverite next time, I'm not sure I could break that. I might be able to? I don't know."

Bandelor retrieved his monocle from where it dangled on a golden chain, placing it over his eye as she spread a sheaf of papers over his desk. He peered down at the top one, his eyebrows rising.

"Flora Chastity Cove, Kinloch Hold Certificate Of Dismissal, " he read and Flora scowled, hastily shuffling through the parchment until Orzammar's distinctive seal appeared. She coughed, then leaned forward and fixed him with her dark-lashed, grey stare.

"There's a Blight," she said bluntly, jabbing her finger against the desk. "Orzammar is obligated to help us."

The dwarven steward let out a long and heavy sigh, closing his eyes for a moment.

"We feared as much," he murmured, as Alistair's gaze moved between him and Flora. She was eyeing the dwarf with suspicion, her brow creased. "When the Deep Roads began to empty, the Shaperate predicted that the old horror was returning. Unfortunately, it could not have come at a worse time. The King's death has left the deshyr divided."

Alistair grimaced, leaning forward alongside Flora and jabbing his finger at the bottom of the Orzammar treaty.

"Sorry, but it doesn't say beneath the guarantee of assistance,  _PS – Exempt if currently in the middle of civil war_."

Flora nodded, but she recognised the look in the dwarven steward's eyes. It was the same look that her father had held when he told her that the Templars had learnt of her existence:  _resignation_. Even as Alistair continued to protest, she realised that Orzammar would offer no aid until their factional division had been resolved and a new king chosen.

"So what do we need to do?" she said after a few moments, Alistair letting out a small sigh as he came to a similar realisation. Bandelor grimaced, then raised his palms helplessly.

"The public support of the Grey Wardens could be enough to tip the balance of favour towards one candidate."

Alistair and Flora both blinked in disbelief, Flora's jaw dropping. Alistair shook his head, his handsome, arrogant features contorted in incredulity.

"That's ridiculous. Wardens aren't politicians!" he started, then faltered as memories of Duncan with Irving, Loghain and Cailan rose to the surface of his mind. Flora, who had spent the majority of her years with as much control over her life as driftwood on the tide, was still gobsmacked at the idea that  _her_ support could sway the succession itself.

Bandelor gave another helpless shrug, raising his eyebrows at them.

"I wish I could give you the army you seek, I really do. But there's only one person in Orzammar who can enact these treaties – the person who sits on the Stone Throne. And at the moment, it's empty."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Flora definitely needs to get over her antipathy towards the nobles, especially considering…well, let's just say that Arl Eamon has got a special guest for her to meet on their return to Redcliffe ;) Although the thought of her yelling GIVE US AN ARMY at the equivalent of dwarven Houses of Parliament in session makes me laugh.


	50. Flora Meets The Mob

Chapter 50: Flora Meets The Mob

Alistair and Flora, the iron cuffs back around her wrists, split up and spent the rest of the day asking the various denizens of Orzammar about the two candidates. Sten, astounded at how an initially simple mission had suddenly become so complex, conducted enquiries of his own.

Alistair remained in the Diamond Quarter, demonstrating remarkable patience with various ranting  _deshyr._ He listened to various criers of all political alignments, made the occasional note and ended his day in the Shaperate. The Shapers, all archivists and historians, were officially neutral but turned out to be more than happy to discuss their political leanings in private. His thoughts returned every so often to his sister-warden on the level below, wondering how she was getting on.

Flora felt more comfortable wandering among the merchants, smiths and shopkeepers of the Commons. She had no compunction in asking them about the two candidates; once they had overcome their suspicion at her iron-bound wrists, they freely discussed their own opinions.

A smith made an ill-humoured joke which Flora barely noticed, but then followed it with an offhand comment that resonated her.

"Don't suppose you'll be asking for the opinion of those in Dust Town, eh!"

Flora eyed him, warily. He snorted, then raised his hammer for another strike at the blade he was tempering.

"What's Dust Town?"

The smith shook his head, seemingly not noticing the shower of sparks landing his on brawny arms.

"Ah, you don't want to be venturing down there, lassie. Home of criminals and the casteless."

Flora's brow furrowed, glancing over her shoulder. Sten had explained the strictly defined social stratification of dwarven society to her that morning; she assumed that the casteless were somewhat equivalent to her own status on the surface.

"But they have a right to a say, since they live in Orzammar too," she replied evenly, at which the smith let out a bark of laughter.

"They're  _casteless!_ They have a right to nothing."

Flora's mild frown turned into a scowl. After extracting the location of Dust Town from the contemptuous smith, she made her way through the busting Commons. It was market day and more traders had set up stalls, bellowing the assets of their wares. More dwarves milled on the street, and Flora had some difficulty navigating her way through the throngs, especially with her hands still bound behind her back.

With relief she finally located the entrance to Dust Town. The half-derelict tucked away tunnel could not stand in starker contrast to the proud double-height doors leading to the Diamond Quarter. There were two sentries guarding the tunnel entrance, both of whom imparted ominous warnings about the desperate denizens within. She listened patiently, then assured them that she would be fine.

After negotiating the cramped and twisting tunnel, almost falling over several times, Flora emerged on the lowest level of Orzammar. It was fortunate that her eyes had become accustomed to darkness in the passageway, for Dust Town seemed bathed in shadow. There were no braziers or wall sconces here, carefully maintained by lamp boys as was the case on the upper levels. The only light came from campfires, clumsily constructed at the crumbling bases of vast stone edifices. The buildings that lined the streets were huge and ancient, once glorious but now derelict and decaying.

Dwarves huddled beside the decrepit ruins, hair grown long and tangled hiding resentful stares. Wearing little more than rags, with disconcertingly scrawny bodies beneath, they held up cupped hands to Flora as she approached. Everything was covered with a fine layer of mingled soot and dust. Compared to the bustling commerce of the Commons, it was near-silent.

Flora, who had no money or food to give away, was appalled. At once she realised that she had been wrong, that her situation on the surface was nowhere near as pitiful as that of these casteless dwarves. Although her family had been poor, her father had always made enough coin as a fisherman to support the three of them. In Dust Town, there appeared no evidence of trade, nor of industry. The only source of income appeared to be from begging and prostitution. The people down here clearly had no idea, nor the motivation to learn, about either candidate for the throne.

Appalled, Flora wandered between the ancient palaces, eyes wide and horrified. Guilty at having no coin to donate, she encouraged them to cut the silver buckles off her boots and the brass buttons from her tunic, giving them away to those she passed. Then, on realising that her tunic was woven from thick and high-quality wool, she allowed a thin child to cut it away from her. The heat rising from the lava was warm enough that she had no need for a second layer; her linen shirt was more than sufficient. All of the casteless had been slavishly grateful; many of them muttering that this would not only buy a little food, but also protection from the Carta.

When Flora had asked what the Carta was, at first nobody had wanted to tell her. Finally, after she allowed a child to take her belt, one beggar told her in hesitant whisperings.

_They are the ears to the floorboards and the eyes at the crack in the door. Their fingers are long and numerous; reaching from Dust Town to the Diamond Quarter. They are the only alternative to poverty for the casteless, offering coin in return for your conscience. They are Orzammar's dark shadow._

As the beggars slowly warned to the girl who now stood before them in loose shirt and breeches, they told her that there was little that the Carta was not involved in. From prostitution to extortion, racketeering to smuggling; this rogue organisation appeared to dabble in it all. When Flora asked why the Assembly did not eradicate these criminals; she was met with only laughter and incredulous stares.

"Them up there don't care about  _us_ ," retorted one woman bitterly, cradling a scrawny infant as her eldest child sorted through a pile of refuse for sellable items. "Nobody does. What are you doin' down here, anyway?"

Flora glanced over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of movement in the corner of her eye. Staring into the gloom, she gave a little shiver despite the rising heat from the lava.

"I just wanted to get your opinion on something, but it doesn't matter," she mumbled, apologetically. "Sorry to bother you."

She continued to wander between the crumbling edifices of the ancient palaces; trying to ignore the rumbling of her stomach, which seemed like a mockery of the genuinely malnourished huddled against the walls. The shadows drew close around her as she walked, and eyes followed her curiously from dark corners. They watched her talking to the casteless, asking questions and listening intently.

Finally, she sat down on a toppled pillar and rotated her sore wrists, wondering if she would get into trouble if she temporarily released herself from the cuffs just to heal the raw patches on her skin. When she looked up, three figures had melted from the shadows before her, two males and a female. They wore identical black leathers, and sported wickedly curving blades at their waists. A small group of beggars nearby seemed to shrink inwards, turning their faces away.

"Hear you've been askin' a lot of questions, topsider," stated the female in a perfunctory manner. Flora eyed their blades with mild concern, her brow furrowing.

"Asking questions isn't illegal," she replied mildly, and one of the male dwarves let out a snort.

"Ain't no law in Dust Town, 'cept Carta law," he retorted, fingers caressing his blade. "Boss would very much like to speak to you."

Flora gazed at them for a long moment, curiosity mingling with suspicion. Although she had lived a relatively sheltered life first in Herring and then confined within the Circle; she was not naïve enough to fall for their feigned courtesy.

_Her father had told her once to never trust anyone who talks with a hand on their weapon._

"I don't know why they would want to talk to me." She gave a shrug, watching the two male dwarves share a glance. One of them narrowed his eyes, which were almost hidden beneath a pair of bristling black eyebrows.

"Boss wants what she wants."

Flora gazed at them, perplexed. "But I don't have anything to give her. I gave away everything I could already."

"Do we have to cause some trouble?" the second dwarf asked her, a vein of threat running through the words. "How about, for every time you refuse to come quietly, we kill one of these pathetic casteless creatures? Ain't as if anyone'll miss them."

Flora glanced at the cringing beggars, and sighed inwardly.

"Fine," she replied, clambering awkwardly to her feet and feeling her knee give a twinge of protest. "Let's go."

As she followed the female dwarf down a narrow side-street between the decaying buildings, she hoped that her beltless breeches wouldn't suddenly plunge to the floor. She heard the two male dwarves behind her and could sense that their hands were already at their daggers.

"You know, this is a great way to encourage visitors to Orzammar," she mumbled, ducking her head to enter a carved passageway, half- hidden behind a crumbled wall. "You form an  _excellent_  welcoming committee."

"Quiet, human," snapped the female dwarf, her voice echoing against the shadowed stone walls. "Or we'll cut your tongue out and send it back to the Wardens."

Flora, with a start of surprise, realised that they believed her to be powerless with her hands bound. The absurdity of this made her want to laugh, and a small giggle escaped from her lips as they navigated a ratlike warren of tunnels. Eventually, they emerged into a plain stone chamber, lit by multiple wall sconces.

The room was littered with various weaponry, discarded armour on the floor, storage chests resting half-empty beside the walls. Three other dwarves were sat around a rickety wooden table, playing a card game. They looked up as Flora and her escort arrived, one of them letting out a raucous laugh.

"You've got it wrong, Meghan. This  _can't_  be the Grey Warden."

The female dwarf scowled, giving Flora a sudden push that almost sent her sprawling.

"Quiet, Padraig, or I'll have your finger. This is her all right. When will Jarvia be back?"

The dwarf, spreading his cards facedown on the table, gave a listless shrug.

"Sometime soon. Where are you going to put it?"

Flora frowned at being referred to as an  _it,_ while the female dwarf thought for a moment.

"Just in the storeroom," she muttered, shoving Flora forwards once more towards a small side-chamber. "Jarvia has got a purpose for her."

Flora debated whether to just summon her shield and walk out, then decided against it. Without her staff, she was not certain how long she could maintain the barrier around herself – certainly not long enough to find her way back through the mazelike passages, especially with multiple angry Carta dwarves on her tail.

Feeling a sense of growing trepidation and cursing herself for her impulsivity, she followed the female dwarf into the side chamber.

_Flora, why are you such a reckless fool?_ she thought furiously to herself, as she was pushed down onto a wooden chair. The dwarf bound her legs tightly together with a length of rope as Flora gazed plaintively downwards.

"Bhelen or Harrowmont?" she tried hopefully, and the dwarf gave a snort of incredulity.

"As if the Carta cares which entitled  _deshyr_ has his arse planted on the Stone Throne. We do business regardless."

* * *

 

Several hours passed, and Flora began to grow uncomfortable on the chair. Her hands and feet were cramping from their restricted blood flow, her limbs were stiff and – most pressingly – her stomach was complaining. She had stopped requesting food once the black-bearded dwarf had threatened to gag her. There was sporadic activity in the larger adjacent room; several dwarves came in to collect various weapons, a raucous card game lasted for an hour and provided some entertainment. There was a brief and brutal fight, which ended in a shiv to the gut and hasty removal of the body.

Flora had just decided to break free of the bindings and chance the maze of tunnels, when she heard a rustle of activity from the main chamber. A husky female voice cut through the murmurs like a blade.

"Let's see this prize, then."

A female dwarf appeared in the doorway, dark hair shorn roughly above her shoulders. Her eyes were as black as two pieces of coal, and a scarlet tattoo was inked on her pitted right cheek. Two curving blades were hung at her belt, along with flashes of silver at her sleeves. The Carta leader opened her mouth to speak, lips curving upwards in a sly grin.

"So, you're the- "

"Bhelen or Harrowmont?" interrupted Flora with a belligerent edge to her tone, now thoroughly fed up. The female dwarf gaped, momentarily stunned into silence.

"Did you just cut me off?" she asked quietly, ink-black eyes glittering. "It would be most unwise if you did. I know you're a topsider and therefore nug-ignorant."

"Are you Jarvia?" asked Flora, who had no patience for threats, veiled or otherwise. "Can you just tell me your answer?"

Jarvia looked somewhat nonplussed, her brow creasing. "Why do you canvas my opinion? I don't give a shit who sits on the Stone Throne."

"Well, I'm going to support the opposite of whoever  _you_  would choose," retorted Flora, stubbornly, watching the dwarf's eyebrows shoot to the ceiling. "I think my research is complete now."

"Your fellow Warden had better pay up," the Carta leader hissed, fingers toying with the handles of her blades. "I won't give him a discount if there's…. _less_ of you to return."

The coal-eyed woman bared small, pointed teeth. Flora, who had faced a variety of demons and Darkspawn in her short life, was thoroughly unimpressed by the veiled threats of this dwarf. However, she was concerned about the first part of her statement, her eyebrows rising.

"What did you say about paying up?"

Jarvia snorted, her finger running down the length of her thigh blade to test its sharpness. There was a nick halfway down which she kept as a memento of an old lover; whose bone had inadvertently serrated the metal when she had thrust it between his shoulderblades.

"My men sent him a note earlier this afternoon. Your pretty little head will cost him a fair few sovereigns, unless he wants it returned without a body attached."

Flora stared at her in genuine confusion.

"Why would he  _pay_  for me?"

Jarvia returned her stare, the dwarf woman slightly taller than the seated Flora. The Carta leader appeared to be momentarily struck dumb.

"Because you're our  _hostage_ , idiot," she replied, an incredulous note in her tone. Then her jaw dropped as Flora began to laugh. For a moment the dwarf woman merely stared in stupefaction down at her prisoner, who was still cackling merrily away.

"Sorry," mumbled Flora, trying to stifle herself as the Carta leader glared at her with growing fury. "I just- you think I'm your  _hostage!_ It made me laugh."

Jarvia bared her teeth, eyes narrowing to small, dark points. "You keep up the lip and I'll cut out that sassy tongue and toss you in the lava."

The latter threat successfully quietened Flora, who was doubtful of her ability to simultaneously shield herself and swim in molten rock.

Just then she felt a slight tug in her mind, vastly different from the Archdemon's whispering – this was more of a sudden  _awareness,_ a dull heat that prompted her to turn her head. She had a sense of something growing nearer, a presence familiar as the back of her own hand.

_Alistair,_  Flora thought, as the sound of distant shouting became audible. There was a faint crash, accompanied by more angry yells. It appeared to be originating from elsewhere in the compound; yet each moment the commotion grew louder.

"My brother-warden's arrived, I'm not sure he's brought any coin though," she offered helpfully. "We don't really have any money."

Jarvia, her eyes widening in rage and alarm, whirled around as another door was caved in somewhere nearby. Two of her lieutenants had rushed to meet the threat; their raised voices abruptly cut off mid yell. The body of a dwarf was flung across the doorway, blood splattering across the flagstones in an arterial spray. Jarvia, with a snarl of fury and disbelief, turned to thrust the door closed, trapping them together within the small room.

Still facing the door, hearing shouts and the sounds of battle outside, the dwarf woman raised the blade she had used to kill her lover, the metal gleaming dully in the lamplight. Spinning with an assassin's speed, she made to lunge forward; only to stop in her tracks. Flora was standing, the burst iron cuffs and shredded rope at her feet, one hand raised before her. A gleaming golden shield hovered between them, turning the grey of her wide eyes yellow.

Jarvia followed through anyway, coal-dark eyes blazing with desperate rage. The blade hit the barrier and skidded to one side, as though coming up against the solid stone door of the Assembly Hall. She tried once again, but succeeded only in blunting the knife's point.

Then there came a crash and a splintering of wood as something vast barged straight through the door. Jarvia just had enough time to turn, before she was picked up and hurled against the wall by Sten, the brute strength of his body a sufficient weapon.

Although Flora had been expecting it, the suddenness of Sten's entrance, combined with the cramp in her knee, caused her to recoil backwards. Her feet tangled in the legs of the chair and she fell over with a thud. Then her mind flared in recognition, preternaturally aware of her fellow-warden's presence before any of her other senses detected him.

" _Flora?!_ "

Any smugness that Flora might have felt at the way that the tables had turned for her would-be captors fled when she heard the strain in Alistair's voice. As Sten began to slam a screeching Jarvia against the remains of the door, having no compunction in taking on someone half his size; Alistair half-lunged across the room and dropped to his knees beside her, bloodied blade still in hand. Flora sat up as he lowered the sword, reaching out for her shoulders with gloved hands, his face pale beneath the tan skin.

"Are you alright?!" he demanded, his pupils constricted with fear as he searched her face. He inhaled unsteadily as he saw that she was missing her tunic, the loose linen shirt untucked. She reached up, guilt immediately rising in her throat like bile.

_Look what you've done now with your recklessness,_ her father's voice said in her ear.  _Caused undue stress to one who already has enough to worry about._

"I'm fine," she whispered back, reaching up to put her fingers on his shoulder. "I gave my tunic away to beggars, that's all. I'm sorry to cause you worry, I didn't mean for this to happen."

Alistair let out a groan of half-relief and half-despair, running a trembling hand through his hair. He then reached out to take her own hand and raised it to his mouth, pressing his lips hard against her fingers. Both of them ignored Sten as he continued to hurl Jarvia about the room.

"We got a note at the tavern," Alistair murmured, his voice half-muffled. "It demanded fifteen sovereigns, or the next request would be accompanied by… part of your  _body_."

Flora blinked at him, momentarily diverted from her own guilt.

"Fifteen sovereigns!" she breathed, impressed despite herself. "That's a lot. Thanks!"

This was directed to Jarvia, who was now far beyond the point of being able to hear or respond to her gratitude. Alistair snorted through clenched teeth, shaking his head with a wry smile.

"My darling, all the sovereigns in Thedas would not equal the value of your little finger _,_ " he murmured in her ear, cradling the back of her head tenderly.

Flora, who had only ever seen three sovereigns at once in her entire life, gazed at him in awe. She reached out to put her arms around his neck and he leaned forward to complete the embrace.

Meanwhile, Sten finally satisfied himself that Jarvia was beyond the point of recovery. Leaving her with her head caved in, leaking blood and other fluids across the stone, he rose to his feet, barely out of breath from his exertions. Glancing across the small room, he let out a snarl of disbelief.

" _Vashedan!_ Stop this immediately."

Alistair ignored him, fingers tangling in Flora's hair as his hungry mouth sought out her responsive lips. The Qunari growled to himself, pacing back and forth across the small room with increasing frustration for several minutes.

Finally a breathless Flora pulled away, distracted by the rumbling of her stomach. Alistair exhaled unsteadily, gazing down at her with eyes blown dark and warm.

"Let's get back to the tavern."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: I've changed the chronology a little here – in game, the Proving is first, but it worked better for my narrative to have the dramatic Carta confrontation beforehand. I really enjoyed writing this chapter – it makes me laugh to think of Flora still stubbornly asking BHELEN OR HARROWMONT? despite her predicament. I also found it funny to imagine Sten hurling Jarvia around in the background, while Alistair and Flora snog each other's faces off. On a more serious note, it was quite hard to write about the part with the casteless and the beggars in Dust Town – my husband took me to Istanbul last year, and there were so many people on the street – many of them children, holding up signs that said they were refugees from Syria. Without shoes or proper coats, in October temperatures. It was so heartbreaking, especially seeing other girls my age (twenties) with no adequate protection or prospects.


	51. Decision Time

Chapter 51: Decision Time

They returned through the decimated Carta passages, the remaining residents either dead, or fled. Flora eyed the devastation with mingled alarm and respect, blinking at a standard candelabra which had been used to skewer two dwarves against a door. Alistair noticed her staring, and nudged her ribs with a significant look towards Sten.

"Most of this is him," he muttered under his breath as the Qunari strode before them, face impassive as usual. "He was like a battering ram."

Flora nodded, impressed. They emerged back into Dust Town, where Alistair informed the beggars that the Carta base was open for looting. As the first incredulous casteless began to edge into the hideout; their party navigated the tunnel and narrow steps back to the Commons. Just before they emerged into the lava-lit glow and bustle, Alistair reluctantly clamped the cuffs closed on Flora's wrists once more.

"How did you know where I was?" she asked as they emerged onto the main thoroughfare. The market traders were closing up for the day, metal grilles pulled over windows and stalls emptied of their wares.

"A dwarf named Dulin was in the tavern when we received the note. He knew of the Carta's hideout."

Flora nodded, the discontented rumbling of her stomach growing louder. It was now audible enough for Sten to hear; he shot her a disapproving glare. She did not need to ask how they had navigated the maze of rat-like warrens to locate her; aware that Alistair's senses were more refined than her own at detecting the presence of other Wardens.

They wove their way through the retreating crowds, drawing several curious stares. It seemed as though every dwarf in Orzammar, from  _deshyr_ to casteless, knew their identity and purpose. Whispers and darting glances followed in their wake, close as shadows, although nobody spoke to them directly.

Back in their room at Tapster's Tavern, the three of them sat down and shared what they had learnt about the two possible candidates. Flora rested a bowl of stew on her knees as she leaned against the wall, listening to first Sten and then Alistair divulge the results of their investigations. The noise of the tavern rose and fell in the background, raucous laughter occasionally breaking into bouts of song.

Slowly, a picture of the two candidates emerged: Prince Bhelen was the outwardly unpleasant character, who desired progressive change and greater ties to the surface. Lord Harrowmont appeared gentler and more honourable, but his traditionalist policies threatened to stunt Orzammar's growth. There were also distasteful rumours about both individuals- Bhelen's involvement was suspected in several deaths of political opponents, while there was evidence that Harrowmont had been purchasing the support of various nobles.

After two hours of circular debate, Alistair groaned, lifting his hands to his head.

"I wish Duncan was here," he muttered, raising his gaze to the stone ceiling. "He was good at this sort of thing."

Flora shrugged, her brow furrowed in a slight frown.

"Can we support someone else? Sten, I elect  _you_  as King of Orzammar!" She pointed at him; he eyed her raised finger with a deadpan stare.

"I am a soldier, not a leader," he replied, his tone neutral. Flora, who had not given up on her quest to locate a sense of humour in the Qunari, beamed. A moment later, she turned her pale grey gaze on Alistair, eyebrows rising.

"So – what do you think?"

Alistair sighed, sitting back on the rug and rubbing his elbows in the linen tunic absentmindedly.

"I just get a… bad feeling from what people say about the Prince. He reminds me of Loghain. Ruthless. Even if he has some good ideas."

Flora thought for a moment, then nodded at him.

"Fine, let's go with the other one. Lord Harrowmont."

As she slumped backwards onto the bed, letting the empty pewter bowl drop to the floor, Alistair gaped up at her.

"Really? We're going with  _my_ choice?" His tone was incredulous as Flora nodded, staring at the carved moulding above the door. The crude relief depicted two crossed hammers, etched in granite. Sten grunted in approval, one traditionalist supporting another.

"The wisest choice," he said after a moment, begrudgingly. "Enforced and unnatural progress is not beneficial to a society."

Alistair and Flora both stared at him for a long moment, shocked into temporary silence by his approval. He scowled at them both, rising to his feet.

"If the decision is made; I will engage in discussion with the dwarf Dulin. He is one of Harrowmont's men."

He paused in the doorway, eyeing them both severely. Alistair was sprawled on the rug, light from the brazier illuminating the planes of his handsome, arrogant face. Flora was on the bed, knees drawn to her chest, chin on her arms. Both of them looked back up at him, a vision of innocence.

"I will not be long," the Qunari stated, adjusting one of the ropes stretching across his bare chest. "Do not attempt to engage in intercourse during my absence."

Alistair at least had the grace to blush, while Flora only laughed; flashing Sten a toothy smile as she leaned back against the stone headboard.

"No out-of-hours prayertime," she mumbled, fiddling with the corner of the rough wool blanket. "Got it."

"No illicit hugging in the Potions closet," Alistair added from the rug, the pinkness fading from his cheeks. Flora beamed, while Sten shot them both a look of intense disapproval.

As soon as he withdrew, Flora let out a cackle.

"His face looked  _exactly_  like Wynne- " she started, then was abruptly cut off by Alistair vaulting up from the rug, clumsy in his haste. The next moment he was leaning over her, resting on a knee and elbow so as not to place his full weight against her. His hazel eyes were dark, shadowed with raw, focused desire. Flora smiled up at him, the silver amulet resting in the hollow at the base of her neck.

"Warden Alistair," she admonished as he lowered his lips to the open collar of her shirt. "Did you not hear the Qunari's  _strict instructions?"_

Alistair let out a half-laugh against her skin, shaking his head.

"Oh, I heard him," he murmured, his mouth moving over the length of her pale collarbone. "But I've spent my whole life doing exactly as I've been told. I'm tired of it."

He pressed his mouth to her neck, feeling her tangled hair and skin against his lips, warmth emanating from her body. She reached up, touching his chest with tentative, exploratory fingers, and an inadvertent groan escaped him. As he covered her mouth with his own, he felt the deep twinge again within his abdomen, persistent and insidiously persuasive.

"Alistair?"

As if forcing himself to awaken from a dream, he stared down at her, his mind sluggish with desire. She was gazing up at him, additional shades of anxiety clouding her grave grey eyes. He knew her face so intimately by this point that he could interpret the meaning of even the most minuscule of changes.

Immediately he was the concerned brother-warden once more, rolling against the wall and drawing her into his arms.

"My dear," he murmured against her hair, as she huddled beside his chest with a frown on her face. "What's wrong?"

"It doesn't feel right that  _we're_  deciding the fate of this city," she murmured, with a helpless half-shrug. "We haven't spent long enough deciding. We haven't learnt enough!"

He sighed, resting his chin on top of her hair.

"I know, Flo, but we don't have the luxury of time. We had to make a choice; and it's not our fault that their society put them in this situation."

Alistair fell silent for a moment, once against envisioning similar scenes in Denerim over Ferelden's succession. He let out an involuntary shudder and Flora nestled closer against him, knowing where his mind had gone.

"As long as we're together, things will be alright," he muttered, feeling her nod against him.

When Sten returned the room was in half-darkness. The two Wardens were huddled on the bed, chaste and fully clothed; he thought them asleep until Flora opened an eye and stared at him.

"What did Harrowmont's man say?" she whispered, carefully moving Alistair's arm from her waist so she could sit up. Sten lowered himself cross-legged to the rug, measuredly removing his pauldron before responding.

"Our neutralisation of the incumbent Carta leader has bought Harrowmont's trust. However, he seeks further reassurance that you are not Bhelen's men before he agrees to meet with you both."

Flora grimaced at the necessity of suspicion, a drowsing Alistair mumbling something incoherent against her shoulder. She patted his head absentmindedly, her brow furrowed in thought.

"How do we prove that?"

"He requests that, since his fighters have abstained, you enter the Proving tomorrow on his behalf."

A restless Alistair muttered in his sleep and Flora pecked him softly on the cheek.

"Ssh," she murmured in his ear before returning her gaze to Sten. "What's a Proving?"

The Qunari, having divested himself of all armour except for a pair of striped trousers, frowned at her.

"Do you take pleasure in your ignorance?" he enquired, and she scowled back at him through the shadows.

"Yes, it AROUSES me," she retorted, for a moment more belligerent adolescent girl than Warden. Then, remembering how he had broken the Carta hideout in two to retrieve her earlier, she relented slightly.

"Sorry. I am but an ignorant Herring peasant, please enlighten me, O master of wisdom and knowledge!"

He eyed her with dislike. "Do not mock me, human. The Proving is an ancient dwarven custom, a medium through which their Ancestors are believed to express their wishes. After a series of trials by combat, the winner is declared to have the favour of the Ancestors, and the Stone."

Flora blinked, her brows drawing together as Sten settled back on the rug. Although it must have been uncomfortable, not a flicker crossed his impassive face.

"Trials- as in  _fighting_?"

"Yes. Theoretically not to the death; just until one participant cannot continue," replied the Qunari, closing his eyes. Flora gaped into the darkness.

"Is this normal? I don't know if this is normal or not," she whispered, wishing that she had asked Wynne to share her knowledge of dwarven society during the journey.

"It is normal for Orzammar," replied Sten tonelessly, gazing up at the stone ceiling. "It is futile to question the entrenched customs of another culture."

Flora sighed, her mind silently echoing Alistair's earlier wish that Duncan was there to advise them.

_What would he do?_

She already knew the answer:  _anything_ , so long as it got them an army. Beside her, Alistair mumbled and flung an arm across her chest.

_Stop the Blight at all costs. All other concerns are secondary._

"Fine," she muttered, scowling to herself. "We'll fight in the Proving."

"Not you."

"What?"

Flora sat up as much as possible, staring down at the Qunari's shadowed outline. She could see the dim glow of his reddened irises, stark against his ashen face. He turned the strange scarlet eyes on her, the tavern noise coming to a lull in the passage outside.

"You're a  _saarebas_ – a mage. Their ancestors would not approve of magic being used in their hallowed halls of combat. It must be myself and the Prince."

It took Flora a moment to realise that he was referring to Alistair. She gritted her teeth, feeling the same helpless frustration that had overcome her in Flemeth's hut, after Ostagar.

"Fine," she muttered eventually, forcing her mind away from that bloodied valley floor. "He's a good fighter. He'll be fine."

There was silence for a long moment. Flora reached out to slide her fingers between the sleeping Alistair's, resting her cheek on his linen-clad shoulder. He growled softly against her neck in response, drawing her to him.

"He'll be  _fine,_ " she repeated to herself, finding little comfort in the repetition.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Aaaaah, this was the most difficult decision I had to make, both in game and as part of writing this narrative. It's especially hard because I think that Flora would actually approve more of Bhelen's policies, especially regarding the casteless; but I tried my best to not let my out of game retrospective knowledge influence their decision making. At the time, with the limited amount of decision time, Harrowmont seemed the more 'respectable' candidate, and I do believe that Bhelen's arrogance and ruthlessness would have reminded them unfavourably of Loghain. I also made another decision about the dwarves not allowing Flora to participate in the Proving – I know you can in game as a mage, but to me it made sense for the dwarves to not allow this type of 'unfair' combat, since they have no equivalent or counter.


	52. Alistair Proves His Worth

Chapter 52: Alistair Proves His Worth

The next morning Sten informed Alistair of the plan, over breakfast in the main tavern. Alistair listened, bewildered at the necessity of trial-by-combat to sway the outcome of an election, but characteristically compliant. He glanced over at a scowling Flora, who was ill-temperedly pushing her eggs around a plate.

"Don't sulk, Flo," he murmured, reaching out to pat her arm consolingly. "I'll be alright. They're  _dwarves_ , how hard could it be?"

This earned him several foul glares and muttered remarks from other patrons of the tavern.

After Flora had finished her cooling breakfast, they headed towards the Proving Grounds. The entrance was located in the centre of the Commons, over a narrow stone bridge that stretched above the caldera. An impressive stone edifice towered at the far end, built around a vast dwarven face carved into the rock itself.

They were not the only ones crossing the stone span; many others drifted in their wake. A Proving during a time of such political turmoil held special significance. Entering under the auspices of the lofty dwarf's stare, the Wardens and the Qunari found themselves in a sprawling stone entrance chamber. Vast pot-bellied braziers provided a smoky light, illuminating the overcrowded hall. On the walls, reliefs of past notable victories had been carved into large panels. The audience, milling around in small clusters, were loudly anticipating the upcoming bout. Excited chatter rose to the uneven earthen ceiling.

Although most competitors preferred to remain in the preparation chamber before a tournament, a select handful of fighters had ventured out into the visitor entrance to greet their fans. Crowds gathered around these individuals, many of them cheering or baying for autographs.

After almost being stampeded by a collection of female fans headed towards a blond-moustachioed warrior; Alistair grabbed Flora's dutifully-cuffed arm and steered her towards a harried-looking official in the centre of the chamber. Sten was already there, having had no compunction in barging his way through the crowd.

The official looked up at them through a gold-rimmed monocle, his eyebrows rising.

"Ah, the Grey Wardens! Have you come to see one of Orzammar's oldest traditions?"

"We will be entering," intoned Sten in his usual blunt manner, as the official shot him a look of surprise.

Grimacing apologetically, Alistair hastily interjected.

"We wish to fight on behalf of Lord Harrowmont in the Proving. Um, please?"

The official nodded, checking a note on a sheaf of parchment.

"Of course, Lord Harrowmont's fighters have both abstained from today's fight," he murmured, his eyes moving from Alistair to Sten. When his gaze fell on Flora's bound wrists, his brow furrowed.

"Your mage cannot enter," he informed them, a hint of apology in his tone. "The Ancestors do not recognise topsider magic. She may watch from the viewing balcony. Sufficiently restrained, of course."

It took only a few minutes to register Alistair and Sten for the day's Proving. The official nodded towards an unobtrusive wooden door to one side of the chamber.

"Preparation area is back there," he informed them, raising his voice over a sudden cascade of cheers. A swaggering male fighter had arrived, sweeping a bow to his adoring audience.

"You've two hours before your match; then you'll fight three bouts in a row. I suggest you speak to your own ancestors and pray for their assistance."

The preparation quarters were a smaller replica of the receiving area, except with fewer crowds and more fighters. In further contrast to the shouts and cheers of the public in the previous chamber, the occupants of the preparation area were almost silent. Some of the fighters were engaged in murmured discourse with their retinue; others methodically struck target dummies with freshly-honed blades. The two Wardens and the Qunari retreated to an unobtrusive corner to wait for their assigned match.

Flora, fidgeting on a low stone bench, eyed the plethora of weapons on display and felt her stomach constrict. From where she was sitting, she could see wide two-handed swords, vast block-headed hammers, wickedly curving daggers and even a scattering of crossbows. Alistair's Redcliffe-emblazoned shield, leaning against the bench, suddenly appeared fragile as tin.

Sten was humming quietly to himself, rocking back and forth on the bench to one side of her, lost in pre-battle meditation. Flora glanced over at Alistair, who was sitting on her other side. His finely-hewn face was very still, hazel eyes closely watching the other opponents as they prepared for battle.

"Blackbeard has a weak knee," he murmured, not taking his eyes away from the fighter. "See how he favours his left leg? And the woman over there has poor vision- she's squinting to identify who's talking to her."

Flora was only half-listening to Alistair's assessment of his potential combatants. She wanted to reach for his hand, but her wrists lay cuffed in her lap. Finally he glanced sideways at her anxious face, and slung an arm around her shoulders.

"You've barely said two words all morning! What's the matter?" he chided, as she dropped her gaze to her feet.

"I don't like this," she muttered through gritted teeth in response. "I keep thinking about giant swords chopping off your head."

"Please," retorted Alistair immediately, eyebrows rising upwards. "They wouldn't even be able to  _reach_ my head."

Flora scowled at him and he realised that she was genuinely worried. Oddly touched by her concern, he squeezed her shoulders and pecked her on the side of her temple.

"I'll be fine, my dear. Anyway, I'm sure that Sten will protect me with his life."

The Qunari opened a single scarlet-hued eye and shot him a withering glare.

Finally, it was their turn to enter the oval arena. Tiers of stone seating rose up around the perimeter, and vast braziers flooded the sand-covered combat area with warm light. The crowd's excitement was heightened by the previous matches and the rumours that a  _Grey Warden_ was going to compete. Flora had been taken to a stone balcony at the far end of the arena, where she was to sit with the Proving Master and assorted  _deshyr._ As soon as the opposing candidates had learnt that she was a mage, they had insisted that extra precautions be taken. Not content with the cuffs around her wrists, they had also instructed that her eyes be bound. This was to theoretically prevent her from interfering with events in the arena through the power of her gaze.

Flora, who had never tried to shield without the customary accompanying gesticulation before, wondered briefly if it were possible. This thought was chased from her head by irritation as the official tied a black cloth apologetically around her eyes.

"I must look pretty stupid sitting here in the prime seats with my eyes covered up," she murmured, as the dwarf gave an apologetic shrug.

"You'll be able to  _hear_  what's going on. Stone knows there's enough dissension in the city, I don't want no commotion in these hallowed halls too."

As Flora sat in the wooden chair, listening to the roars of the crowds, she wasn't sure if she even  _wanted_  to see the fighting. Despite the fact that at nineteen she had lived through more violence than many men saw in a lifetime; and that she could look upon the bloodiest and deepest wounds without quailing, she still felt uncomfortable watching two creatures attack one another. The act seemed to violate her most fundamental tenet as a healer: to  _heal_ , not to  _harm_.

The Proving Master's voice, amplified by the acoustics of the cleverly designed vaulted ceiling, rung out around the stone arena. Flora jolted in her seat as if electrocuted, yet he was only announcing a rivalry bout between two noble houses. As she listened to the frenzied clash of steel on steel, accompanied by the roaring of the crowd, nausea began to rise in her stomach.

Finally there was a primitive shout of pain, followed by a triumphant cry and a deafening roar from the crowd.

"AND THE VICTOR IS GHERIN!" bellowed the Proving Master, inches away from her left ear. "THE ANCESTORS SMILE UPON HOUSE BERAGEN!"

Footsteps and muffled chatter drifted up from the arena as the surface was cleared for the next match. Flora felt bile rise once more in her throat, only to slump back in her seat as the Proving Master announced a dominance match between two Silent Sisters.

This round was over far more quickly, the crowds torn between delight at the skill on display and disappointment at the fleetness of the match. The arena was cleared for a second time, and Flora felt her limbs begin to tense.

"FINALLY! AN HONOUR PROVING, BETWEEN ARISTO, A GREY WARDEN, AND SEWERYN, WARRIOR CASTE! FIRST OF THREE!"

Flora's initial nausea at hearing the dwarf announce her brother-warden was tempered by the butchering of his name.

"It's  _Alistair_ ," she interjected as the crowds roared beneath them.

The Proving Master grunted in irritation; she heard him take a seat beside her.

"Surfacer names; always hard to pronounce. How should I be expected to know how to say them all?"

Then Flora heard Alistair's voice, ringing out with confidence and authority from the arena below.

"I fight on behalf of Lord Harrowmont!" he announced, which evoked a murmur of interest from the crowd. Suddenly Flora heard a rough male voice in her right ear, hissing from somewhere behind her.

"Harrowmont's lackeys! I can almost see his strings attached to you, jerking you around like little puppets:  _dance, fools, dance!"_

Flora turned her head and glared in what she assumed was the general direction of the Bhelen-favouring  _deshyr._ A moment later, she realised that he would not be able to see her scowl beneath the blindfold. Instead, she retorted with more bravado than she actually felt.

"Why don't you take off these restraints and then say that to my face again, eh?"

A contemptuous snort answered her.

"I don't have much hope for your fellow Warden. Seweryn slaughtered his own father in this arena when he was a mere juvenile."

"Good for him," she muttered in response, feeling the nausea rise once again.

There came a roar from the crowd, and the fight began. Some people were yelling for Harrowmont, others retorted with Bhelen's name. More were just yelling, stamping their feet against the flagstones in a thundering crescendo.

Flora clung to the stone balcony, leaning forward as far as she dared.

" _GO, ARISTO!"_ she bawled, in what she hoped was Alistair's direction.

She heard the sound of blade against blade, then the achingly familiar sound of a blow striking Alistair's shield. There was a grunt, a second blow, and then the sound of a body slumping to the sandy arena floor. Flora gripped the stone ledge with white-tipped fingers. The crowd gave a roar of triumph, and she heard the Proving Master rise hastily to his feet beside her.

"AND THE VICTOR IS – THE GREY WARDEN!"

He continued to bellow about how Seweryn had been knocked unconscious in mere minutes; but Flora was not listening, slumping forward in the wooden chair as pure white relief shot through her. She rested her forehead against the stone ledge, but was granted only a few seconds of respite.

"OUR NEXT BOUT WILL BE A PAIRED MATCH – WARDEN, DO YOU REQUIRE A PAUSE?"

" _ARISTO is ready to continue!"_ came Alistair's yelled reply. Flora listened as the Proving Master introduced Sten as a "solid wall of hulking Qunari,"; then announced their opponents. They would be challenged by Wojech, a popular master-at-arms, and his rogue partner Velanz.

As the Proving Master took his seat, Flora heard the snide voice of Bhelen's  _deshyr_ in her ear once more.

"Your Warden friend had better watch out for a knife between his shoulder blades. That's how the last one went. Then his second was decapitated in a single blow from Wojech's hammer. Bam! Smacked his head right across the arena floor."

"Does anyone want to swap seats with me?" asked Flora out loud as the fight began.

The match began with a roar from the crowd. Flora could hear Sten above the cheers; he was a vocal fighter who bellowed in his native tongue during battle. At the edge of her seat once more, she heard the crowd give a gasp and spun her head from side to side frantically. Although their shared blood allowed her to  _feel_ Alistair's presence as one would register a slight breeze; she had no idea what was actually happening to him in the arena yards below her.

This battle was longer than the first, but eventually the crowd gave another mammoth cheer and Flora felt the Proving Master leap to his feet beside her.

"ANOTHER VICTORY FOR THE GREY WARDEN AND HIS ALLY!" he bellowed, and Flora slumped back against her chair once more.

The final bout was announced; a group match. Flora listened with increasing alarm as the Proving Master asked Alistair if – as he had been  _injured_ – he would need a respite. She heard her brother-warden reply in the negative through gritted teeth, and bile rose in her throat.

"How badly is he hurt?" she spoke to empty air, but her voice was lost in the approving roar of the crowd. It seemed that one of Harrowmont's fighters had returned to assist in this final round, which would be fought against a minor member of House Aeducan and his entourage.

"Piotin Aeducan is one of the finest warriors in Orzammar, honoured by the old King himself," Flora's unwanted informer told her with glee, his voice unnervingly close to her ear. "Cousin to Prince Bhelen. The Stone itself possesses him on the battlefield- he attacks in a mindless frenzy. At the end of his last Proving, there wasn't enough left of his opponent to return to his mother."

Flora fumed silently, too absorbed in her anger at this presumptuous  _deshyr_ to notice that the fight had started. The crowd began to shout, but even they could not drown out the sound of collective battle from the arena below. Above it all rose a primitive roar, the sound of one attacking in blind and brutal fury. Weapons clashed like thunder; she heard the sound of a shield breaking and hoped that it was not Alistair's. There came a cry of pain; and a body was audibly flung against the wall of the arena. It was followed by the sound of two more dropping to the sand, then Flora heard Sten's voice escalate in a chant she recognised as one denoting  _victory._ Hope rose in her throat as the crowds came to their feet in a collective roar. The Proving Master's yell was barely audible above the deafening cacophony.

"VICTORY TO HARROWMONT'S CHAMPION: THE GREY WARDEN! THE WARDEN WINS THE DAY!  _The Ancestors have shown their favour!"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: ARISTOOOO! Also I hate using so many CAPITALS – but I needed a way to distinguish the shouting. Also, I was researching trial by combat (I know that's not exactly what a Proving is, but it's close) and I found this really interesting Wikipedia article on the ancient Viking tradition of the Holmgang, sanctioned trial by combat. And if the challenged person did not show up, they were known as nīðing


	53. Deep Roads and Drunkards

Chapter 53: Deep Roads and Drunkards

As the Proving Master announced that the Warden had been victorious, Flora collapsed back in the wooden chair, a tide of relief flooding through her body. She heard Bhelen's  _deshyr_ give a snort of disgust, then retracted her feet quickly as he shoved past her to exit the balcony.

The crowd began to move, the rustling of clothing and audible press of bodies indicating that many were now heading out to various taverns, ready to dissect the day's matches over several large tankards. Flora began to feel rather stupid, sitting in place with eyes and hands bound. She heard the Proving Master vacate the chair beside her, then the sounds of rapid footsteps against the stone. Fingers slid into her hair, cupping the back of her head with tender familiarity. Lips she recognised pressed against her own, heady with the taste of victory.

"Sten, is that you?" she breathed when the mouth pulled away. Alistair let out a bark of laughter, his fingers moving to untie the cloth around her eyes.

"No, my darling, it's  _Aristo_ ," he murmured lightly, as she squinted against the sudden flare of firelight. Sten himself was standing to one side, his revolted expression indicating that he had overheard her comment. Flora stared up at her brother-warden, a lump of relief rising in her throat. Her eyes dropped to Alistair's arm, noticing that the mail was bloodied and torn.

"Rogue," confessed Alistair with a grimace, stretching out the injured elbow. "My fault; too busy trying to stop his friend from cleaving my manhood off with a giant axe."

Flora grinned up at him, then gestured to Sten as best she could with bound wrists.

"Could you-..?" She waved her fingers vaguely but he was able to glean her meaning. When the Qunari had positioned his seven-foot bulk to obscure them from sight, Flora leaned forward and brought her mouth to the ragged mail. Her lips parted over the torn skin beneath and she closed her eyes. Instead of the gold ring, she felt the cool weight of Alistair's silver amulet against the hollow of her throat, and focused on that instead. When she opened her eyes, she saw not a  _wound_ , but individual strands of severed sinew, the torn fibrous matter of the muscle itself.

_**Now, breathe**_.

She  _exhaled_ , feeling golden mist surge from beneath her tongue. Carried on the force of the air expelled from her lungs, it settled into the wound. The flesh began to knit together, renewing in mere seconds what would have taken months to regrow naturally. It took three more exhalations until fresh pink skin had formed over the healed muscle.

"Good as new," he murmured, flexing the arm and marvelling at its soundness. "My clever girl."

They met Dulin in the entrance hall, Alistair receiving much laudation and praise from the crowds as he passed through. Harrowmont's second inclined his head, not bothering to disguise the incredulous look on his face.

"I must say, I thought that rogue almost had you," he said admiringly, eyes moving to Alistair's bloodied sleeve. "Do you need a poultice or bandages?"

"Ah, no," Alistair replied vaguely, while Flora dropped her gaze. "I'll be fine."

"Lord Harrowmont extends his gratitude to you for fighting in his name in the Proving," Dulin informed them as they stepped out into the Commons. Sten, who had been studiously ignoring several admiring fans, appeared relieved that the main thoroughfare was relatively quiet.

"Grateful enough to actually see us now?" interrupted Flora, then winced as a crier beside them broke into a deafening bellow.

" _GREY WARDEN ARISTO CHAMPION OF THE PROVING! ANCESTORS FAVOUR HARROWMONT'S MAN!"_

Dulin nodded, leading them down the wide paved avenue. They passed the threshold into the Diamond Quarter, ascending to the highest level of the city.

"Lord Harrowmont's estate is just along here," the dwarf explained, as Flora's head rotated longingly in the direction of a grilled meat vendor. Unfortunately, he was in the process of being escorted back towards the Commons by two grim-faced guards.

"She's been gone  _two years!"_ A loud voice drew her attention back to the thoroughfare before them. Their way was blocked by two dwarves, one clutching a bottle and clearly inebriated. The other appeared to be attempting to reason with his drunken companion, shooting them an apologetic glance.

"Oghren, you're making a fool of yourself. You're becoming more known for your drunkenness than your skill with a blade."

The drunk's eyes were as red as his blazing hair and braided moustache. His leathers were stained, and he smelt like a brewery on fire.

"If you all would just  _listen_ to me…! Let me go with you on your expeditions!"

"You're a liability, Oghren," hissed back his companion, shoving him bodily out of the Wardens' path. Sten looked appalled at such a wanton lack of self-control, his scarlet irises expanding in disapproval.

" _I'm her husband,_ nug humper! I should be going with you!"

The drunkard's companion turned to Dulin, who was clearly a familiar face.

"Where's the guards? He's been raving outside the Assembly, I just dragged him away."

"Escorting a rogue trader back down to the Commons," replied Dulin, as the red-headed dwarf took another long swig from the bottle. Then, realising it was drained, he tossed it into an ornamental magma display.

"Who's been gone two years?" asked Alistair, gazing at the drunk dwarf with some concern. Flora felt a twinge of recognition, a memory sparking in the back of her mind.

"Paragon Branka," she said, recalling the steward in the Hall of Heroes, and the one named Oghren looked up. Despite his sodden face and shadowed features, a sudden sharpness flared in his dark eyes.

"Aye, lassie." Oghren's face contorted slightly, the machinations of his mind visibly turning. He looked them both up and down; and his ale-addled brain made the connection between them and the rumours that had spread on all levels of the city.

"You're the two Grey Wardens," he mumbled eventually, eyeing them both. "Funny, I thought you'd both be men."

Flora scowled, but before she could respond, Dulin interjected quickly.

"Yes, Oghren, they're Wardens and they have important business with Lord Harrowmont, so if you'll excuse us!"

Dulin hurried them quickly past the gaping and now empty-handed Oghren, towards another impressive stone edifice. Flora glanced over her shoulder; the drunken dwarf was staring after them, swaying slightly on his feet.

"Sorry about that," muttered Dulin as they ascended a sweeping flight of stone steps, leading up to a pair of imposing doors. "Someone needs to take him on an expedition to the Deep Roads and just leave him there."

Sten, after stating that there was no need for him to accompany them on Warden-business, elected to remain outside. Harrowmont's man led them into the interior of the estate, apologising for the necessity of the heavy guard presence. As he explained about the trouble caused by Bhelen's fanatics on all levels of the city, Flora gazed around at the stark and beautiful décor. Display cases of living lyrium were set into the walls, casting glowing shadows over the flagstones. Ornate metal grilles were fixed over streams of slow-moving magma, providing both heat and light. Stalactites clung to the ceiling; rather than being removed, they had been studded with rock crystals and used as ornamentation.

Dulin's man led them into a side wing, which branched off into several passages. Pausing outside an unassuming wooden door, he gave a knock.

"Come in," called a voice from within.

In contrast to the rest of the estate, Harrowmont's study was plain and austere. The old dwarf rose from a desk overflowing with papers to greet them as they entered. He was clad in scarlet velvet robes and wore the gold band of a  _deshyr_ lord around his forehead.

"Wardens, it is my pleasure to welcome you to my estate. Thank you for your participation in the Proving on my behalf," Harrowmont said, gesturing for them to take a seat opposite him.

"Will it be enough to seal the election in your favour?" asked Alistair, who to Flora's relief had decided to dispatch with the pleasantries. She nodded, sea-grey gaze searching Harrowmont's lined face. There was something about his kind, grandfatherly mannerisms that reminded her of Bardon, the old fisherman from Redcliffe.

"We need an army," she added, then realised that she was unable to retrieve the old treaties from within her linen shirt with her hands bound. From Alistair's twitching face, it appeared that he had just had the same realisation.

Fortunately, Harrowmont spared him the embarrassment of trying to retrieve them. The dwarf sighed, leaning forward on his fingers.

"I know of the treaties, you need not wave them at me. If I was king, I would readily grant you the forces you require. A Blight may only affect us indirectly, but I have no desire to see the surface fall to the Darkspawn horde."

"So winning the Proving won't be enough for the Assembly to vote in your favour?" asked Alistair, his shoulders slumping. The dwarven lord shook his head helplessly, raising his palms.

"I know that Bhelen has half the  _deshyr_ in his pocket. I cannot think of anything that would force Assembly to unite – save for a Paragon's influence."

Flora, whose eyes had not left the old dwarf's face, saw a faint flicker of hope in his raised gaze.

"You mean Branka?" she whispered, as Alistair glanced sideways at her in confusion. "Branka, the one lost for two years in the Deep Roads?"

"Aye, lass," murmured Harrowmont, wrinkled fingers idly stroking the surface of a leatherbound tome resting on his desk. "The Assembly is duty-bound to listen to the word of a Paragon. If you could find her, bring her back to Orzammar- "

"But how do you know she's even still alive?" interrupted Alistair, his jaw rigid. "Or where she is? The Deep Roads stretch beneath the whole of Thedas."

The old dwarf slid open the top drawer of his desk, removing a folded square of parchment. Revealing it as a map, he spread it over the stone surface and pointed to an ink-circled crossroads.

"Our last expedition tracked her to Caridin's Cross, just here. They found remnants of a camp before they were forced to turn back."

He did not add  _why_ the expedition had ended prematurely, knowing the Wardens did not require any further elaboration.

"The Deep Roads are quieter during a Blight," he added, his voice taking on a persuasive note. "If you could retrieve Branka and bring her back- we could end the Assembly's deadlock. Then you could get your army."

"And you would be King," added Alistair, narrowing his eyes at the old dwarf. Harrowmont nodded, acknowledging his own gain. When he spoke, his voice was low and earnest.

"Endrin Aeducan – the old king – was my friend. He made me swear on his deathbed that I would not allow his son to take the throne. Bhelen has all the hallmarks of a tyrant in the making."

"Maker, You have to go and make things complicated for us, don't You?" entreated Alistair pitifully to the rock-hewn ceiling. "First the Circle, now this. I bet the Dalish will make us go on a pilgrimage to Tevinter before lending us their aid!"

He glanced sideways at Flora and she met his stare squarely. Something unspoken passed between them, a tacit agreement which needed no verbal confirmation.

"We'll leave tomorrow morning," she said after a few moments, returning her solemn gaze to the old dwarf. "Can you prepare us some supplies?"

Lord Harrowmont gave a nod, relief suffusing his features.

"I will leave them with the entrance guards," he said, rising to his feet and bestowing a bow upon them. "I thank you both, Wardens. Stone watch over you down there."

As they were escorted back towards the entrance by a grim-faced Dulin, Flora nudged Alistair.

"Have you ever been to the Deep Roads?" she asked, and he shook his head mutedly."

"Cleaned out a few entrances with Duncan before, but I've never been properly inside. Usually Wardens only go into the Deep Roads when- "

Alistair paused and she glanced at him, curiously. His face was taut, and uncharacteristically sombre.

"When the taint is about to take them."

This sobering thought occupied Flora until they reached the main thoroughfare. As they bade farewell to Dulin, Sten approached from where he had been leaning against a stone ledge.

"Will Harrowmont be King?" he inquired, bluntly. Flora gave a little wince, shaking her head.

"No."

"Do you have an army?"

"No."

"Are we going to the Assembly?"

"No; to the Deep Roads."

Sten eyed them both with dislike and incredulity.

"It seems as if you have failed in all aspects of this negotiation," he commented, and Flora gave a helpless shrug.

"We don't have a choice," she muttered, feeling the manacles dig painfully into her wrists. "If we have to go into the Deep Roads to get our army, then we'll go there. All that matters is stopping the Blight."

Alistair patted her on the shoulder, half-smiling.

"For a moment there, Flo, you sounded just like Duncan. Except he might have ended up punching someone."

She glanced at him, appalled. "Ooh, I couldn't hit a dwarf! It'd be like hitting a defenceless child."

"Having fought against them," Alistair replied, grimacing as he touched his recently-healed elbow. "I think they'd give as good as they got."

They made their way back to Tapster's Tavern, whispers and covert stares following in their wake. Most were targeted at Alistair and Sten, indicating that news of their victory at the earlier Proving had spread. Sten, who as a Qunari in Ferelden was used to stares, mostly ignored them; but Alistair was unaccustomed to being the centre of attention. Fortunately, those inside the tavern were too focused on their drinks to pay much attention.

Sten disappeared to their room, after shooting them a final contemptuous look. Flora, stomach rumbling, glanced pointedly over at Alistair. They ordered two bowls of stew; then looked around for a place to sit. The tavern was almost full, many of the Proving audience had apparently come straight from the arena. Then, a partially-slurred voice rose over the general chatter.

"Hey! Over here, Wardens…!"

It was the drunkard dwarf from before, occupying a corner table and waving frantically at them. Flora, focused solely on appeasing her stomach, made her way through the crowds and took a seat opposite the red-haired dwarf. Alistair, clutching two pewter bowls of stew, followed more cautiously.

"So, I got a proposal for yeh," the dwarf –Oghren – started with promptly, taking another long gulp from his tankard. The bound Flora nudged Alistair impatiently, and he began to alternate ladling spoonfuls of stew into first her mouth, then his own.

"What proposal?" she mumbled, eyes streaming at the heat. The dwarf leaned forwards, his face alight with anticipation.

"So I put two and two together- which is about all I remember from my schoolin'- and worked out that old Harrowmont must've sent yeh into the Deep Roads."

Flora nudged a distracted Alistair and he raised another mouthful of stew to her mouth.

"How could you possibly know that?" her brother-warden asked, brow furrowing. Oghren tipped back and let out a belch, loud enough to draw approving glances from surrounding patrons.

"Obvious, ain't it? He needs a Paragon to break the stalemate. And the only livin' Paragon is my wife, tooling around on her fool quest in the old thaigs. About time for me to bring her home. I bet Harrowmont's given you some insider information from his last expedition."

"He gave us a map," mumbled Flora, nudging Alistair expectantly.

Alistair frowned, able to smell the reek of ale on the dwarf's breath even from across the table. Ladling up another spoonful of stew, he raised it to Flora's mouth.

"And why should we take you? No offence, but you seem a little  _catastrophically_  drunk. Won't you be a liability?"

Oghren opened his mouth to respond, then blinked, gesturing at them in confusion as Alistair raised the spoon to Flora's mouth.

"Sorry, but is this like some… kinky sex thing? Topsider foreplay? I don't understand."

Alistair accidentally rammed the spoon into Flora's mouth so hard that she almost choked on it, spitting a mouthful of stew over the table. Oghren nodded, understandingly.

"Hey, each to their own. Anyway, I might be a drunk but I'm still the best warrior in Orzammar- "

"Maybe a decade ago, Oghren!" called a fellow patron, and the dwarf shook his fist in response.

"Quiet, thunder-humper, or I'll pay your mother a repeat visit! As I was sayin', not only am I the  _best_ warrior in Orzammar – past  _or_ present!- but I also know what my blasted wife were lookin' for."

Flora regained her breath after nearly swallowing the spoon, eyes streaming.

"What was she lookin'-  _looking_ for?"

The dwarf shot her an arch look, before draining his tankard and staggering to his feet.

"Don't want to show my full hand now, darlin', do I? Needless to say, with your map and my knowledge – I'd say we have a pretty damn good shot!"

He slammed the tankard back down on the table, splattering them both with ale.

"I'll see yeh both at the mines entrance tomorrow, shall we say nine bells? Got to give me a chance to sleep this off, heh heh…"

Lost for words, Flora and Alistair stared at one another.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I forget to mention in the last chapter – in game, the Proving Master says that he can't pronounce your Surfacer name (which is the excuse for not saying it out loud), so I thought it would be funny to have him interpret Alistair as ARISTO! Also Oghren, as a character, initially horrified me but after spending many hours in the Deep Roads with him …. many, many hours, get me out of here please, it's so depressing…. he's actually quite grown on me! Next time, we'll be preparing to venture into the Deep Roads, and a game of Wicked Grace gets a little bit wicked ;)


	54. Wickedness and Grace

Chapter 54: Wickedness and Grace

The dwarf stumbled off between the tables, nearly tripping over the uneven flagstones as he went. Several jeers followed in his wake. Alistair gaped at his departing back, then glanced over at Flora, who appeared slightly stunned.

"Why break the habit of collecting strange companions, eh?" he said lightly, stacking their empty bowls and rising to his feet. Flora nodded, then beamed up at him. Alistair smiled back at her reflexively, reaching down to touch the top of her head.

"Why the smile, my dear?"

"I was just wondering what Duncan would say if he was here," she mumbled, using her elbow to propel herself awkwardly to her feet. Alistair let out a laugh, then realised with a start that for the first time he could think about Duncan without the accompanying knife-thrust of grief. The pain was still there, but it had faded to a dull, background throb, like an old wound, or Flora's knee.

"He'd say, what kind of motley crew is this? A hedge witch, a religious fanatic, a Qunari- "

"- a Circle enchanter, an Antivan assassin, and a dwarven drunk!" Flora finished, with a cackle. Alistair grinned at her, giving a mild shrug as they navigated through the crowd towards the guest room passage.

"Maybe he wouldn't be so surprised. Duncan himself made some strange recruiting choices. A King's bastard and- "

"A defective mage."

They gazed at one another for a moment, then Alistair laughed, shaking his head. Opening their door, they were greeted by Sten standing in a corner, eyes shut. They had seen him in this meditative stance before; silent and motionless even when a snickering Flora had waved a hand in front of his face.

"Do you need the key- " started Alistair, then saw that Flora's wrists were already free, the snapped-open cuffs at her feet.

"Use something stronger than  _iron_  if you want to tie me up," Flora informed her brother-warden archly as she stepped past him into the room. He groaned under his breath, letting the door shut behind them.

"Don't you start," he murmured, stooping to pick up the cuffs before following her inside. She removed her boots and he took off the outer layer of his armour, more comfortable in the linen gambon and breeches he wore underneath.

They spent the rest of the afternoon attempting to distract themselves from the looming threat of the Deep Roads, while also avoiding rousing the meditating Sten. Alistair drilled Flora on her alphabet until she could recite it backwards, then taught her how to spell the names of their various companions. The mildly confused tavern keeper was happy to provision them with the last of his parchment and quills.

"I suppose you're correspondin' with the Surface and plannin' strategy," he mumbled, handing over another inkwell. "Grey Warden business."

In reality, Flora was enthralled with watching Alistair scribe in his natural hurried scrawl.

"Write ' _Tomorrow, we are going into the Deep Roads with a drunken dwarf',"_ she instructed, and watched in fascination as he dutifully transformed her words into inked form. Although she could not read the transcribed sentence, she could recognise the individual letters.

Sitting on the flagstones and leaning back against the bed, they shared stories of the worst chores that they'd been assigned as children. Alistair had hated mucking out the stables, a job which had always fallen to him as the resident bastard. Flora recanted how she used to spend hours outside descaling and gutting fish, often while a biting north wind blasted seaspray into her face. Unlike the grimacing Alistair, she spoke wistfully and with fond nostalgia.

Alistair went back into the tavern and managed to wheedle a pack of Wicked Grace cards from an admirer who had seen him fight in the Proving. Returning to their room, he spread the cards over the threadbare rug and began to teach his sister-warden the fundamentals. Flora learnt the rules quickly, although she could not master the art of keeping her expression neutral. She laughed too easily; her hand clearly written on her face.

"Angel of Death," Alistair said, sliding the card across the rug. "Show your cards."

She turned over her hand: there were no matching suits. He triumphantly displayed his own spread of cards, four separate serpents.

"Ha! I win."

In the corner, Sten muttered in irritation, momentarily disturbed from his trance by Alistair's victorious exclamation.

Flora stared at his four serpents, then down at her own mismatched hand.

"Bah!" she retorted, pointing to one of her cards, which depicted a soldier wreathed in flowers. "My Knight of Roses would chop the heads off your stupid snakes in reality."

He grinned at her, gathering the cards back into a pile.

"That's not how it works."

Flora rolled her eyes at him, then reluctantly returned his smile. Alistair reached over the cards and cradled her cheek with his palm. She tilted her face against his hand and he slid his thumb gently against the high plane of her cheekbone. He caught her gaze, gestured to the silent Sten, then brought his other finger to his lips. Flora eyed him, somewhat confused.

Very quietly, Alistair leaned forward to press his mouth against hers, and she suddenly understood his intent. He had only meant the kiss to last for a second, but the soft pliancy of her lips against his own broke his resolve cleanly in two. He drew her lower lip into his mouth for a moment, then sought out her tongue with an insistence borne from naught but pure desire. As her lips yielded obediently to his, he let out a soft groan against the corner of her mouth.

For a few moments he abandoned all rational thought and allowed himself to be guided by instinct alone. The dull ache in his muscles from the Proving matches had vanished, replaced by a surging rush of stamina. Every nerve ending seemed to burn with excess energy; and he didn't know whether it was from the Darkspawn taint coursing through his blood, or merely a product of his own arousal. He leaned back against the rug, pulling her down on top of him. Their lips parted briefly as they moved; seconds later he reclaimed her mouth roughly with a low growl, stealing the breath from her throat. Guided by the insistent throbbing deep in his own gut, he rolled his warden-sister over and pressed her down against the flagstones.

" _Vashedan!"_ Sten's voice cut across the room like a whip, and Alistair was jolted rudely back to reality. Flora was sprawled back on the threadbare rug, the Wicked Grace cards scattered beneath her; and he was kneeling over her, mouth against her neck.

"I cannot even meditate on the  _Qun_  without interruption," hissed the Qunari as Alistair hastily returned upright. "Do not allow yourself to become distracted from your purpose by carnal urges. I saw many whores in Dust Town – relieve yourself there if you must."

An unrepentant Flora, flat on her back, laughed as Alistair flushed a deep shade of scarlet.

"I'm fine," he muttered, putting a distance of several feet between himself and his sister-warden. "Thanks for the suggestion."

Flora attempted to smooth her hair down, then acknowledged that it was probably a lost cause. Returning upright, she began to gather the scattered cards back together.

"Sten, do you want to play a game of Wicked Grace with me?" she asked innocently. The query was so preposterous that the Qunari did not deign to respond to it.

While Alistair was venturing nervously into the washroom at the end of the passage, Flora received a delivery from an equally nervous dwarven guard.

"For your expedition into the Deep Roads," he muttered, before turning on his heel and not-quite running away.

It was her staff, wrapped in multiple layers of cloth and bound in a plethora of tight little knots that even she- as a fisherman's daughter – did not recognise. Eventually Sten tired of watching her dig her fingers into the twine and ripped it open with his bare hands, handing her the contents wordlessly.

Flora cradled the familiar beech staff like a child, running her fingers down its length to feel the sealed crack. Wynne had recast the binding charm before they had entered Orzammar, and the two halves appeared solid.

Alistair returned from the washroom and Flora went in his place, deciding impulsively to leave the cuffs in the room. Having spent four years in a communal dormitory, she was not particularly worried about the presence of others. However, news of her status as a mage had spread and as soon as she arrived in the washroom with hands unbound, the other occupants fled wet and dripping down the passageway. Flora bathed with slight trepidation, half-expecting the Commons guards to burst in and arrest her; but she remained undisturbed.

The evening passed too quickly for her liking, considering that the spectre of the Deep Roads loomed on the horizon. She and Alistair played four more games of Wicked Grace; he won two, she won the third on a technicality, and then Flora caught him withholding cards on the fourth and gave a shriek of outrage.

"You're  _cheating!"_ she squealed, her expression similar to the one she had worn when the ogre burst up through the collapsed tunnel on the road to Orzammar. Alistair had the temerity to blush, but remained defiant.

"You're expected to cheat! It's part of the game!"

Flora snarled and he laughed, ducking as she flung the cards at his head.

When it came for them to retire for the night, Sten shot a dark glare of warning towards the two Wardens as they huddled together in bed.

"Considering our destination tomorrow; my rest is not to be disturbed," he stated, eyeing them both from his prostrate position on the rug. "And you both need to be fully rested and in peak physical condition. The Deep Roads are unfamiliar territory to me."

"Yes, Wynne, sorry-  _Sten,"_ replied Alistair, wrapping his arm around his sister-warden's shoulder and drawing her against him. Even when the candles had been extinguished it was impossible for the room to be fully dark. This was due to the stream of magma flowing behind an iron grill in the wall, providing both heat and a source of muted orange light.

Flora peered up at Alistair thoughtfully as he glanced over at Sten. The Qunari's eyes appeared to be closed, fingers clasped over the broad expanse of his chest.

_He's better looking than Cailan was,_ she thought, then irrationally felt guilty.  _Sorry, my King._

"What are you thinking?" he breathed into her hair, running a thumb around her ear.

"That you're more handsome than your half-brother," Flora mumbled back, with typical Herring bluntness. Alistair stared at her for a moment, then a smile curled the corner of his mouth. He rubbed her earlobe gently between his thumb and forefinger, ducking his head to respond.

"I knew you wouldn't be able to resist my manly good looks forever, my dear," he murmured lightly, his lips brushing against her ear. She snorted, muffling the sound with the blanket with a wary peek at Sten. He pressed his mouth silently to the side of her neck, feeling heat emanating from her body as she huddled beside him.

"You're always warm," he said quietly, his fingers pressing against her collarbone. "You're like a little portable campfire."

"Thanks," she mumbled, stifling a yawn while reaching for his hand. "'Night, Alistair."

His fingers slid into hers, curling together tightly.

"'Night, Flo."

By morning, the reality of what they were about to embark upon had properly descended on both Wardens. The lightness of the previous evening had drained away; Alistair was tense and irritable, while Flora looked vaguely nauseous. She had bound her knee tightly with strips of linen, in the hope that it would delay the inevitable onset of pain. Surprisingly, this suggestion had come from Sten. She had also disregarded the cuffs that morning, reasoning that she would soon no longer be Orzammar's concern.

They made their way through the Commons, retracing the steps that they had taken on their first evening in Orzammar. The Deep Roads entrance was tucked away in a little-used part of the city, marked by a cavernous hollow that was guarded day and night. Waiting alongside the sentries was Dulin, Harrowmont's man. Piled at his feet were several leather supply packs.

"Lord Harrowmont is dealing with a legal dispute and regrets that he can't see you off in person," he said, casting a wary glance over his shoulder. "There are supplies within that'll last you a week. Here's the map."

He showed the faded parchment to them, pointing out the inked circle denoting Caridin's Cross. "There's water in the old thaigs- anything that isn't stagnant should be free from the taint."

Flora had become distracted by the entrance itself, which appeared to be little more than an innocuous cave entrance. The merchant Bodahn Feddic had explained to her about how the Deep Roads were the last remnant of an ancient dwarven empire; but she found this difficult to envision. Duncan had mentioned them once or twice in passing, but she acknowledged regretfully that she could not remember his words. With a start, she realised that the tone of his voice itself was becoming more difficult to recall.

Alistair took the map from the dwarf, his jaw set tightly. Although he had never been into the Deep Roads himself; he had heard the stories from the other Wardens. Half-remembered tales of Darkspawn nests and breeding grounds rose in his memory and he forced them from his brain.

"Could you let our party know where we are?" asked Flora from beside him, shrugging one of the packs onto her back, staff gripped between her legs. "They're camped in the mountain pass."

"Of course," Dulin replied, solemn-eyed. "I'll send a message with a Surface-runner."

The dwarf paused for a moment, as though he wanted to say something else, then stopped abruptly. His eyes focused behind Flora's head, pupils widening in disbelief.

" _Him?!"_

Oghren, a travel pack nestled beneath a massive two-handed battle-ax, drained a bottle as he approached. There was a distinctly manic look in his blood-shot eyes as he raised his chin belligerently at Dulin.

"That's right! I found someone to go with me. You wait: I'll bring that foolish woman back, swear on the Stone."

Harrowmont's man gaped at the red-headed dwarf for a moment, before casting an incredulous stare at the two Wardens.

"Far be it from me to question the wisdom of the Grey Wardens," he muttered, as Oghren let out a belch. "But… are you  _sure?"_

"He has information that could be useful to us," replied Alistair, who appeared to be getting nervier by the second. Flora gave an earnest nod of agreement.

"He wants to find his wife, I think it's romantic," she breathed solemnly, then scowled as Oghren's pack gave a distinctive clink. "Wait, have you packed anything other than bottles?"

Dulin, after several long moments of dubious silence, shook his head helplessly. He explained that the entrance to the Deep Roads lay though the abandoned mine; and that recently returned expeditions had reported that Darkspawn activity had been low in the areas around Orzammar.

"Because they're all on the surface causing havoc," murmured Alistair grimly, and Flora decided that it was time for them to depart before he could descend further into gloom. She cast a final glance around at the crude, rock-hewn glory of the dwarven city, then pointed a finger at Dulin.

"We'll be back with your Paragon," she said, with more confidence than she actually felt. "Make sure Lord Harrowmont is ready to summon the army."

Fixing her eyes on the cave entrance, which now appeared more gaping maw than innocuous mine, she unslung her staff from her shoulder. Her father's words rung in her ear, clear as if he was standing just behind her.

_Deep breath, chin up, eyes straight._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: I think the concept of Wicked Grace is so cool! I wish I'd introduced it earlier, actually. I'd like to write a scene of the DA: Origins cast playing it, similar to the one from Inquisition. Alistair and Flora can't seem to get any privacy though, lol (and they aren't likely to get much in the Deep Roads either!). OOC, I'm still in the middle of the Deep Roads.. I am SO BAD at actually playing this game! I've died about 673792 times and I'm still in Ortan Thaig.


	55. Into the Deep Roads

Chapter 55: Into the Deep Roads

Flora strode forwards towards the mine entrance, clutching her staff to stop her hand from shaking. At first she thought that she was alone; then felt her companions fall into step beside her. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a flicker on Sten's face that almost seemed like  _approval,_ though she immediately dismissed this as pure fantasy on her part. They passed discarded mining equipment strewn before the mouth of the cave, upended carts and forsaken pick axes; which disconcertingly appeared to have been abandoned in great haste.

Although nowhere in Orzammar could be described as  _bright,_ a combination of brazier and burning lava had cast a muted red glow over the dwarven city. Even the dim torches of Dust Town provided more light than was visible in the mine entrance, which was as oil-black as a starless night.

"An old woman in Redcliffe once told me that if you ate enough carrots, you'd be able to see in the dark," Alistair informed them, grimacing slightly. "I wish I'd listened to her now."

Thirty yards into the tunnel, and Orzammar's muted light began to wane. The passage through the mine was twisting and uneven, rubble and shadow impeding their progress. The noise of the Commons was muffled by contorting protrusions of rock.

Flora lifted her staff, running her palm up the length of it. A golden glow followed in the wake of her fingertips, illuminating the plain wood until the energy spilled from the raised end. It hovered in an almost viscous mass, casting a shifting light over the rubble at their feet. Flora flicked her fingers upwards, and the effervescent mass rose to the ceiling and hung there. It illuminated the passage walls with the same quantity of light provided by several wooden torches.

"Eh, that's not going to set fire to me, is it?" asked their dwarven companion nervously, scratching his beard as he eyed the shifting mass of energy with trepidation. Flora shook her head, stepping forward as the ethereal lantern bobbed in her wake. Raising her hand, she passed it back and forth through the glowing mass, shimmering particles clinging to her fingers.

"It's not hot, see?"

"Hm." Oghren eyed her narrow back as she picked her way through the rubble-strewn passage. "So… what kind of mage  _are_ you exactly? The lightning-zappy type? The inferno-burny type?"

"The best kind," piped up Alistair, as Sten retorted with "The  _defective_ kind."

Flora snorted, hearing Warden Stene's derisive nickname ringing in her ears.

"I'm just a one trick pony," she replied mildly, keeping an eye on the shifting mass of energy to ensure that it was still following in their wake. "I heal and shield."

Oghren eyed her with concern.

"That's a real shame, lass; been a while since I seen a real magic show. Was hoping to see some Darkspawn barbecued."

"Sorry," replied Flora, familiar with the disappointed response. She remembered how in First Enchanter Irving's office, Duncan had been told that she could only use creation magic. Instead of seeming deterred, he had merely expressed curiosity.

For two hours they continued to follow the twisting mine tunnel, passing exposed coal seams and abandoned surveying equipment. The path sloped downwards, and the air grew hot and muggy. The conjured light source followed in their wake, casting elongated dancing shadows over the rocky walls.

Then as the passage curved to the left, a red-tinged glow became visible. Faint at first, it grew in intensity until there was no need for Flora's lantern. The mine tunnel began to widen, and just ahead they saw an opening. Oghren inhaled, surreptitiously ditching his bottle in an empty mine cart.

"Ah, here we are. You surfacers ready to see the last bastion of the once-great Dwarven empire?"

They emerged into a vast hallway, the carved stone ceiling several dozen feet above their heads. The massive hall extended in both directions for as far as the eye could see, dwindling into darkness at each end. Despite the dust and crumbling walls, it retained a decrepit magnificence. Channels of lava, providing both heat and a reddish light, lay at each side of the road. A heavy silence hung over the vast space like a pall.

"Welcome, Wardens, to the great Deep Roads! Once the highway of our ancient empire," Oghren announced, a distinct slur to his tone. Sten shot him a disgusted look.

"What lives underground, but mice and worms? Crawling, inferior beasts, hiding from the sun," the Qunari intoned, deeply unamused by their surroundings.

"And moles," added Alistair, tilting his head back to gaze at the shadowed ceiling. He had grown increasingly unnerved during their journey through the mine, more versed in the lore of the Deep Roads than Flora. The other Wardens had told stories of Darkspawn nests where Hurlocks and Genlocks spawned like maggots; swarming the cracks and crevices of the old dwarven empire. Additionally, he was not particularly reassured by Harrowmont's conviction that the Blight would leave the tunnels mostly empty.

"Well, kiss my muscled buttocks if it don't impress yeh," muttered Oghren, shooting the Qunari a venomous look. "I know you ain't got shit to rival it on the Surface."

Alistair took the map from his pack and unfolded it, glancing over at Flora as she approached.

"Do you feel anything?" he asked, with a small grimace.

_Do you sense them? The Darkspawn? Our twisted brethren, of shared blood._

Flora shrugged, then shook her head. Alistair nodded, shrugging a shoulder.

"Me neither. Right, let's have a look at this."

He found the mine entrance marked by Harrowmont's hand, then traced his finger along the western branch.

"Where are we going?" Flora asked, pressing against his elbow as she squinted down at the meaningless lettering. He pointed with a mail-encased finger.

"Just here. Caridin's Cross."

The route at first seemed to be relatively straightforward. They travelled west down the vast and imposing passageway, discerning no movement other than their own. Alistair kept waiting for that distinctive  _pull_ in the back of his mind that would indicate the presence of the enemy, but the hours went by and he felt nothing.

Sten walked silently, several paces ahead and refusing to engage in conversation. Oghren had aimed several lecherous comments at Flora, only to be met with mild and unoffended confusion. Alistair, who was frenetically searching the corners of his mind for any whisper of approaching Darkspawn, missed the majority of the dwarf's lewdness.

"So, are you two shagging then?" asked Oghren finally, unwrapping some cured meat from his pack. They had stopped for lunch beside a statue of a large, hammer-wielding dwarf, whose stern stare was disconcertingly similar to Sten's.

Oghren's comment was naturally directed at Flora and Alistair, who were sat side by side in the statue's shadow. Alistair dropped his salted jerky into his lap, a flush flaring in his cheeks. Flora eyed the dwarf, unfamiliar with the terminology he had used. Oghren grinned back at her, evilly, though the thick ginger moustache.

Munching thoughtfully on a carrot, Flora – in her limited experience – rather naively assumed that  _shagging_ was another term for  _hugging._

"Not right now," she replied after a moment of reflection. "Probably later, though."

"Really!" A grin of disbelief and delight spread over Oghren's face, moustache twitching. "Perfect: I love to watch."

Swallowing the last of her carrot, Flora gave him a rather bemused smile. Alistair groaned under his breath, shooting the dwarf a death stare.

"I thought the Antivan elf was bad enough," he grumbled, crumpling the empty wax paper into a ball within his fist. "But you make him seem like the Divine herself."

They continued following the western hallway after lunch, Flora gratefully noting that her knee seemed to be holding up well despite the hours of walking. She almost thanked Sten out loud for his suggestion of wrapping the joint tightly, but thought better of it when he shot her an impromptu look of disdain.

After three hours, they had seen no trace of Darkspawn, and Alistair allowed himself to hope that Harrowmont's optimistic prediction might actually prove true. Unfortunately, their straightforward route was about to get slightly more complex.

"Ah, bollocks!" said Oghren out loud, as they approached the edge of the ledge. An entire section of the pathway had collapsed into the magma, leaving a gap of a dozen metres between them and the next section of the hallway. Clutching the roughened edge of a pillar to secure herself, Flora peered down to the lava below. A wave of heat assaulted her cheeks and she withdrew hastily.

"Is there another way around?" Sten asked Alistair, who was squinting down at the map. Just then, the dwarf let out a bark of triumph, gesturing towards an unobtrusive doorway set into the side of the hallway.

"Ancestor's Tits! We can just use the old service tunnel. It'll take us past the collapse."

Alistair peered at the doorway, then back down at the crumpled parchment.

"It's not marked on the map," he said doubtfully, glancing over at Flora. She gave a shrug in return, her face flushed.

"It'll just run parallel to the main hallway," explained Oghren hastily, eager for them to keep moving. "Meant for maintenance workers and slaves. Ha!"

This exclamation was directed at Sten, who was already striding towards the small entranceway.

"I am eager to leave this rat warren," the Qunari retorted, his face set grimly. "If this service passage is the quickest way past the collapse; let us take it."

The service tunnel was cramped and dark; embedded with the occasional metallic grill that allowed light from the lava through. The floor was crudely hewn rock rather than flagstones, but it had been worn smooth by centuries of feet. Sten led the way, crouched over to avoid collisions with the low and uneven ceiling. He was followed by Oghren, who was gleefully apologising in advance for any unpleasant smells that he might produce in these cramped conditions. The two Wardens brought up the rear, Alistair trying to avoid Flora's staff clubbing him in the face. At six foot, the tunnel roof was also brushing the top of his head. It was too confined to do anything except scuttle forward in the darkness.

"This reminds me of the entrance to the place we got the Ashes," she said suddenly, peering over her shoulder. He recalled the twisted rock passage leading into the vast main hall of the hidden temple, and nodded.

"It does. Hey, I wonder if-…" He trailed off at the same time that Flora stopped abruptly, the end of her staff knocking against the wall as she turned.

"I feel it too," she whispered, putting a hand to her head. Alistair groaned, staring over his shoulder into the red-tinged darkness behind them. The unnatural  _pull_ tugged at the back of his mind, a malicious whisper crawling into his ears.

"It's Darkspawn," he hissed, and Sten let out a snarl of disbelief from the front.

"We cannot fight in these conditions. We are as rats in a trap."

The Qunari appeared to be right. He had no room to draw his greatsword, and Oghren would have been better served by a dagger than an unwieldy battle-ax in their limited confines. The whispering in the Wardens' ears grew louder, and now it was accompanied by a faint rustling from the distant shadows behind them.

_They can feel us too,_ Flora remembered with a start.  _They know we're here._

"Hurry up," hissed Alistair, fumbling awkwardly for his shield. "We have to get back out into the hallway."

They began to hurry through the twisting tunnel, but the sounds behind them grew louder; bestial snarls echoing off the rock that were amplified by the strange acoustics of the passage. The itching in the Wardens' brains grew more pervasive, dark tendrils spreading at the base of their skull as the Darkspawn gained on them.

"They're catching up," whispered Flora, staring into the darkness behind her. She fancied that she could hear the scrape of twisted flesh against rock and clawed feet on stone – was it her imagination or reality?

Then a louder snarl echoed towards them, faint but distinctly audible.  _Reality,_ she decided grimly, making up her mind. She elbowed Alistair, coming to a halt.

"Go in front of me," she muttered, awkwardly hauling her staff from her shoulder. "Get back into the hallway; I'll delay them for as long as I can."

For a moment, listening to her own words, she had a strange sense of déjà vu. Then she remembered where she had used nearly the exact same phrasing before.

_On top of the Tower of Ishal. Alistair going to light the beacon. Staying behind to create the barrier._

From the ugly look on Alistair's face, she knew that her words had triggered the same memory for him.

" _No,_  Flo," he hissed, his eyes desperate. "I swore I wouldn't let you do that again. Please, don't put me in this situation- "

"It's not the same!" she retorted, squirming past him in the narrow confines of the passageway. "An ogre wouldn't fit down here, for starters."

One look at his face told her that he did not appreciate her attempt at levity. She glared at him as golden light began to stream from both ends of her staff. The passage was not wide enough for her to turn the wooden haft horizontally in the usual pattern, so she had to improvise with a variety of diagonal angles.

"Alistair, I promise I'll be right behind you. You can't fight in here. You'll end up chopping the dwarf's head off."

"Or the Qunari's manhood off, heh heh.." added Oghren, unable to resist the interjection. Alistair shot her a last anguished look, before giving a tight nod.

"You better keep that promise," he hissed back at her, before turning and following the dwarf and the Qunari into the darkness ahead. Flora was left alone in the red-tinted passageway, staring into the mass of tangled shadows. Her heart beat a rapid staccato against her ribcage and her father's words rang in her ears once more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Heeeeelp I'm stuck in Deep Roads hell writing this at the moment. I keep dying to some minging monster called the Broodmother, which makes me want to vom whenever I see it! Also, Oghren definitely seems the type to use the terminology shagging, which for American readers is Eng/Scots slang for sex, lol. Unless you remember Austin Powers' Shaguar! Shagadelic, baby! Yeah!


	56. Meet Me in the Potions Cupboard

Chapter 56: Meet Me In The Potions Cupboard?

The barrier hummed gently in front of Flora, spanning the narrow width of the passage and splintering the gloom with shards of light. Barely sixty seconds after the rest of her companions had vanished, the Darkspawn swarmed the tunnel. Her vision was distorted by the shimmering, intangible shield; she could not detect whether it was Genlock or Hurlock pushing fruitlessly against the solid wall of light. She braced her feet against the stone, feeling their snarled efforts as physical nudges against her edges of her mind. Claws scrabbled at the barrier, a bestial growl of frustration echoing through the passageway.

_Genlocks,_ she thought, picturing the curved, razor-sharp claw sported by the shorter Darkspawn breeds. She caught the occasional fleeting glimpse of the enemy as more of them massed behind the barrier – a curving, rusted blade held aloft, a partially exposed skull and a mouth full of wicked fangs. Accompanying them was a stench of heat and mouldering decay. From close up, their skin looked like rotted meat.

She stared at their blurred faces, unsure whether her calmness was borne from bravery or terror. She had seen Duncan fighting the Darkspawn before when she had accompanied him and Cailan out into the Wilds. Unlike the King, who shouted and beat his sword against his shield in raucous display; Duncan had faced the Darkspawn in silence, his face very still while his black Rivaini eyes blazed with conviction.

Flora lifted her chin, feeling determination rise in her stomach.

_Let's try it your way, my Commander,_ she thought; forcibly ejecting the doubt and fear from her mind and focusing instead on the cool weight of the metal amulet against her throat. She gazed at the Darkspawn's inhuman features, blurred behind the shifting light, and felt resolve harden within her breast.

"I'm not scared of you," she informed the snarling beast on the other side of the barrier. "I'm not- "

Suddenly, the crowd of Darkspawn appeared to part. She caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-garbed figure, then saw it raise a clawed hand. A jagged tear of a mouth opened and then Flora felt a great rush of energy wash over her, like a storm surge. It disorientated her; she felt her focus slip like a doll from a child's hand. The barrier flickered and she almost dropped the staff in shock, panting. It felt almost as though the air itself had been stolen from her lungs. Shocked that it's spell was able to penetrate her barrier; even more shocked that a Darkspawn was able to cast magic at all, Flora decided that she had bought the others adequate time.

As the creature raised skeletal fingers once more, Flora lowered her staff. Turning around, hoping that the barrier would not collapse immediately in her wake, she scuttled down the passageway. Behind her, the snarling increased in volume and intensity. The metallic clatter of their swords against the barrier rang out like some twisted version of a Chantry bell.

The rock tunnel took several twists and turns; the wall partially caved in at one point. As she clambered over the rubble, she felt a sigh in the back of her mind and realised that her shield had fallen.

Hearing the horde only a half-minute behind her, Flora scrambled over the rock and ran down the passageway. The resolve that had once hardened in her chest had dissolved into a pulsing mass of fear that rose up in her throat like bile. The end of her staff collided with the protruding rock walls as her bound knee gave a twinge of pain. Behind her, she heard them scrambling to overtake one another in their eagerness to catch her, letting out guttural snarls. Clearly, the Darkspawn were not above attacking their brethren in order to be first to reach the prey.

Before her the passageway split into two and she came to an abrupt halt, gaping in horror. Desperately, she reached out to the only other non-Darkspawn presence in the Deep Roads.

_Where are you, brother-warden?_

Moments later, Flora felt her mind pull in one direction, like an anchorless boat caught in the current. She heard the horde behind her and panicked, lunging down the left hand passageway. She felt something whistle past her right ear and realised in horror that it was an arrow, the same black tipped variety that she had removed from the soldier's back in Lothering.

Then she saw a brighter red-tinged glow at the end of the passageway, and forced her unwilling legs to go faster. She heard another arrow whistle past her hip, something metallic clattering against the rock wall beside her. Ahead she could see the tunnel opening out at one end, glimpsing the cavernous hallway that lay beyond. She ran towards it, feeling her knee weakening beneath her.  _A bit further,_ she begged it inwardly,  _just a little bit._

Flora emerged out into the vast corridor of the Deep Roads, eyes protesting at the sudden blaze of light. At the same moment she felt something strike her shoulder blade from the rear, the impact hard enough to knock her down. She fell forwards onto hands and knees, her staff clattering onto the polished flagstones.

The Darkspawn erupted from the tunnel entrance behind her; the stench of decay filled her nostrils and she scrabbled frantically for the staff. The wooden shaft rolled away from her across the stone.

Then the horde surged into the meat grinder that was three readied warriors, fired up on adrenaline as powerful as any magical enervation. The Qunari, surprisingly agile for his bulk, spun in a deadly scythe; carving through anything unfortunate enough to cross his path. Oghren proved that his claim to be the most skilled warrior in Orzammar was no idle boast; his battle ax cleaving apart Darkspawn torsos as easily as a knife sliding through butter. Flora, on her hands and knees, scrambled to one side, gaping up at her three companions as they tore into the enemy. Alistair, rage and fear fuelling his anger, used his shield more as a battering ram rather than as a defensive tool. Thrusting it into Genlock skulls hard enough to split them, the thrusts of his sword were calculated and brutal.

Then the emissary emerged, raising clawlike hands in preparation to cast. Alistair, who had seen a Darkspawn mage once before in the Korcari Wilds, raised his blazing hazel stare towards it. A long unused skill, honed in years of Templar training, pushed itself to the forefront of his mind. For a brief moment, he could almost sense the mana running through the creature's twisted veins; stronger even than his awareness of Flora cringing on hands and knees.

_You will speak no spell. You will cast no magic. Silence,monster._

The next moment, the Darkspawn caster let out a snarl of rage as it stumbled forwards, almost as if it had been physically struck. Temporarily drained of mana by Alistair's half-remembered Templar incantations, the emissary flailed and called for help. The next moment, Oghren's battle-ax lodged itself in its torso, and the mage crumpled to the ground.

Suddenly it was very quiet. The silence was broken by Oghren letting out a triumphant roar, beating a fist against his barrel-like chest.

"Ha!  _That's_ how it's done. Say hello to the Ancestors for me, you filthy bastards."

Alistair dropped his shield unceremoniously and went to a grimacing Flora, dropping to his knees beside her.

"Flo," he muttered, caught between relief and fear. "Are you hurt?"

As he asked her, he saw the Genlock arrow, thin and dark, protruding from her shoulder blade. It had not penetrated far, the head sunk only an inch beneath the skin. He exhaled; the wound was not deep and the arrow did not appear blighted. She eyed him, sullenly.

"So they stuck you like a pincushion, eh?" he murmured, reaching out to unfasten her tunic. Her glum expression turned to mild trepidation as his fingers loosened the tunic strings, and he let out a half-laugh.

"Don't look at me like that, my dear. We need to get this arrow out, and it's not coming through your clothing."

Flora looked sulky, more so as Oghren and Sten approached.

"I thought you were a  _barrier_ mage," exclaimed the dwarf, hastily moving around to the front for a better view as Alistair removed her tunic with care. "Ain't the point of a barrier to stop things like that from getting through?"

"Yes," Flora breathed in response as Sten knelt, fumbling in his pack. "I just lost concentration for a moment."

"You need to widen the wound," stated the Qunari, bringing forward a small knife. "Otherwise the arrowhead will remain caught."

Keeping his eyes fixed on Flora's slender back, Alistair lowered her shirt around her waist. The wound was surprisingly bloodless, the spindly arrow protruding just to the left of her shoulder blade. Flora placed the sheaf of treaties on the rock before her, giving a slight shiver of pain.

"I know how to remove arrows," replied Alistair testily, then relented and moved over. Sten leaned forward and brought the knife to the wound, taking no particular care to be gentle.

Alistair gripped Flora's bare arm, his eyes fixed on hers.

"Don't worry," he said, with a small smile, mimicking her words from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. "I'm not looking anywhere but your face."

Their dwarf companion had no such qualms, leering across at her as she gritted her teeth, clutching the leather strap of her pack in a death-grip.

"Lovely soft skin you got there, darlin'," Oghren informed her, admiringly. Alistair, the tips of his ears reddening, shot an evil stare down at the dwarf.

"Can you  _not_?"

Oghren gave a shrug as Sten used the knife to work the arrowhead free from the skin.

"Fine. No need to be such a prude, Prince Charming. Oh, and _nice tits_."

Flora, grateful for the distraction, laughed and then yelped as Sten withdrew the arrowhead from her skin. The wound immediately began to leak, blood swelling up within the inch-long tear. Alistair was still frozen in a state of shock; and so Sten reluctantly helped Flora to reach back, guiding her groping fingers. She closed her eyes, using the pain to focus herself. Golden mist sprung from her fingertips and sunk into the shallow wound, knitting torn skin together in seconds.

Alistair blinked, regaining his composure. He stared at her and she smiled at him, giving a shrug of self-depreciation.

"All done, sorry for holding us up."

The incongruous apology made his jaw drop in incredulity. Impulsively he drew her into his arms, embracing her tightly and resting his chin on her head. Sten snorted in disgust, turning his back on them both.

"My love," Alistair murmured, running his fingers over the smooth skin of her back, roughly tracing the freckle-marked  _Peraquialus_ constellation. "Your delay bought us our lives."

Flora was too distracted by the fact that he was embracing her bare upper body to register the term of endearment that he had used. She hugged him back, resting her chin on his shoulder. He held her close; ignoring the dwarf's lascivious chuckle, running his fingers through the thick loose strands of her hair.

After a few moments, the colour drained from Alistair's face as he realised that his palm was spread against his warden-sister's lower back, her bare chest pressed into his own mail-clad one. He pulled back, his eyes inadvertently dropping, then let out a groan and clapped a hand over his face.

"Put your shirt on, please, Flo. This is making me crazy."

"What is?" she asked, tugging the shirt back up over her body. "Me?"

Alistair shook his head, risking a glance at her. She was tucking the treaties inside the half-buttoned linen shirt, one shoulder still exposed. He leaned forward and kissed the bare skin, sliding the fingers of one hand into her hair. The fight to restrain himself from moving his other hand inside the shirt and onto her abdomen was a far greater struggle than their recent encounter with the Darkspawn.

"Seeing you like this," he said softly, his lips close to her ear. "I can't help but want…"

He trailed off, pausing for a moment in a heady mix of disbelief and certainty.

"Want what?"

"You," he replied, and his voice was thick and raw with desire. " _All_ of you."

Flora stared at him, the firelight reflected in her pale grey irises. Then she smiled at him, and the curve of her full mouth made his gut constrict. Her thumb moved to the side of his face, tracing the angular plane of his cheekbone.

"You want to… meet me in the Potions cupboard for some out-of-hours prayertime?" she whispered, and he groaned under his breath.

"Don't tease me, Flora," he said, a raw edge to his voice.

"Ach, get a room you two!" interjected Oghren, a wicked leer on his face. Sten was also watching them, nostrils flared, deeply un-amused.

Because Alistair was still gazing at her with a slightly stunned look on his face, Flora took the initiative. Tugging her tunic over her head, she retrieved her staff and used it to propel herself to her feet.

"Let's keep going," she announced, as Alistair scrambled to his feet "Let's get to Caridin's Cross before nightfall!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: This was a cute chapter to write - it features Flora making a conscious effort to be brave in the face of the Darkspawn and the failure of her barrier for the first time; it also demonstrates that the other members of the party are perfectly capable of defending themselves without her barrier. Alistair also calls Flora his love, which unfortunately she did not hear due to being too distracted by her partial nudity. Also, Sten being helpful! And propositions! Poor Alistair getting hot under the collar. It seems like ages since the potions-cupboard, out of hours prayertime discussion back in Lothering!
> 
> Also, I'm going back to Wales (the mother laaaaaand!) for the Easter weekend, so no updates until Monday! Happy holidays :)


	57. Caridin's Cross

Chapter 57: Caridin's Cross

In spite of Flora's optimistic proclamation, there was no way of telling what time it was. Instead, they walked the Deep Roads for hour upon hour, reaching the great crossroads just before they reached the point of exhaustion.

After ensuring that the area was clear of Darkspawn, they made camp on the stone platform at Caridin's Cross. Raised on several steps, it had a good vantage point of each possible direction of attack. Despite having no food requiring heating, they still built a fire from scavenged scraps of leather and discarded charcoal.

Sten sat several feet from the flames, eating his salted meat in silence. Oghren had produced several bottles from his pack, looked delighted when nobody else deigned to share, and proceeded to drink them all himself. He leaned back on his bedroll and regaled them with improbable tales of glory from his youth.

Alistair was only half-listening, his eyes focused on Flora's face. She was sprawled on her back beside him, her head resting on his knee.

"An' that's how I won my seventh Proving with no weapons and with one hand tied behind my back," finished Oghren triumphantly, taking a long swig of his drink. Alistair looked somewhat sceptical, smoothing down the stray strands of hair around his sister-warden's forehead. She yawned, her eyes drifting closed.

"That doesn't sound very realistic," he said, a dubious note to his tone. "Do they let you fight in the Proving without a weapon?"

Oghren threw the bottle from the stone platform; the shattered fragments lost within the shadows of Caridin's Cross.

"Ooh, Prince Charming wins a single Proving and suddenly he's an expert on Orzammar tradition," the dwarf retorted snidely, reaching for the fourth bottle. Sten shot him a look full of disapproval; but the Qunari's glare went unacknowledged.

Alistair raised his eyebrows but did not reply, despite inwardly grimacing at the unfortunately  _accurate_  choice of epithet. Oghren shot him a reddish stare out of one half-closed eye; a curious glow lurking behind the mask of alcohol. The dwarf's stare fell to the dozing Flora, her cheek against Alistair's knee, his fingers resting lightly on top of her skull.

"So is that your woman?" Oghren commented lightly, as Alistair looked up once more. "'Cause if she ain't, I'd definitely be interested in exploring her Proving Grounds, if you know what I mean, heh…"

It took Alistair a few moments to realise what Oghren was referring to. As soon as he had divined the dwarf's meaning he grimaced, the tip of his ears flaring scarlet.

"That's very inappropriate," he hissed, hoping that Flora had fallen asleep. "And she's my… sister-warden. In a way, we share the same blood."

Oghren eyed him with some suspicion, and it was his turn to sound dubious.

"I don't know about Surfacers, but down here, men don't grope their sisters like you was doin' earlier."

The flush from Alistair's ears spread to the rest of his face, and he shot a scalding glare across the fire, in the dwarf's general direction.

"That's ridiculous; I wasn't…  _groping_ her. I was relieved she was alright; I was comforting her."

Oghren snorted, draining the fourth bottle and looking around for the fifth. Unable to find it, he shot a suspicious glance at the Qunari, who retorted solely with an impassive scowl.

"Well," said the dwarf, giving up and reaching for the last of the salted meat. "From what I could see, you looked very  _excited_ about comforting her. If you know what I mean, heh heh."

He shot Alistair a significant look, and the male Warden let out a groan.

"Really? Are we really talking about this? No we're not. "

"I suggest we get some rest," interjected a deeply un-amused Sten, who had been studying the map. "Ortan Thaig is almost a full day's walk away, if we continue at your funereal pace."

"What is Ortan Thaig anyway?" asked Flora sleepily, opening her eyes once more. Alistair startled, not realising that she had been still awake during his conversation with Oghren.

"An old colony," replied Oghren, before letting out a loud belch. "The thaigs run below the Deep Roads. Many are older than Orzammar itself. Primeval."

"Why do you think that Branka's there?" Flora continued, recalling even from their first entrance into the Deep Roads, Oghren had insisted that they make their way towards this particular thaig. The dwarf sighed, and looked pensive for a moment, squinting off into the shadows.

"My old woman was obsessed with finding Orzammar's  _lost weapon_ , something which'd allow us to push back the Darkspawn for good. It was created by an old Paragon, Caridin. Ortan Thaig was his old haunt."

"What nature of weapon?" asked Sten, finally curious enough to engage in conversation. Oghren paused a moment before replying, heaving a sigh as he did so.

"Golems. Vast sentiment metal and rock creatures, controlled by rods. The dwarves used them in ages past to crush the Darkspawn, since they were immune to their taint. Caridin's Anvil of the Void created them. Then…. he just disappeared. Along with his weapon."

While Flora and Alistair appeared somewhat bemused, Sten nodded. It rapidly became apparent that he had been studying Orzammar's history in the Shaperate while the Wardens had been busy playing Wicked Grace.

"And is it our objective to find Branka, or to obtain this weapon?"

Oghren fell silent for a moment, choosing to stoke the fire with the end of his shortsword rather than respond. Eventually, he gave a slight shrug.

"Eh, we'll talk more about it in the morning."

"How can you give something made out of metal and rock sentience?" asked Flora, curiously. At the Circle, the terminology used to refer to the control of one's own mind and actions had been drilled into her:  _sentience, domination, abomination._

Oghren shrugged once again, yawning loudly and pointedly.

"No idea, kiddo."

Flora persisted, staring up at the heights of the vaulted ceiling.

"Dwarves can't give a living thing a mind of its own, can they? I mean, they can't give it a  _soul?"_

Oghren snorted, dragging his bedroll closer to the fire and loosening his boots.

"You never know. What makes you so sure  _you've_  got a soul, lass?"

"I know I have a soul," she replied, smiling up at Alistair as he edged his thumb around her ear. Oghren sprawled back on his bedroll, letting out a second, louder belch.

"Oop! Better out than in. Where is it then?"

Flora reached up and laid her fingers to her breast, patting gently.

"Here, somewhere," she said vaguely, and the dwarf snorted.

"If you say so, lassie. I put more stock in things I can see and touch."

* * *

 

Although they had seen no Darkspawn since the attack in the service passage; it was deemed wisest to stagger their watches throughout the night. Since Oghren was already snoring loudly, Alistair took first watch. He kept the fire burning, squinting down into the shadowed hallways for any sign of movement.

A yawning Flora relieved him several hours later, her staff resting across her lap as she sat cross-legged before the fire. She sent her glowing 'lanterns' as far down the long corridors of the crossroads as she could; watching as they faded away several dozen yards into the darkness. After an hour of gormlessly watching the fire burn down, she went over to the rotted ballista and began to systematically dismantle it. Fortunately, the wood was weak and the joints loose, and she was easily able to work the iron bolts free.

Sten woke up before she had finished, and silently assisted her in carrying the wood back to the fire, replenishing the fuel at its base. As Sten took over the watch, she returned to her bedroll, positioned beside Alistair's own in the shadow of a vast half-crumbled pillar. Oghren was snoring loudly, the deep rumbles of his throat echoing between the ceiling arches.

Flora sprawled back onto the bedroll, then regretted it as she realised quite how  _hard_  the ground underneath was. Wincing, she rolled over to face Alistair. He was on his side, eyes open, mouth turned downwards in a grimace.

"It's freezing down here," he hissed, fretfully pulling the sleeves of his linen underarmour down his forearms. "I thought it'd be hotter, with all the... lava."

"I'm not cold," said Flora, abandoning her efforts to keep quiet once she realised that Oghren's snores more than drowned her own words out.

Alistair reached out and gripped her hand; sure enough, her slender fingers were warm against his own calloused ones.

"You're always hot," he retorted as she pulled a face at the coldness of his palms. "How is the Qunari coping bare-chested?"

Flora propped herself up on an elbow and eyed Sten. He was sitting on the other side of the fire, glowering into the darkness.

"I don't know. He seems alright," she replied with a mild shrug. Then, struck by a sudden idea, she rolled over on top of him. He reached up to embrace her, pulling her close against his chest.

"Aah, you are freezing," she complained, with a scowl. "I think I made a mistake."

Alistair shook his head with a grin, lifting his head to raise his mouth to her ear.

"Too late," he murmured, sliding his hand beneath the back of her shirt to seek the warm skin under the linen. "I've got you now."

Flora peered down at him through the red-tinged shadows, raising an eyebrow. The silver Chantry amulet dangled from her neck and brushed against his chest.

"No one can  _get_ me, if I don't want it" she challenged, alluding to her ability to create a barrier from the very air itself.

"Good," Alistair replied, his fingers tracing over the Peraquialus freckles on her back. "Nobody gets you, but me."

He knew instinctually where they lay, the highest just below the nape of her neck and the lowest at the very base of her spine. He felt her shiver as he dropped his fingers to the small of her back, brushing against the waistband of her woollen breeches. Reaching up with his free hand, he drew her head to his and sought out her mouth with his own hungry lips.

Flora allowed him to kiss her for several long, languid minutes, responding with her own lips and tongue to his unrefined ardour. Alistair panted unevenly into her mouth, and she felt his arousal pressing hard and insistent against her thigh.

This was her cue to roll away, landing with a soft thud onto her own bedroll.

"I think you're warm enough now," she whispered, as her brother-warden let out a groan. "Don't want you to  _overheat_."

He eyed her through the shadows, caught somewhere in the no-man's land between pleasure and frustration. Flora smiled at him, then reached out her hand. He took it, lacing their fingers together.

"Flo, whatever happens, we'll always be together, won't we?" he asked her suddenly, feeling the slender fragility of her fingers between his own. She gazed back at him, thoughtfully.

_Not if you become King,_ she thought, allowing herself to seriously contemplate the idea for the first time, since Wynne had raised it. The thought of Alistair becoming King, leaving her as the only remaining Warden in Ferelden, suddenly made her feel cold to her bones. Then she looked at her brother-warden's anxious face, and made herself smile at him.

"Of course," she whispered confidently, not allowing her doubts to inflect upon her voice. "We have the fish rope, remember? Not even the tide can part us."

He smiled back at her, bringing their clasped hands to his mouth and kissing her fingers.

"My love," he murmured, and this time she heard him. Flora gazed at him curiously through the darkness, watching his eyelids close as sleep rose up to claim him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OK, I know I said no update until Monday, but I just wanted to do this little one really quickly! I also wanted to share a few pictures, which you'll unfortunately have to go to a bit of effort to locate, since no linking...!
> 
> Firstly, Google "Atarial Warden Alistair"for my favourite piece of Alistair fanart, by the very talented artist Atarial (not done for me, obviously!).
> 
> Secondly, the painting of Emma Hart as Circe, by eighteenth century British artist George Romney, is how I imagine Flora to look. I'm getting a proper commission of her done, and this is the reference image I gave the artist! You can locate this easily through Google.


	58. The Primeval Ortan Thaig

Chapter 58: The Primeval Ortan Thaig

Although the party had no way of surmising when it was morning, they still began their 'day' with breakfast. Despite Sten's muttering that they should press on, Flora fought for the chance to eat on the grounds that they would be better prepared to face the Darkspawn on full stomachs. In truth, the thought of skipping a meal frightened her nearly as much as a Genlock emerging from the shadows.

After checking the map, they began to head down one of the long hallways towards Ortan Thaig. The scenery was unchanging: vaulted ceilings and uniform towering pillars flanked the tiled passageway. Two streams of magma, covered by bronze grills, provided some rudimentary heat and light. Flora sent her lanterns up towards the ceiling, casting a whitegold glow over ancient reliefs carved into the panelling.

"Let's play  _I Espy_ ," said Oghren after several hours, with a wicked grin. Sten pointedly increased his pace, while Flora looked intrigued. The dwarf glanced around, then raised his finger.

" _I Espy_ , with my cunning eye, something beginning with….. S.  _Suh."_ He added the phonetic in consideration of Flora, whose illiteracy had been brought up in conversation over breakfast.

"Stone," replied Alistair immediately, while Flora let out an indignant squawk. Her brother-warden shot her a mocking grin, giving a mild shrug.

"That was easy, everything is made from stone down here. Alright, _I Espy_ , with my cunning eye… something beginning with L _."_

"Legs," replied Oghren promptly, then looked innocent as Alistair scowled at him. "What? You keep looking at hers, so I thought that was the logical answer."

"No, it was  _lava,"_ muttered Alistair, colour rushing to his cheeks. Beside him Flora laughed, shifting her staff onto the other shoulder. Oghren shrugged, then looked mildly interested.

"Speaking of her legs, do they ever get in the way?"

"Get in the way of what?" asked Alistair, innocuously. Flora, who had slightly more second-hand experience in the topic of discussion due to overhearing other apprentices at the Circle, snorted.

"You know, when you're  _stoking the forge_. Hammering the metal. Going about your business. Eh heh heh…"

With a cackle, Flora abandoned Alistair to Oghren and ran ahead to catch Sten up. Alistair, finally comprehending the dwarf's meaning, stared at him agape.

"You're asking what I…  _do_ with her legs when we're…?"

" _Shagging_ ," Oghren finished bluntly, with a patient nod. "Do you stick 'em in the air? Tie 'em in a bow? Or just part 'em and… have at it?"

Alistair groaned loudly, raising a hand to his head in disbelief. Oghren grinned up at him, with a satisfied nod.

"Ah, I knew it! Just get down to business, right? Good man."

Flora took pity on Alistair, who was now a vibrant shade of scarlet. Falling back alongside him as they headed down the long hallway, she peered around.

" _I Espy_ , with my cunning eye, something beginning with T."

"Tiles," offered Oghren, and Flora shook her head.

"Tunnel," said Alistair, receiving the same response.

"No,  _tomato_ ," Flora replied, and pointed at Alistair's face. He scowled at her and she smiled sweetly back.

They continued for several hours, following the old map towards Ortan Thaig. At a half-blocked crossroads, Darkspawn rushed them from two of the four branching hallways. Alistair had shouted a warning moments before; they hastily drew their weapons just in time to meet the assault.

These Darkspawn all bore signs of prior injury, a pack of scavengers separated from the main horde. Their attacks were uncoordinated and relatively easy to repel. Flora hung back, shielding where necessary but not needing to do a great deal. A great cleaving swing from Sten took out three Darkspawn at once, spilling blackened guts over the worn flagstones. Alistair thrust his sword downwards into the neck of a dagger-wielding Genlock who had been attempting to sneak up on Oghren from behind. Oghren himself was laughing, his gait unsteady but the strikes of his ax precise.

"Back to the holes yeh crawled from, dusters!"

The dwarf turned, and the grin rapidly fall from his face.

A round had already been loaded, a half-rotten wooden shaft with a wicked iron point at its tip. Two Hurlocks were aiming it as it cranked back, pointing the weapon towards the Wardens and their party.

"Ballista! The bastards have got a  _ballista_!"

For a single heartbeat, Flora wondered if her shield was strong enough to withstand the shock of an artillery round; then there was no time left to think.

She thrust up her staff to summon the barrier into existence; a split second later the iron point crashed into the gleaming golden mist. The impact reverberated through her as though she had been hit by some great fist. The staff dropped from her hand, and she fell backwards, the breath knocked from her lungs.

The barrier dissolved into the sulphuric air but it had served its purpose; the Hurlocks began to reload the artillery device but then Sten crashed into them, using his own bulk as a weapon. Flora, still flat on her back, stretched out a hand to sheathe the Qunari in protective light as he dispatched the Darkspawn efficiently, one after the other. She sat up, attempting to suck air back into her empty lungs as Alistair started across the platform towards her.

Oghren, turning, raised his voice in a second yell of warning. He lifted his ax, lunging forward.

"Lass!  _Duck!"_

Flora flattened herself back down against the stone as a Hurlock swung a rusting scythe over her head, close enough to shear several hairs. Oghren swung his ax to sever the creature's outstretched arms; then followed through with a single thrust to the gut with his shortsword.

For a moment nobody moved; waiting for the next wave of the attacks. When the dark hallways produced nothing but shadows, Oghren let out a roar of triumph. Withdrawing the shortsword, he kicked the dead Hurlock off the platform and raised his fist.

"Ha! Gets the blood runnin', am I right lassie?"

He looked down at Flora who was gingerly sitting back upright, coughing as she took an overlarge gasp of air back into her lungs.

"Eh, you're pretty useful after all."

Flora, eyes streaming as she coughed, waved a hand in acknowledgement. Then a pale Alistair was there, grasping her fingers and hauling her back to her feet.

"Here," he muttered, handing her his water flask. She took a long gulp, then exhaled unsteadily.

"Let us continue," interjected Sten, pointedly.

They paused to eat an hour later, their lunch consisting of a conservative portion of salt biscuits and beef jerky. Before long they pressed onwards, taking another service tunnel to bypass a collapsed section of hallway. A single Hurlock occupied the dark passageway, dispatched efficiently with a thrust of Alistair's sword.

Eventually, they followed a smaller branching hall which culminated in a large pair of ornately carved stone doors. A number of engravings were visible upon inlaid panelling; most prominent were the inkpen and the anvil.

"House Ortan produced two Paragons," Oghren informed them, gazing up at the vast doors with something akin to reverence. "Ortan himself, who wrote the  _Seven Brothers,_ and the smith Caridin."

"Why was this place abandoned then?" asked Alistair, feet throbbing from the miles covered.

"Darkspawn swarmed it during the Fourth Blight," replied Sten, once more proving the value of his research in the Shaperate. Flora pulled a face, envisioning an insect-like horde milling behind the vast doors, steadily growing in number as the centuries passed.

"How do Darkspawn reproduce?" she asked suddenly, as Alistair pulled a revolted face at her. "Are there-  _lady_ Darkspawn?"

"Next time we see one, lift up it's skirts and check," suggested Oghren, his ears suddenly pricking up. Sten had also heard the unexpected sound: the unmistakeable noise of footsteps.

"We're not alone," the Qunari muttered, just as a half-dozen dark-clothed figures melted silently from the shadows. Oghren gave a roar of frustration, ginger eyebrows rising in disbelief.

"Ach, yeh're kidding me!"

"Bhelen sends his regards," announced the mercenary leader, retrieving a wicked-looking spiked mace from his belt. "Your corpses will be left for the Darkspawn to feast upon."

Flora saw Sten lift the greatsword from his back and stepped forward hastily, raising her palms.

"Can't you just… go away?" she asked lamely, feeling the Qunari's glare burning between her shoulder blades. "I just don't think this is going to go too well for y- "

Her words were cut off abruptly as one of the mercenaries flung a curved dagger through the air towards her chest; the blade flashing in the air as it spun. Flora flung up a hand and the blade clattered against the barrier as it materialised before her. Alistair, drawing his sword, stepped forward in outrage.

The six mercenaries were highly-trained assassins, proficient in the brutal and vicious style of assault favoured by the dwarven warrior caste. Unfortunately, they were outmatched in their brutality by Sten; who single-handedly dispatched three with merciless efficiency. Protected by a scowling Flora's golden sheath, Alistair and Oghren finished the final three mercenaries between them.

It was over in mere minutes; the Qunari having barely broken a sweat. Six dwarven corpses lay scattered on the tiles, blood seeping out to cover more ancient and faded stains. Oghren, ever practical, went to retrieve their supplies, while Flora continued to sulk.

"I gave them a  _chance_  to leave," she grumbled, watching their own dwarf companion crowing in delight as he pulled out several bottles from the mercenary leader's pack. "And one threw a dagger at my- "

"Why?" asked Sten, genuinely confused. "Their purpose was to kill you."

"I might've persuaded them otherwise," she countered, as Oghren let out a contemptuous snort.

"Your persuasion is not as powerful as Bhelen's paycheck, lass," he said, with a mild shrug.

"Well, we'll add this Bhelen to the list of things that want us dead," Alistair interjected cheerfully, leaning his weight against one of the vast stone doors. "Archdemons, Darkspawn, Loghain, and now an angry dwarf prince. Excellent!"

Compared to the refined architecture of the Deep Road hallways, Ortan Thaig was vast, sprawling and unmistakably subterranean. Crudely hewn figures were seamlessly integrated with the cavern walls, towering above their heads to reach the stalactite-littered ceiling. There were the remains of buildings rising from the stone floor, many crumbled and hollow. The occasional intact structure sat squat amongst the rubble, like a lone island. A heavy sense of antiquated solemnity hung over the cavern like a shroud.

There were more Darkspawn here, gathered in loose groupings around clumsily-constructed fires. As before, many of them appeared deformed or injured in some way; which appeared to cut them off from communicating with the main horde, or from receiving the Archdemon's instruction. If they had united into a single force and attacked the Orzammar party as one, they might have posed a threat. However, their attacks were scattered and sporadic; and were easily repulsed.

"This is the Paragon Caridin's old haunt," breathed Oghren, sliding his ax once more over his shoulder. "If Branka's anywhere, she'll be here."

Flora glanced around, shivering involuntarily. The shadows seemed to move with a life and sentience of their own, massing around their feet and casting the thaig in shades of monochromatic grey.

Once the Darkspawn attacks seemed to taper off, Sten announced that he was going to locate the source of the running water. They had heard the sound of a muffled stream on first entering the thaig, but it had not been marked on their map; their flasks were beginning to run low.

As the Qunari disappeared into the darkness, the dwarf and the two Wardens wandered through the abandoned colony. Despite the decrepit state of the majority of buildings, it still retained a strange sense of majesty. The vast stone sentinels stared sternly down at them with hammers raised; despite ultimately failing at their duty of protecting the dwarven Thaig.

"Over there," said Alistair suddenly, gesturing to a hollowed-out entrance in the rockface. The faint yellow glow of a campfire came from within, a pinprick of light against the shadow. Oghren's eyes lit up, and he began to stride across the stone.

"Branka!" he called, his voice rising to the limestone stalactites clinging to the ceiling. "Is that you, old woman?  _Oh_."

His voice tapered off in disappointment and disgust as he paused inside the cave entrance. Alistair, following close behind, also stopped short, letting out a soft sound of surprise. Flora, whose knee was beginning to throb after the hours of walking, approached last.

The cavern within was small, the walls stacked with old armour and half-broken weaponry. A partially consumed Genlock corpse lay in front of a crudely constructed fire. Before it, crouched and hunch-shouldered, was a creature that seemed more animal than dwarf. It was unnaturally gaunt, wizened flesh clinging to prominent bone, the odd strand of hair clinging to a distended skull. It was clad in scraps of scavenged leather, torn in places to reveal pallid skin. Dark, round eyes with white irises were set apart in an emaciated face, lined with deepset shadow.

As it saw them, it cringed against the fire, covering its face with scrawny hands.

"No, no, no, no Darkspawn! Do not harm poor Ruck."

"What  _is_ this creature?" breathed Alistair, while Oghren's lip curled in disgust.

"That's a  _ghoul_ , lad."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ha, I heard the Oghren-Alistair legs banter in game and loved it, so I had to incorporate it into my story somewhere! I made up I Espy – which is just a blatant rip off of I Spy. If anyone is interested, I made a tumblr where I'm going to upload images/stuff related to my story – I can't link to it directly here, but it's thelionandthelight at tumblr dot com. !


	59. Branka Leaves A Clue

Chapter 59: Branka Leaves A Clue

Flora stared at the creature, overcome by pity. She felt an ominous prickling at the back of her eyes, and blinked hard to banish it.

"Might've once been part of a raiding party," continued Oghren, darkly. "At any rate, he's been left down here for years. Ghouls eat Darkspawn flesh to survive. He's  _tainted."_

"Ruck has the poison, he does," muttered the creature, one hand juddering uncontrollably at his side. "Ruck feels the poison in you too."

Alistair grimaced, turning his eyes from the twisted mockery of a dwarf before him.

"Listen here, creature," said Oghren, speaking slowly and clearly, as though to a child. "Have yeh seen a woman pass through here, with a face like a smacked arse and a giant crossbow?"

Ruck hunched over, rocking back and forth, agitated.

"Quiet, quie-e-eet, or they'll  _come_  for you! They sense the poison within you. Lots of… lots of bad things down here."

Suddenly, the stained irises grew wide and frightened. The ghoul raised an accusatory finger, cringing back towards the dying fire.

"Are  _you_  bad things? You smell like them, deep down, deep dark. Are you taking my treasures? No, no, no, no!"

The pitiful once-dwarf let out a low keen of distress. Oghren glanced over at the pile of mouldering armour, and gave a derisive snort.

"This pile of shit? Nah, yeh're alright."

Having overcome her initial shock, Flora now felt a knot of mingled sympathy and compassion hard in her throat. Ducking Alistair's restraining arm, she approached the campfire and knelt down before the trembling Ruck, who retained knowledge of his name but little else. The creature's wizened flesh and prominent bone held no fear for her, a healer who had seen the worst ravages that could befall a living being.

"We won't take anything," she whispered, reaching out her fingers tentatively towards the huddled ghoul. "Sorry for scaring you."

Ruck eyed her, his tainted gaze searching her face. He looked at her fingers like they were spiders crawling towards him, but the rigid tension of his body drained somewhat.

"Pretty girl," he muttered, taking quick, darting glances at her face. "Pretty  _bright-faced_  girl."

"Don't touch it, lass!" warned Oghren, appalled. Flora ignored him, placing her fingers on the ghoul's wizened hand. Ruck gave her a strange, twisting grimace; a vague approximation of a smile. The gesture sat strangely on his face, as if such prosaic emotions no longer belonged there.

"There's a light  _in_  the darkness inside you, bright-faced girl," he muttered, his head twitching to one side. "A consuming light, burning the shadow away. Like fire!"

Flora nodded, assuming that he was – somehow – detecting her healing magic. Gazing at the guttering remains of the creature's campfire, she reached behind her to her pack and pulled out several fragments of the old ballista. Carefully, she added them to the base of Ruck's fire.

"There we go," she mumbled, smiling back at the creature. It eyed her, half-suspicious and half-intrigued.

"Fire hot and hurts. Brings back thoughts, of a red-glow city – oh!" The creature's face contorted and it shrunk back. "No, no, no! No red-glow city. There is no light down here. No lamp in the darkness. Only shadow and seething. And dying fires."

Flora raised her hand, the golden mist rising from her palm and arcing between her fingers; the energy so thick and fluid that it almost appeared viscous. It cast a shifting glow on the cave walls, illuminating the tangle of ancient armour. Ruck gazed at it, entranced, his eyes wide.

"Burns the pretty girl?" he said, wonderingly. She shook her head, passing the fingers of her other hand through it.

"No, see? It isn't hot. It doesn't hurt; it only heals."

The creature lifted half-bone fingers and tentatively prodded at the light.

"Marvel, marvel, at the heatless flame! Heatless, _heartless_. This hole is no place for a bright one like you, with your big heart and lightness."

"Do you want to come with us?" Flora asked impulsively, lowering her hand as Oghren let out an astonished snort. "We can take you back to Orzammar."

Ruck shook his head, hunching back against the stone wall.

"N-o-o-o more red-glow city for Ruck," he muttered, lowering his twisted face. "No place for me there anymore. I am a spider in the dark. They would  _crush_  me."

"So, uh,  _did_ you ever see a dwarf woman pass through here then?" interjected Oghren, as the twisted creature shot him a baleful stare. "With her House. About forty others."

Ruck kept his unnerving pale gaze on the ginger-haired dwarf for several long beats, then shuddered.

"Hard-face lady, voice sharp and shouting. Noise everywhere. I hid. Deep darkness is no place for  _she-things_. Darkspawn takes 'em; breaks 'em."

"Kindest thing to do would've been to put him out of his misery," said Oghren darkly as they left, returning to the vast, silence-filled hollow of the thaig. Alistair shook his head, jaw tight and appalled.

"That's not our decision to make," he replied, glancing over his shoulder at the trudging Flora. She was very quiet; he recognised the tautness in her face as a sign that she was about to cry. He reached out to take her hand, fish-roping her in the darkness. As usual, her fingers were warm despite the cold dampness of their cavernous surroundings.

"Let's find a place to make camp, my darling," he murmured, squeezing her fingers tightly. "I think we've gone far enough for today."

Oghren appeared about to protest, then saw the look on Alistair's face and decided not to argue. As they strode between the ruined remains of stone dwellings, Sten appeared before them, stoic as always.

"I have located a suitable spot to make camp," he stated, bluntly. "There is a source of running water."

The Qunari led them down a gravelled slope toward a stone bridge. Flowing beneath the bridge was a shallow subterranean river. On the opposite bank was a vast stone edifice carved into the rock; at the base of which a pair of wooden doors were set.

Darkspawn corpses were scattered over the bridge, long-since drained of their tainted blood. The trail of dead led over to the double doors, where it ended abruptly.

"Did you kill all of these just now?" asked Alistair dubiously, as they deposited their packs next to a crumbling wall, just beside the bank of the underground river. "You were very quiet. For a… _larger_ individual."

The Qunari shook his head, lowering his own pack against the stone.

"I only dispatched a few spiders. These corpses were already here."

Oghren grinned, not even pausing to arrange his bedroll before taking a long swig from a rapidly-manifested bottle.

"Ah, I bet that was my old woman! For a daughter of a smith, she were a dab hand with a crossbow. She could easily take out a half-dozen Darkspawn."

* * *

 

They set up their camp beneath the stern stare of a pair of stone dwarven sentinels. Hammers raised and sightless eyes gazing into the darkness; they bore silent witness to both the rise and fall of dwarven civilisation. To rinse away any remaining taint from their earlier encounter with the Darkspawn, they took turns to bathe in pairs within the frigid subterranean river. Flora, still brooding over the plight of the ghoul who still remembered that someone had once named him _Ruck_ , accompanied Sten down to the river.

In the waist-deep water the Qunari looked at Flora impassively, unimpressed by her shivering as she tugged fingers through tangled damp hair. There was nothing in his gaze except for a vaguely contemptuous curiosity; since he still regarded her as – for all intents and purposes –  _male._

"Why do you grieve for just one creature?" he asked abruptly, watching her clamber onto the bank and fumble for her clothing. "As a Warden, you have the fate of all Ferelden to concern yourself with."

Flora shrugged, buttoning the linen shirt back up. She retrieved the treaties from beneath her boot and tucked them back against her skin.

"I hope that I'm always able to grieve for just one creature," she mumbled, stepping into her smallclothes. "I don't ever want to become someone who doesn't care about an individual life."

"Foolish," replied Sten, eyeing her dubiously. "You have greater concerns."

They shared the usual fare of hard biscuits and salted meat for dinner; Oghren provided most of the conversation as he mused out loud about what his wife had been up to for the past two years. Veering between bitter complaint and lavish praise of the elusive Branka, the dwarf came to a halt when Sten produced a leatherbound journal from his pack.

"I found this beside the corpse of a dwarf. A male corpse, so not belonging to the Paragon" the Qunari added, ignoring Oghren's frantic waving and passing the journal to Flora. She opened the worn cover, admiring the penmanship but unable to read the excited calligraphy. The pages were stained and torn, many stuck together by a mouldering damp. Only the last few were still legible. Oghren took the journal from her and stared down at the final page, recognition dawning on his ale-flushed features.

"I knew it! This is Branka's writing," he crowed, tilting the damp page towards the campfire. "Let's see what message my old woman left us."

They watched the ginger-haired dwarf read, his brow creasing deeper with each sentence. Alistair broke his last hard biscuit in half, handing part to his sister-warden. She took it, taking a mournful bite.

Finally, Oghren lowered the journal, shaking his head. When he spoke, his voice lacked its usual jovial bravado.

"She's insane," he breathed, reaching for his ale bottle to take a long gulp. "Says here that she'd lost half of her House merely getting this far.  _'But with no sign of the Anvil, I need to press on.'_ "

"Press on to where?" asked Alistair, with a slight grimace. Oghren's eyes rose to the vast stone edifice, carved into the rock-face behind them.

"Into the ancient fortress city of Bownammer," muttered the dwarf, as Sten let out a grunt of exasperation. "Otherwise known as the  _City of the Dead._ "

"Oh, perfect," said Alistair, with an exaggerated sigh. "What a delightful sounding place. And  _why_  is it called the City of the Dead?"

"Because it's fallen to the Darkspawn and been reclaimed by the Legion more times than can be counted," replied Oghren, tossing the empty bottle against the stone wall in frustration. The glass splintered; the sound echoing around the cavernous space.

"The Legion of the Dead," said Sten, displaying the fruits of his labours in the Shaperate once again. "Not dissimilar to the Grey Wardens; they pledge to spend their lives fighting the Darkspawn."

Flora, rolling the leg of her breeches up over her knee, began to massage the sore joint with her fingertips.

"So this is where your wife has gone?" she asked, scowling as her knee gave a twinge of protest. "Then we go there. There shouldn't be many Darkspawn there anyway, because of the Blight."

For a moment she wondered if the Darkspawn and the Archdemon were still in Gwaren, or if they had moved further along the coast.  _And here we are a mile underground, chasing after some dwarf,_ she thought for a brief, panicked moment.

A heavy silence fell over their camp once more. Alistair glanced sideways at Flora, whose face was still and stoic. He knew her well enough to recognise that she appeared at her most solemn when she was either frightened, upset or both. Reaching out, he took a charred splinter of wood from the base of the fire and handed it to her.

"Do you remember how to spell  _Orzammar?"_ he asked, referring to when he and Leliana had taught her the city names in the canyon near Gherlan's Pass.  _That had been the night he had given her his mother's amulet,_ he remembered with a small flutter of surprise.  _It seems an age ago._

Roused from her gloom, Flora took the splinter and scribed in blackened ash on the stone floor. Alistair retrieved the improvised writing tool and changed the ending, adding the extra  _M_ and  _R._

"Try reading this," he offered, writing several words in enlarged, separated capitals. Flora leaned over, peering at them.

" _S-S-Spi…spiders… l-i-live… h-e-r-e. Here_ ," she read, slow and tentative. Glancing over at Alistair, his nod confirmed that she was correct. She beamed at him and he returned the smile, hazel eyes gleaming.

"You learn fast, my clever girl," he said, a thread of pride running through his words. "You'll be able to read the whole Chant of Light before the year is out!"

"Ugh, please,  _no_ ," muttered an appalled Flora, and her brother-warden let out a laugh.

They set up a similar watch system to the previous night, with each of them taking turns to guard their sleeping companions. The order of watches was reversed, with Oghren and Sten overseeing the first part of the night, and the Wardens the second. Flora fell asleep almost immediately, clutching Alistair's hand tightly to her chest. He had lain rigid, feeling a cramp forming, unable to adjust his arm for fear of accidentally brushing a hand against an -albeit many-layered- breast.

Oghren exchanged places with Sten, the usually verbose dwarf preoccupied with sombre thoughts on the folly of his once-wife. The realisation that she had sacrificed half of her House to get to this point alone was a sobering one. He heard a muffled noise behind him, and turned to see a wide-eyed Flora sitting bolt upright. Alistair was flat on his back, snoring, his arm stretched out and hand clasped within hers.

"Yeh alright, lassie?" he asked, and she shook her head, eyes wide. Untangling her fingers from Alistair's, she fumbled for her staff and clambered awkwardly to her feet. Oghren eyed her with mild curiosity.

" _It's_  in my mind again" she whispered, in response to his silent question. Her head rotated to take in the full expanse of the cavern; from the shallow subterranean river to the vast stone sentinels and the crumbling, ancient structures. "It woke me."

"What woke you?" he asked as Flora returned her pale, solemn gaze to him.

"The Archdemon," she muttered, lowering her staff to the ground and hunching her shoulders. "I saw it. I heard it speaking. It's…  _louder."_

Flora remembered the first time that she had seen the beast's vast, scaled head in her mind's eye – the night in Redcliffe Castle where Alistair had taken her out onto the balcony to calm her down.  _At least now I can look back at it without hysterics of fright,_ she thought, finding a small kernel of comfort in this realisation. Letting out an unsteady exhalation, she became aware of Oghren's curious stare.

"Get some more sleep, Sparkles," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his rounded belly. "I'm waiting until this bout of indigestion ends – which may take a while - then I'm waking your boyfriend."

Flora nodded, then glanced back down at Alistair. Clad in the linen tunic, his sword and shield at his side, he seemed strangely vulnerable. She recalled what Bann Teagan had implored her, several weeks ago in the courtyard of Redcliffe Castle.

_Look after Alistair. He may be the only way of preventing civil war in Ferelden._

Impulsively, she lowered herself onto top of him and huddled up on the broad expanse of his chest, the crown of her head resting beneath his chin. He mumbled something incoherent in his sleep and embraced her roughly; one hand gripping her shoulders and the other landing firmly on the curve of her rear. Flora let out a little snort, but decided not to move it and risk awakening him. With the familiar pressure of his linen-clad chest against her cheek, she closed her eyes to steal a few hours more sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note – Aaah poor Ruck! I don't know if I was just due on my period and was super emotional, but I was in actual tears when I was playing through that part of the game. The thought of him isolated and lonely, living a weird half-life in the shadows, unable to leave… ! Flora, naturally compassionate, is sensitive to his plight. And we're about to enter for me the creepiest section of the game so far (bearing in mind I've only played up to Orzammar!) – the DEAD TRENCHES. On the plus side, Flora now has the literacy of a six year old – good for her
> 
> thelionandthelight at tumblr dot com I made a map showing their journey so far!


	60. The Archdemon

Chapter 60: The Archdemon

Oghren was impatient to move on after the 'night's' rest, eager to continue hunting down his errant wife. Despite this, he had responded with irritation when Sten enquired as to  _why_ the Paragon had left solely him behind out of her house; then proceeded to sink into a sullen and impatient mood.

The vast wooden doors leading to Bownammer were sealed shut; it was necessary for them to take one of the narrow service tunnels that lay to either side of the entrance. Sten ventured inside the dark passageway first, sword sheathed on his back, trusting in the sheer power of his bulk to overwhelm any potential enemy. Alistair and Flora followed close behind, while a sulking Oghren brought up the rear. The tunnel was cramped and claustrophobic; the air had a dry staleness to it. Flora held her staff before her, the end casting a shifting yellow glow onto the rough-hewn walls.

As they proceeded through the tunnel, it began a meandering curve to the right. Alistair began to slow, glancing around at Flora. His brow furrowed, and she stared back at him, her pale eyes tinged gold from the reflected light.

"You feel it too?" he asked, and she gave a slight nod, her expression solemn. In truth, she had begun to sense the Darkspawn presence from the moment they had entered the service tunnel, a small hook pulling at the back of her mind. She could taste bitterness beneath her tongue, almost as if the taint was in her mouth.

"Yes," she whispered, her fingers white and bloodless as they clutched the haft of her staff. "For a while now."

Alistair grimaced, as the tunnel made a sharp right turn. A reddish glow illuminated the stone, and Flora hastily extinguished the end of her staff. Sten advanced more cautiously, his fingers reaching over his shoulder for the hilt of his sword. The end of the passage was now in sight; they could see a vast cliff face rising up before them. As they approached the opening, they began to hear faint noises from somewhere below. A cacophony of howls and snarls with a distinctly bestial twinge was just about audible, echoing from somewhere below.

"That sounds like-…" Alistair began, then trailed off, shooting another glance at Flora. She was very pale, the freckles on her nose standing out like flecks of brown ink.

The tunnel opened out, bringing them out onto a boulder-strewn ledge. Beneath their feet, a chasm dropped sharply away. The source of the noise seemed to be coming from the base of the canyon. Alistair felt the noise of the Darkspawn, a humming akin to a swarm of wasps, escalate in the back of his skull as he advanced towards the drop. Momentarily struck into silence, the four of them did nothing but stare at the scene that lay spread below them.

A seething mass of Darkspawn milled at the base of the canyon. Crudely armoured in rusting metal, wielding weapons from past ages, they numbered into the hundreds, if not thousands. There was no order to them; they were bound only by their singular purpose. So many flaming torches were held aloft that they seemed to meld into shifting river of fire. Even Oghren was struck into a rare silence, staring down at the Blight-carrying army as it prepared to move out. Flora, who was the first to come to her senses, reached out to pull at Alistair's arm. Some incomprehensible sense was warning her to draw back, to find a place to hide.

_Something is coming._

"Come back here _,"_ she hissed, tugging at his elbow.

Alistair, stunned into momentary incapacity, allowed Flora to yank him away from the edge of the ledge. The next moment, a vast, scaled dragon erupted from the canyon below, soaring into the air above them. They caught only a glimpse of a heavy, horned head and malevolent orange eyes before it landed on a narrow stone bridge. It faced away from them, crouching over its army like a general poised to give a speech. Opening a snakelike fanged mouth, it let out a shrieking roar. Violet flame escaped from its jaws; and the Darkspawn horde gave a near-deafening howl in response. Within moments, the canyon was filled with the echo of hobnailed boots as the army began to move out.

The Wardens huddled against one of the boulders, trying to seem as inconspicuous as possible. Even Sten had crouched there, a tautness in his features that suggested trepidation. Alistair put a hand to his head, his skin clammy and pale beneath his tan. The other hand snaked reflexively towards Flora, who grasped it tightly. She appeared more composed, her face solemn and still.

"Maker," gasped Alistair, slumping against the boulder and struggling to catch his breath. "So-  _that's_  the Archdemon, then. Well."

She nodded, leaning back and exhaling. Oghren, ginger moustache standing out against his pallid skin, pointed a finger at her.

"You said you heard it last night," he said, almost accusatorially. "Could've given the rest of us some warnin'. Ruddy great snake it is!"

Flora shrugged helplessly, squeezed the hand of the still-stupefied Alistair. It was not the first time she had seen the Archdemon; she had dreamed of it during her Joining, and it's serpentine features had featured in several unpleasant dreams over the past few months. Yet, although it was still terrifying to her, it was a  _familiar_  kind of terror; she was not paralysed with fear as she once would have been.

"I wish Loghain was here," she said, casting a tentative look over the ledge. "Then he'd see that there really  _is_ a Blight."

_And_ then _I'd kick him into the canyon,_ she thought; before admonishing herself sternly for her immaturity. Alistair tried to smile, reading her thoughts on her face; but the corner of his lips twisted into a grimace instead.

"How are we even supposed to kill that thing, Flo?" he muttered, his hazel eyes bruised with fear. "Did you see the size of it? The claws? The  _fire?"_

Flora swallowed her own doubts, returning from the ledge to kneel before Alistair. He stared at her, anxiety turning his fine-hewn face old and gaunt. Flora reached out and covered his cheek with her palm, smoothing out the lines of worry with her thumb.

"I'll shield us," she whispered, her eyes searching his face. "Dragonfire can't penetrate my barrier, remember? We'll be fine."

"But- did you see how  _many_ of them there were?" Alistair continued, his face still taut with distress. "There are thousands."

"We'll have thousands, too," countered Flora, now cradling his face between her cupped palms. "I know the Circle mages; First Enchanter Irving could roast twenty of those creatures with a swing of his staff.  _Thirty!"_

Alistair gazed at her with a faint kernel of hope in his hazel stare. She leaned forward and kissed him impulsively on the mouth, hoping that her lips might offer reassurance where her words could not. When she went to retreat, he pulled her head roughly back to his and pressed his mouth against hers, in a far more fierce and intimate kiss that left her short of breath.

"As much as it arouses me to watch a beautiful lass get smooched," Oghren interjected, lechery mingling with admonishment. "Your Qunari has already left."

They looked up to see Sten striding towards a narrow bridge, which spanned the canyon and led towards a towering stone edifice. Bownammar's ancient entranceway was designed both to impress and to intimidate, although the carved stone bore scars from many centuries of conflict.

"We have no time for mewling or mawkish sentiment," the Qunari informed them bluntly as they caught him up. "We continue."

After some trial and error, they managed to find a side passage inside the ancient fortress. Like Orzammar, the old city of Bownammar had been hewn from the rock itself; although the differences in its construction quickly became evident as they travelled deeper inside. While the dwarven capital was built on a series of ascending shelves around a magma pool, Bownammar was constructed over a series of lava-filled trenches. Stone bridges connected the different sections of the city; alongside these permanent spans were wooden drawbridges, cunningly fixed with iron chains so that they could be altered or retracted at will. The architect had clearly designed the city equally for defence as for inhabition. It was a feat of engineering that invited visitors to marvel and potential enemies to despair.

Although most of the resident Darkspawn had joined the swarming mass in the external canyon, they still ran into the occasional pocket of resistance. These isolated groups were quickly dispatched with scant trouble; Flora's shield deflected frenzied attacks from rusted weaponry while others made the killing blow. There was little finesse about the three warriors, armed with swords and ax, but their combined blunt force proved to be brutally efficient.

Despite the sprawling, multi-levelled nature of the fortress, their route was fairly easy to discern. Every so often, the sharp-eyed Oghren would spot a runic symbol etched on the base of a stone wall. He identified this as a route marker of Branka's House, designed to aid navigation. Some of the stone bridges had crumbled into the magma trenches below, forcing them to find alternate routes through winding side passages. Several of these hollowed thoroughfares ended in burial chambers filled with long-pillaged sarcophagi.

"This place used to be sacred to the Legion of the Dead, Ancestors only know if there are any of the poor bastards still left," muttered Oghren as they picked their way through one such devastated chamber. Odd fragments of bone lay at their feet, much of the ritual weaponry and armour having been stolen by the Darkspawn. Flora coughed to try and disguise the persistent rumbling of her stomach.

As they emerged back into the cavernous void of the city and began to traverse the ledge towards an iron portcullis, she fell several steps behind. Pulling her pack around to the front of her body, she delved a hand inside to locate some food.

Alistair, uncharacteristically solemn after their encounter with the Archdemon, had spotted another of Branka's symbols carved into the rock. Drawing Oghren's attention to it, he turned around to speak to Sten and his sister-warden.

"I hope this means we're on the right track- " he started, then broke off as he saw only Sten's stoic glare through the gloom. Flora was a dozen yards behind them, absorbed in rummaging through her pack.

"Sorry," she called, attention diverted. "I'll just be a moment."

Alistair frowned, seeing the air quiver strangely just behind where Flora was standing. At first he thought it was a current of heat rising from the lava below, but then a new shadow fell across her own, elongated and unfamiliar. Alistair reached for his swordbelt, raising his voice in a shout of warning.

Suddenly, something dropped from the rockface above her. Heavy and metallic, a rusting chain-link net landed on her head and shoulders. The weight was enough to send her sprawling face first onto the stone, staff dropping from her hand with a clatter. Then there was a relentless pressure on her back and a bestial snarl hot in her ear.

" _Shrieks!"_ yelled Alistair, naming the type of fiend which preferred to ambush its victims from the shadows. Sten was already charging forward as three more Shrieks melted from the shadows. With their distorted canine features, they resembled more wolves than the elves they spawned from.

"Watch for the armblades!" cautioned Oghren, hefting his battle ax from his shoulder as he followed in the Qunari's wake.

Alistair was close behind, his shield already raised to deflect a hail of blows from one would-be assailant. Using the raw power of his muscle, he shoved his sword straight through the creature's rusting mail with a single thrust, spilling blackened guts over the stone.

From the ground, Flora had managed to expand a mangled barrier around herself, though the shield was distorted by the constraints of the chain netting. The next moment Sten had bodily lifted the bestial assassin from her back and flung it over the edge of the trench to the lava below. Flora attempted to scramble to her feet, but only managed to tangle herself further in the metallic chains.

Eventually she gave up on freeing herself, shooting out a hand between the rusted metal strands to shield Oghren as one of the Shrieks attempted to plunge an armblade between his padded shoulders. Seconds later, the dwarf's ax lodged itself firmly in the creature's stomach.

The entire assault was over within a minute; four leaking corpses sprawled over the stone. Flora, temporarily forgetting a decade's worth of experience untangling her father's fishing nets, flailed around and caught herself further in the chain links. Alistair, sheathing his sword back in his belt, went over to her but was equally as useless.

"Get it off, it's caught in my hair!" hissed Flora, one of her arms now trapped behind her back. Alistair grimaced, pulling feebly at a corner of the net.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry, it's tangled everywhere."

"Keep still." The half-snarled command came from Sten, and rung with authority. Flora froze in place, and Alistair stepped back hastily. With more care than either of the Wardens had shown, the Qunari began to quietly untangle the net, only issuing the occasional instruction for her to  _lift your foot_ or  _hold this._

Finally Sten dropped the rusted chain netting on the stone, with a dismissive grunt. Flora rubbed her sore head gratefully, gazing up at him in slight awe.

"Thank you very much," she mumbled, which he acknowledged with a slight incline of the head. Although naturally he would never admit it, the Qunari had been reluctantly impressed with her stoicism in the presence of the Archdemon earlier that day. He had watched her as she stared up at the creature – albeit at it's back – with solemn disapproval.

Oghren had lifted a section of the net, eyeing the metallic links with trepidation. Darker, more ominous stains than mere rust coated the woven chain. Alistair gazed at it, a memory rising to the forefront of his mind. When he glanced at Flora, he knew that she was thinking the same thing.

"This isn't the first time they've tried to net you," he said after a moment; as confusion mingled with alarm over his handsome features. "Remember on the way to Orzammar?"

Flora nodded with a scowl, retrieving her dropped staff. The bedroll had come loose from her pack and she spent a moment readjusting the ties.

"I remember," she breathed, her brow furrowed. "Why would they want to keep me alive?"

"Because you're a lass," came a gruff and unfamiliar voice from the shadows.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: No lie, I was genuinely freaked out when this cut-scene happened in game – with the Archdemon soaring up from the canyon, all batwings and snarls! I seriously thought it was going to swoop down and bite my characters' heads off.


	61. More Than A Kiss In The Dark

Chapter 61: More Than A Kiss In The Dark

They startled at the sudden speech, but the distinct dwarven accent alleviated immediate fear.

From the entrance to one of the burial chambers, several dwarves emerged; two carrying another on a makeshift stretcher. They wore identical dark iron armour, black tattoos inscribed on their faces to emulate the hollow crevasses of a skull. Oghren inhaled in recognition, his eyes widening.

"You're from the Legion of the Dead," he breathed, earning a nod of confirmation from the leader.

"Stone's Greetings, friends. I am Kardol, acting Commander of the Dead. We heard the attack; though you seem to have fared well against your assailants."

The dwarf cast a look over them, his nostrils flaring as his eyes settled on Flora and Alistair. A wry half-smile twisted his lip, although there was no humour to it.

"Well, well. Grey Wardens, Ancestors take me. Come to take the fight to the Darkspawn on their home turf?"

This comment was ripe with sarcasm; the legionnaire was clearly aware of the current Blight, and that the majority of Darkspawn now swarmed the surface.

"We're searching for Paragon Branka," said Oghren, mingled impatience and eagerness in his tone. "Fancy coming along? Could use another few pairs of hands."

The acting commander of the Dead let out a snort, shaking his head.

"We're rejoining the remainder of our unit. There may be a chance of retaking Bownammar now it has been emptied, but we will need to be at our full strength."

Oghren muttered something vaguely derogatory beneath his breath, but had the sense to keep it unintelligible. Alistair stepped forward, clearing his throat.

"What did you mean… with what you said earlier? About her being a-a lass?"

Kardol glanced at Flora, who was trying to eat a salted biscuit as unobtrusively as possible. He sighed, quickly moving his eyes away once more.

"It's just rumours – things that the men have heard. Whispers in the dark."

"Whispers about what?" asked Alistair, confused, shooting a darting look at Flora. She shrugged back at him, taking another bite.

"What the Darkspawn use women for," murmured Kardol, and Oghren let out a groan.

"That's just an old wives' tale," the dwarf interrupted harshly, shaking his head. "A little rhyme they sing in taverns:

' _Old Bessie Aeducan went down to the Deep,_

_She said she was bored with life._

_But down there she met a broody great Darkspawn,_

_And he made her his wife."_

Flora nearly choked on a mouthful of biscuit as Alistair's jaw dropped in alarm. Kaidol gave a faint shrug, gesturing to his men to move out.

"Believe what you will. It's only whispers and old womens' gossip. Good luck in finding your Paragon."

They watched him depart in silence, crumbs falling from Flora's incredulous mouth. Alistair shot another glance at the tangled metal net, then shot out his hand and grabbed hers, clasping her fingers.

"Right," he said, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "I'm not letting go of this, possibly  _ever,_ but at least until we get out of here."

"Ridiculous _,"_ muttered Sten, shouldering his greatsword once more and setting off towards the portcullis. Flora eyed Alistair dubiously, his calloused fingers cold against her own. He refused to meet her gaze, peering ahead into the gloom with a taut expression.

"You know I can defend myself?" she asked tentatively, and he shook his head with a mild degree of despair.

"I  _know,_  Flo. I know you can, but I… I still need to do this. Just let me, alright?"

She thought for a moment, then smiled at him.

"Whatever makes you happy, brother-warden."

"I'm a lot of things right now," he retorted, tightly. "But I can assure you that  _happy_ is not one of them."

* * *

 

True to his word, Alistair gripped Flora's hand in a death-grip for the rest of their afternoon's journey, releasing it only when they met the occasional pack of Darkspawn. Oghren, catching sight of another of Branka's symbols, led them into an unobtrusive side chamber off the main thoroughfare.

This must have once been an area for washing – the crudely hewn walls lacked the polished refinement of the rest of Bownammar's architecture. Through a half-rotten wooden door, they could see a small cavern with a submerged spring. Ironically, those with the greatest immunity to the Darkspawn's tainted blood – the two Wardens – were the most excited at the prospect of washing it away. Sten had given himself a customary wipe down with a cloth; and Oghren was more interested in the remains of a camp scattered around the small antechamber. He had found a leather belt adorned with a familiar seal, waving it triumphantly in the air.

"Ha! We're getting close. This is Branka's House symbol. See her mark on the wall in ash?"

Sten had already decided which old campfire was the most likely candidate for revival, and was adding kindling from his pack. Oghren's contribution to setting up camp was sitting on his own spread bedroll and reaching for a bottle. Alistair let go of Flora's hand, still somewhat reluctant to do so, and watched her drop her staff against the wall.

"How's the knee?" he asked, lowering his own pack to the stone floor. She gave a little nonchalant shrug, kicking out her bedroll with her good leg.

"It's alright," she replied, reaching a hand inside her shirt to withdraw the treaties. "Sten's idea to strap it up was good. It aches a little."

Stashing the sheaf of parchment in her pack, she retrieved her only other clean linen shirt. One of her sandwiches had leaked pickle over the sleeve, which she surreptitiously licked off.

"I'm going to wash," she announced, to which Oghren gave a dismissive grunt. The Qunari showed no sign of having heard her. Alistair roused himself from a momentary lapse into brooding memory, chasing the image of the Archdemon from his mind.

"I'm coming too," he muttered, adding darkly: "I'm not letting you out of my sight while we're in this Maker-forsaken pit."

Flora nodded amicably, leading the way into the adjacent grotto. The stone floor shelved rapidly down towards the small pool, the spring water clear and free-flowing. The ceiling was coated with limestone stalactites, long enough to brush the top of Alistair's head.

Naturally, the last two Fereldan Wardens had perfected a bathing routine born from months spent in each other's company. Together, they turned their backs on one another to undress, leaving only their lower smallclothes on. Keeping his eyes fixed on the stone hewn wall, Alistair lowered himself sideways into the waist-deep water.

"Aaah, that's bracing!" he hissed, hearing Flora inhale in sudden shock behind him as she also submerged herself.

"Colder than the Waking Sea," she complained bitterly; and he could feel her bare shoulder-blades brushing against his back. As was usual, her skin seemed to radiate heat compared with his own clammy flesh.

"Shouldn't make a difference to you, Flo. You're always warm," he pointed out and heard her snort indignantly in response.

"I still feel it, the bitter cold. It's gone straight to my  _soul,_ " she muttered with a scowl. Alistair laughed, raising his gaze to the flecks of phosphorous in the ceiling.

Flora scrubbed a patch of dried Darkspawn blood from her hip, idly wondering how it had managed to get beneath two layers of clothing. She had tied her hair on top of her head, knowing that it would take hours to dry if it got wet. Her body had slowly become accustomed to the chilly spring water; the goosebumps on her thighs gradually receding.

"I'd do anything for a piece of cake," she said wistfully, then suddenly became aware of the muscles of Alistair's chest pressing against her back, his breath hot on her ear.

"Alistair?"

He didn't reply, only lowered his lips to her neck and began a meandering route from her ear down towards her shoulder. Flora leaned her head to one side as he inhaled unsteadily, wrapping an arm around her bare stomach to pull her roughly against him.

"Sten will string us up by our ears," she whispered; in response, he bowed his head over her shoulder and pressed a kiss against her wet collarbone. He mumbled something incoherent against her damp skin; she ran her fingers up his forearm as it crossed over her stomach, feeling the well-developed muscle and sinew below.

"Andraste take Sten," muttered Alistair in response, simultaneously grateful and resentful for the ice-cold water reaching to his waist. Flora stifled a laugh, then impulsively swivelled and put her arms around his neck. Alistair looked down at her as she gazed up at him, loose strands of damp hair plastered to her small, bare breasts. Letting out a stifled groan beneath his breath, he gripped her hips and drew her waist towards his.

"Maker," he breathed, and there was something akin to reverence in his tone. "You're so lovely, Flo."

She smiled up at him, and there was an invitation in the curve of her lips. He lowered his head and pressed his mouth against hers, hunger and lust mingled on his tongue. A moment later he had gripped her thighs and lifted her, allowing her legs to encompass his waist as he pressed her hard against the limestone wall of the grotto. His mouth claimed hers once more, like a parched man seeking nourishment from her damp lips.

"Fair warnin',  _it's bathtime!_  Don't want to get some nasty Darkspawn venereal disease and have my todger fall off! Alistair, you might want to cover your eyes or you'll never feel like a real man again."

Oghren's voice echoed against the cavern walls as he entered the short passageway that connected the side-chamber with the spring. Alistair recoiled, abruptly releasing Flora's thighs and dropping her. Caught unaware, she let out a small shriek as she plunged beneath the surface and disappeared.

Alistair groaned, putting a fist to his head as Oghren ducked into the confined cave. The dwarf was already naked, having divested himself of his clothing in the previous room. Flora emerged from the freezing water with her features contorted into a snarl, now-soaked hair covering her chest. She shot Alistair a poisonous glare as she clambered out of the spring. Oghren openly admired her legs as she shuffled past him, shivering while keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead.

"Like I said earlier," the dwarf stated cheerfully, as a contrite Alistair followed in his sister-warden's damp footsteps. "I'm not a prude like the Qunari. You want to  _hammer the anvil_ later, have at it.  _I like to watch_."

"I'll bear that in mind, thanks," muttered Alistair through gritted teeth.

Back in the side-chamber, Flora shot him a baleful stare as she changed into her clean shirt beneath a blanket. Sten first looked at her, then over at Alistair, his brow creasing.

"I'm going to get t-t-triple pneumonia now," Flora announced, tucking the treaties back against her damp skin and glowering.

"How can you get triple pneumonia with only two lungs?" pointed out Alistair reasonably, as she retrieved an apple from her pack and sunk her teeth into it to stop them from chattering.

"I'll get pneumonia in my  _brain_ too, then," she mumbled through a mouthful of fruit, shooting him a malevolent stare. Alistair laughed, the sound incongruous in their surroundings. From the wellspring in the adjacent cavern, they heard Oghren singing a vaguely inappropriate folk melody. Flora took a second bite of the apple, then offered it to him.

"I thought healers were supposed to know about anatomy," Alistair continued lightly, taking the half-eaten fruit from her. "Didn't they cover the basics in creation classes?"

Flora shrugged, eyeing him balefully. "Don't know. Never got to that level; I stayed in beginner tuition for four years. Which was  _light a candle._ Which I failed."

"Hm!" replied Alistair in surprise, then sighed as she shot a malevolent glare at him. "Flo, please stop sulking. I'm sorry I dropped you in the water." He gazed at her mournfully, reaching out to put a hand on her knee and putting on his best imploring expression.

"Why was it necessary to be holding her initially?" interjected Sten, with a suspicious stare.

Flora glowered for a moment more, then relented and put her fingers on his hand, not being the type to hold grudges. Alistair grinned, sliding over to sit beside her and putting an arm around her shoulder. Lifting a corner of the blanket, he squeezed some of the excess water from her hair.

"Can you cure triple- I mean, double pneumonia anyway?" he asked, and she thought for a moment.

"Probably, if it hasn't taken too deep."

He kissed the side of her temple, strands of damp hair against his mouth.

"Clever girl."

* * *

 

They spent several hours in the ruined side-chamber, undisturbed except for the distant noises of Darkspawn too weak or damaged to answer the Archdemon's rallying cry. After all four of them had caught some hours of sleep; they packed up camp and prepared to venture deeper into the abandoned dwarven fortress of Bownammar. Oghren had caught sight of another crude symbol etched into the stone, which at least indicated that they were on the right track. After some time Flora had persuaded Alistair to let go of her hand; he persisted in walking so close behind her that he kept treading on her heels.

"Here," announced Oghren, finally, coming to a pillared archway. A strange, red-raw glow emanated from the passage within, somehow different from the light of the braziers. The dwarf gestured to another familiar etching, although there was no jubilance in his face this time. His features were too busy contorting at the horrific odour drifting from the passageway, a fetid aroma of stale meat. Alistair felt bile rising in his throat, while even Flora – who could inhale the smell of gangrenous flesh without quailing – clapped a hand to her mouth and nose. Even Sten appeared somewhat nauseated.

"By the tits of the Ancestors, what is that  _stench?"_  Oghren breathed, his eyes beginning to water. Alistair ventured forward to peer into the passageway, then visibly recoiled.

"Ah," he murmured faintly, reaching for his sword. "It's… coming from there."

Sten had already turned away, lip curling, as Oghren and Flora ducked their heads around the pillar to look down the passageway. Oghren let out a string of colourful curses, while she inhaled unsteadily in shock.

The stone passageway was filled with pulsating, growths, Blight made flesh. Swollen meat sacs lay against the tiled floor, covered with creeping dark veins; many more were afflicted with tumorous growths. Fleshy webbing hung from the ceiling, connecting diseased, pus-oozing pods. The floor was covered in an oily, dark substance, fatty lumps pooling in the cracks between the flagstones. Most horrifying of all, the occasional remnant of a dwarf could be seen within the fleshy masses- a bony hand extending from diseased skin, a shrivelled corpse shadowed within a pale egg-like sac.

Flora recoiled back, her mind rejecting the sight before her. She leaned against the pillar and tried to catch her breath. Alistair glanced at her, his face white beneath the olive tan.

"Remind you of anything?" he murmured and she nodded, knowing that he was remembering the upper floors of the possessed Circle Tower. Oghren took a deep breath, lifting the ax from his shoulder and raising his head.

"We've come this far," he muttered darkly, no humour remaining in his tone. "Might as well see it through."

Sten was the first to venture into the passageway, face impassive. He strode between the pulsating growths, impatiently brushing aside the dangling fleshy webs from the ceiling. Oghren followed, cursing under his breath as he almost slipped in an oily puddle. Alistair and Flora brought up the rear, Flora gazing down in horror at the twisted remains of the dwarves trapped within the growths.

"Are these from Branka's House?" she whispered, and Oghren gave a rough shrug, jaw tight.

"Dunno. Probably. Wouldn't recognise them now, would I?"

As they turned a corner, the light seemed to shift slightly as though a shadow had passed before it.

" _First day, they come and catch everyone."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Well, it's only taken sixty one (!) chapters for Alistair to get an eyeful of Flora's tits! It won't take another sixty one for him to actually get his hands on them, lol. Also, I was genuinely horrified when I was playing the game and that creepy a-f rhyme came echoing out of the surround speakers. I literally lobbed the controller at the TV and screeched for my husband, haha.


	62. Broodmother

Chapter 62: Broodmother

" _Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat._

_Third day, the men are all gnawed on again."_

The woman's hoarse whisper rung out around them; echoing between the Blight-covered walls. Impossible to pinpoint, it seemed to come from all directions simultaneously. Oghren let out a shout and lifted his great ax, while Sten swung around to seek the source of the noise. Flora, whose expression grew solemner the more frightened she was, wore the face of a marble statue.

"Who's there?!" called Alistair, sword raised. The corridor behind them was empty, the light shifting strangely once again. Oghren gestured for them to continue down the passage; which now veered sharply to the right.

" _Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate._

_Fifth day, they return and it's another girl's turn._

_Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams."_

The whisper came once more, its monotonous drone incongruous to the vileness of the words themselves.

Still holding his sword aloft, a rapidly paling Alistair reached out a hand to his warden-sister. Wordlessly Flora took it, her nausea rising with every step. Even Oghren was silent now, as the corridor began to widen before them. Scattered dwarven remains and armour now littered the flagstones; Flora startled as Alistair accidentally crushed a jawbone beneath his boot.

"I don't like this," snarled Sten, his nostrils flaring as he strode forward. "I will not be taunted by whispers from the shadows!"

" _Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew._

_Eighth day, we hated as she is violated._

_Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin."_

Alistair tightened his grip on Flora's hand, his mail gloves crushing her fingers until they hurt. She did not protest; finding reassurance in the unrelenting pressure. The passage opened out into a long, rectangular room which must have once been some sort of armoury. Now, in a mockery of their former use, weapon stands had been repurposed as spitroasts. Wizened dwarven remains, nothing intact, were impaled on wooden skewers. Fleshy growths and oily puddles coated the floor, the original tiling barely visible beneath the greasy remnants of a once-proud dwarven House.

Crouched in the middle of the offal was a female dwarf, stomach distended and skin mottled. She moved like a spider, all twitching limbs and jerking movements; scuttling across the room to stare at them in wonder. Her hollowed eye sockets were stained dark, her teeth canine points as she revealed them in a twisted little grimace.

" _Now she does feast, as she's become the beast."_

"It's a ghoul," stated Sten, lifting his greatsword dispassionately. "I shall put it out of its misery."

"Wait," interrupted Oghren, his voice strained with disbelief. "I think that's-  _Hespith?!"_

The dwarf woman looked up, a faint flicker of recognition on her mottled face. Oghren inhaled sharply, recognising the sunken features.

"It is her," he muttered, shaking his head. "Branka's captain, her second. Hespith, what in Stone's name  _happened?!_  Where is everyone else?"

The ghoul whom Oghren had named  _Hespith_ flung out bony fingers to encompass the charnel house surrounding them.

"Behold, the remnants of Branka's House; Branka, who does not deserve the title  _Paragon, no, no!"_ Her voice rose in a grating shriek. "Only  _Betrayer_  is a suitable title for a traitor such as her."

"Where is she?" asked Flora, licking her dry lips to moisten them. She then regretted it as she tasted the taint on her tongue, bitter and cloying. The ghoul turned to look at her, pupils bone-white.

"Flee, little girl, flee," Hespith whispered, clutching her wrist compulsively and canting her head to one side. "They'll do you what they did Laryn. Forced her, broke her.  _Turned_  her. Made her eat her husband. She spawns the beasts now. Broodmother.  _Broodmother._   _Flee!"_

"I don't flee from anything," whispered Flora, a greenish cast to her face. Oghren roused himself from his dumbstruck silence, shaking his head vehemently.

"Branka wouldn't betray her House," he began; only to be cut off abruptly as Hespith turned on him, shadowed eyes flashing in despair and anger.

" _There was no Branka left in her!_ She breathed only the Anvil. Sacrificed us to feed to the traps around it. I am the only one left. Everyone else – gone! Is this real? Are  _you_  real? I cannot see."

The creature's voice rise high and panicked, and she began to claw at her own eyes.

"I could not stop her! Stone forgive me!  _Forgive me!"_

Flora stepped forward and put her free hand on the ghoul's trembling head.

" _Stop_ ," she instructed firmly as the dwarf's clawlike fingers drew blood. "You're hurting yourself."

"My old lady has gone mad," breathed Oghren, his face pale behind the stark ginger moustache. "Where is she?"

The ghoul raised a red-stained finger to point to a large chamber, lying at one end of the vaulted room.

"She stalks the corridors beyond Laryn, waiting for more spawn to test on the traps," Hespith intoned, with a shudder. "Stone help me, it is my turn next, I have feasted on the flesh of my brethren, I know it!  _I know it's my turn next!"_

With a strangled cry she lurched upright, scuttling down the hall towards the archway that led to the next chamber. For several moments nobody spoke; even Sten appeared at a loss for words. Alistair squeezed Flora's fingers tightly between his own and she returned the pressure, her expression solemn.

"I knew Laryn, she was a shield-maid," uttered Oghren after a long minute had passed. "Her father used to be the old guard captain."

They turned to look towards where the unfortunate ghoul had disappeared, darting beneath an archway into a chamber beyond their sight.

"She  _spawns_  the creatures…?" asked Flora tentatively, needing some clarification. Oghren groaned, lifting his ax.

"I suppose I'd better put more stock in old wives' tales now," he said heavily, stepping over a pustule-ridden flesh sac. "Let's go and put this – whatever it is- down."

Weapons readied, they advanced towards the archway leading to the next chamber. As they reached the entranceway, Oghren stopped with a sharp inhalation of shock. Flora collided with his back, then her eyes swept over the chamber and she almost fell over.

"Maker's Breath," muttered Alistair, feeling his stomach give a sickening lurch within his abdomen. "What  _is_ that?!"

In the centre of a pillared circular chamber, rising up from a floor coated with grease, was a creature that could only be described as a monstrosity. Vast and sessile, a sack of milky flesh towered almost to the ceiling and culminated in a grossly distorted bald head. Two lard-filled arms appeared almost small in comparison as they rested on top of multiple rolls of flab. Eight breasts, layered like udders, dropped down from the creature's stomach, leaking a clear fluid. The ghoul had almost no discernible lips, leaving two rows of canine teeth exposed in a mouth like a raw wound.

Flora dropped her staff with a clatter on the stained flagstones, and the creature raised bleary eyes and stared. Oghren gritted his teeth, then shouldered his ax.

"Ready to put this creature out of its misery?" he asked, revulsion and pity combined in his voice. "Shouldn't be too tricky- looks like she's  _stuck_ to the floor."

Alistair squeezed Flora's hand one last time, then dropped it in order to reach for his shield. She picked up her staff, face pale and grimset.

"For the Wardens!"

Almost slipping on the greasy floor, her brother-warden led the charge across the circular chamber towards what had once been a shield-maid. Sten followed close behind him, invoking Par Vollen as he raised his greatsword. Oghren was hot on his heels, his own shout incoherent and slightly slurred.

Flora dutifully hung back, lifting her staff and preparing to shield her companions. As Alistair reached the broodmother, it opened its wound-like mouth and let out a shriek. The next moment, Flora brought up a hasty barrier around her brother-warden as the creature disgorged a putrid-smelling acidic bile. Alistair, behind the protection of the shield, sunk his sword into the creature's belly. He had made the grim assumption earlier that it would be difficult to penetrate to the creature's vital organs, due to the cascading rolls of swollen, putrid flesh protecting them. Beside him, Sten thrust his sword as far as he was able between the creature's udders, his face contorted.

"Sorry, darlin', this is for your own good!" called out Oghren; dodging the creature's flailing arm as it attempted to smack him away.

Flora watched the three warriors hack away at the quivering mound of flesh, and thought that there was some similarity to be found with how demons transformed their victims into abominations. The ghoul, which Hespith had named  _broodmother,_ let out another shriek and attempted to purge its rotten bile once more. Flora brought up a gleaming barrier in front of Oghren, then felt something heavy and damp crash into her from behind. She fell and went sprawling face-first onto the flagstones, just about managing to keep hold of her staff. Rolling over, she saw a greasy tendril, thick as her torso, rising up from the broken flagstones. It flailed around, trying to reach her; she scrambled backwards and clambered to her feet.

The broodmother, bleeding from a dozen wounds, let out another unearthly howl. A group of three Darkspawn- two Hurlocks and a Genlock- appeared in the archway behind Flora. She thrust her staff out before her, and a gleaming barrier unfolded across the doorway. The Darkspawn hurled themselves against it, but were unable to penetrate the golden shield. Flora stepped back, briefly admiring how rapid her summoning had been. The next moment she was promptly smacked to the floor once more by another tendril bursting from the flagstones.

She scrambled to her feet, her balance unsteady on the grease-slick tiles. The rest of her party appeared to be making some headway on the broodmother, large sections of its body now oozing half-congealed and tainted blood. Flora ducked to the side to avoid the flailing tendril, then spotted a half-broken pillar just beside the broodmother itself. Leaving her barrier hovering in the doorway, she scrambled across the chamber and launched herself at the pillar. Tucking her staff clumsily beneath her arm, she began to climb. Her fingers found purchase in the crumbled rock and she successfully managed to pull herself up. From here, she was out of reach of the tendrils and could maintain the channelled barrier across the archway, while also shielding where needed.

Sten and Oghren worked in unison on either side of the creature, hacking mechanically away in an attempt to reach something vital. Alistair ducked and darted around before the creature's flailing arms, yelling to keep its attention. He used his shield to block another shower of the creature's toxic vomit, thrusting forward with his sword between the many-layered rolls of flab.

"You'll need to do better than that!" he shouted, then one of the tentacles burst from the ground beneath his feet and knocked the shield from his hand. Flora, who had been focusing on Oghren as he avoided a tendril of his own, swung her hand to the side but it was too late. The creature grabbed Alistair with surprising strength and lifted him up, attempting to crush him against its taut, pustuled stomach. Alistair let out a startled grunt, struggling to breathe as his breastplate was pressed into his ribs. He felt something subside within his chest and gave a hiss of pain.

Flora, feeling outrage and fear sour on her tongue, let out a screech worthy of any Herring fishwife.

"Get  _ooooff_  my brother-warden!" she howled, as the creature turned its corpuscular face up towards her. Impulsively, without putting any semblance of rational thought into her action, she thrust her staff down into the creature's gaping wound of a mouth. Then, as if she was spear-fishing in the shallows of the Waking Sea, she flung herself after it; using the weight of her body to force it downwards.

The broodmother let out a scream of pain, too weakened from blood loss to defend itself. It let Alistair drop onto the flagstones, shuddering, rolls of flesh quivering grotesquely. Flora felt something within the creature give way beneath the wooden staff; then she fell down its greasy side and sprawled onto the floor for a third time. The mutated monstrosity slumped forward, gouts of blackened blood spilling from its mouth. Sten swung his greatsword up with a roar and slashed the creature's throat.

As the broodmother died, the tentacles lay limp on the broken flagstones. Oghren and Sten strode to the archway, quickly dispatching the few Darkspawn behind the gleaming barrier. They fell in moments, temporarily confused at the loss of their breeding queen.

Flora, her staff still rammed inside the creature's throat, ran over to where Alistair was lying on the flagstones. He was very pale, his breastplate dented inwards where the creature had attempted to crush him. As she sunk to her knees beside him, he half-smiled and half-grimaced at her. She touched his cheek, struggling to return the smile. They were both soaked in the oily taint of the broodmother, a revolting combination of blighted blood and grease.

"Well, I'm ready for the court at Val Royeaux," she murmured, although her heart wasn't in the light-hearted comment. Alistair grinned, then let out a gasp of pain.

"Don't make me laugh," he said through gritted teeth, inhaling unsteadily.

Flora gazed down at him for a heartbeat, eyes stark with fear, before reaching down to carefully remove the breastplate. She had seen him do it on dozens of previous occasions, yet now her fingers seemed clumsy and awkward. She fumbled with the laces of his linen shirt, opening it up to expose his chest.

The flesh was bruised an ugly purple where the breastplate had dented inwards. The rest of his skin was a mottled reddish-pink, the muscle discoloured. Flora swallowed, leaning forwards to spread her fingertips over his chest. Closing her eyes, she lowered her face to within inches of the injury, letting exploratory energy seep within the skin.

"You have three broken ribs," she whispered after a moment, her voice catching on the last word. Alistair felt dampness on his chest and realised that she was crying.

"Flo, don't," he said, anxiously, although every breath was increasingly painful. "It's not serious."

She nodded mutely, trying to focus on the cool weight of the Chantry amulet around her neck, rather than the sour taste beneath her tongue. Taking a deep breath, she lowered her mouth to his chest and  _exhaled._ Golden mist filled her mouth and she parted her lips, letting it spill out onto his mottled skin. She used the fingers of one hand to direct the flow of the creation energy, moving them instinctually in patterns that had never been taught to her in any classroom. Alistair grimaced as he felt the familiar sting of magic; but soon the pressure within his ribcage began to ease and the sharp edges of pain were dulled.

When he felt the bone shift within his chest, he let out a little start. Flora reached out blindly with her free hand, fumbling around until she finally laid it over his face.

"Keep still, please" she mumbled, eyes blurred with golden mist; Alistair realised that her vision was impaired because she was seeing  _within_ him. He rested back, letting her fingers settle across his nose. In the corner of his eye, he saw Oghren and Sten approach from the archway; beyond them, the ghoul named Hespith gaped at the broodmother's corpse in disbelief.

Flora took longer to heal the relatively minor injury than she would normally have done, desperate to ensure that the repair was flawless. It was Alistair who realised first that the pain had fully gone, that he was able to move freely without repercussion. Sitting up without effort, he reached out and cupped her damp cheek.

"Enough, my dear, I'm fine," he murmured, and she gazed at him. Her vision was blurred with a combination of tears and golden energy. When another drop of liquid rolled down her cheek, it continued a bead of amber light. He brushed it away with his thumb, gently.

"This is what I get for cuddling with other women, eh? Lesson learned!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Eurghhhh what a repulsive chapter to write! So much hideous vocabulary: greasy, congealed, pustules… I did try and avoid using the word tentacle, lol. I also learnt a new word when writing this: sessile! Which basically means stuck to the floor. I wanted to have Flora take a more active role in the fight, so after she gets smacked around a few times by tendrils, she joins in the fray. She also clearly doesn't deal too well with Alistair getting hurt. In game, this fight took THREE attempts to win – pathetic! I am a video game novice though, in my defence. And Alistair kept taking the brunt of the hits, so I thought I'd reflect that in my writeup. Didn't help that I realised he had about six injuries going into it, oops.


	63. The Trials of A Paragon

Chapter 63: The Trials of a Paragon

As Alistair made his light-hearted comment, Flora let out a sound that was half-sob and half-laugh, spluttering as he cupped her cheek. He smiled up at her, then clambered to his feet, marvelling at how he seemed to have more vitality now than he did even before the fight.

Oghren had retrieved Flora's staff from the corpse of the broodmother, and handed it to her with an impressed nod.

"Might not be as flashy as flinging fireballs everywhere; but yeh can't go wrong with a decent healer!" he mumbled, then coughed. His spittle was black against his glove, and Flora eyed him.

"Let me cleanse the taint from you," she said suddenly, noticing that Sten was also covered in the deadly matter. "It's poison."

"We should press on," interjected the Qunari, impatient for them to continue in their search for the Paragon. Flora nodded hastily, slinging the staff over her back.

"It'll only take a few minutes," she said placatingly, recalling the soldier with the blighted arrow-wound in Lothering. She knew that it would not take her as long to remove the taint this time; her skills had developed in leaps and bounds outside the restraints of the Circle Tower.

Oghren volunteered to go first, opening his mouth eagerly. Flora leaned forward, parting her lips an inch from his and  _inhaling._ Almost immediately she felt the taint bitter beneath her tongue as she breathed it in, stifling the urge to gag on its sourness. Alistair handed her his water to rinse her mouth out, before she moved on to the Qunari. Sten sat there, rigid and stern faced, while she struggled to keep herself composed.

"Just get it over with," he snarled at her as she hovered uncertainly before him. Duly chastised, Flora bent her face forward and repeated the exercise. She felt her stomach churning as she breathed the blighted poison into her own body; wondering idly if there was a limit to how much blight she could inhale before it overwhelmed her natural ability to neutralise it.

Rinsing her mouth out, she turned to Alistair. He shook his head hastily, stepping backwards.

"I'll be fine, Flo. You don't need to do me too."

She ignored his protests, reaching up to draw his head down towards hers.

"I want you to live thirty more years, not thirty more days," Flora whispered, repeating the words that he had once said to her at Lothering.

Alistair fell silent, letting his mouth fall open as she expelled the air from her lungs in preparation. Then she  _inhaled,_ drawing the taint from him into her, her fingers curling reflexively against his hair as she grimaced. When Flora was finished, she gave a wretched cough and he held the waterpouch to her lips.

"Wash your mouth out," he instructed, and she did so obediently. Alistair watched her gargle and spit into the flagstones, then impulsively leaned forward and kissed her.

"Ooh, is that a topsider way of thanking your healer? I'll happily indulge," interjected a grinning Oghren, while Sten let out a hiss of impatience.

They were interrupted by the hollow words of the sad, twisted little ghoul. The one who had been known as Hespith cringed against a wall, eyes wild, as she raised a finger to a back passage.

"She's through there. The traitor. Betrayed us! Betrayed  _me_ , though I prized her."

"Can yeh show us?" asked Oghren, and the ghoul shook her head rapidly, strands of greasy hair barely clinging to a bald scalp.

"No, no, no," she intoned, her eyes wide and frightened. "Can't, can't…"

Sten, typically impatient, shouldered his greatsword and strode up the curving stone ramp. They followed in his wake, Flora casting a last forlorn glance at the Broodmother's slumped corpse. The passage curved around, the tiled walls becoming less refined as they left Bownammer behind them. The path sloped downwards, and the temperature dropped several degrees. There were no braziers down here and Flora raised her staff, the yellow light casting a shifting glow on the rough-hewn stone.

Eventually, the passageway opened out into a large, sprawling cavern. The rock ceiling was bathed in shadow, while lyrium grew in contorted shapes below. These formations cast a strange blue glow over the cave floor, and Flora extinguished the light on her staff, gazing around in mingled awe and trepidation.

"This place isn't on the map," breathed Alistair as they pressed forward into the cavern. The atmosphere was stale and dry, and an odd shroud of foreboding hung over the primeval thaig.

"That's because I was the first person to find it."

The voice was female, haughty and imperious. A moment later, a dwarven woman stepped out from behind a large lyrium formation, her chin raised in challenge. She wore armour that had seen better days, a battered round shield hanging from her back. Short brown hair was cut in a utilitarian style, shot through with strands of grey. Her eyes burned with a feverish glow, despite their rings of shadow.

"Branka!" Oghren let out a shout of delight, then immediately followed it with a string of curses. "Woman, are you mad? You sacrificed your House- for  _what?!_ Some fool's quest?"

"It's no fool's quest, idiot," snarled back Orzammar's only Paragon in four generations. "I'm so close now- you don't understand. The Anvil is within my grasp!"

"You turned your women into Darkspawn breeders," murmured Alistair, feeling a lurch of dread as he recalled the multiple attempts to capture his own sister-warden. Branka curled her lip, fingers compulsively clutching an unusual wooden rod at her belt.

"I had to, don't you see?" she whispered, eyes glittering. "There are traps laid before the Anvil – the wily bastard has left them to protect it – and I needed more Darkspawn to test them."

" _Who_ left them?" asked Oghren, as Flora scowled at the dwarf woman. Branka gave a little laugh, shaking her head.

Alistair nudged Flora, lowering his voice. "So far, I'm not that impressed with Orzammar's choice of Paragon," he muttered. Flora nodded darkly, before clearing her throat. Repressing the urge to tell the dwarven woman exactly what she thought of her, she attempted to be diplomatic.

"You need to come back to Orzammar and make someone a King," she said bluntly, tact not being her strong point. Branka turned her intense stare on the girl, her lip curling in scorn.

"What do I care about who sits on the throne? It doesn't matter! Only the  _Anvil_ matters. And you will help me reach it. Bloody Darkspawn got mangled in the traps, but you're  _stronger._ 'Specially if you got past Laryn."

"You've lost your stones, woman," breathed Oghren, as Sten's lip curled. "We're not helping you reach this blasted Anvil."

Branka grinned, a deranged gleam in her coal-dark eyes.

" _Beloved_  husband, you think you have a  _choice?_  You've been sealed in here from the moment you entered."

Sten, letting out a hiss of disbelief, turned and strode back towards the entrance passageway. Flora watched him go, then returned her gaze to Branka.

"What is this Anvil, anyway?"

Branka shot her a glare, but the urge to talk about the Anvil overrode her natural contempt towards topsiders.

"It allows for the creation of golems. The greatest weapon our people ever had. With a golem army, we will retake our old kingdom and drive the Darkspawn back!"

Oghren let out a bark of disbelieving laughter.

"You're insane, woman," he breathed, eyeing her with mingled disbelief and regret. "You sacrificed your House for  _this_ madman's goal?"

Branka ignored him, gesturing to a subterranean passage behind her.

"There are two traps; both need to be disabled to gain access to the Anvil," she explained, eyes wandering over them in an assessment of their combat capability.

"Will you come back with us to Orzammar if we help you?" asked Flora abruptly, struggling to remain civil. At that moment, Sten returned with a face like thunder.

"The entrance has been sealed," he stated, and Oghren let out a disbelieving bark.

"You scheming bitch," he breathed, at which Branka let out a snort. "Some Paragon."

"Orzammar will  _worship_ me if I bring them back the golems," she retorted. "Let us waste no more time! And yes, girl- " this was directed at the still glowering Flora – "Then I will crown your King. It matters not to me."

Branka was the only one who appeared happy as they headed towards the back of the cavern. A stone door was set into the rock wall, small and innocuous. As they came to a stop outside, the blue glow of the lyrium cast a strange light on the planes of their faces; Flora's dark red hair appeared almost violet. Branka came to halt, gesturing towards the door.

"The door opening triggers the release of a gas. There are valves which need to be turned off before the room is safe for passage," she explained, her dark gaze moving between them. "The Darkspawn were overcome in seconds when I sent them in. It blisters the lungs, burns them from the inside out."

Oghren glanced over his shoulder; they looked at each other until Flora resignedly raised a hand.

"I'll do it," she muttered, unslinging her staff from her shoulder. "I can shield myself. I don't think the gas can get through it."

"Flo," began Alistair, watching her shrug her pack onto the floor, untangling one of the straps from her hair. "Are you…  _sure?_ "

"I'll be fine. Thank you." She smiled at him, then shot a dark glare towards Branka. "Turn off valves, is that it?"

The Paragon nodded, impatient. Flora stepped forward, swallowing a knot of anxiety. She didn't dare look at Alistair, who she knew was equally nervous. Branka reached for a pressure plate, eyeing her with scepticism. Flora lifted the staff and a golden sheath sprung out around it, encompassing her in light. The door sprung open and immediately there was a hiss; the sound of escaping gas. Those outside caught a glimpse of a narrow stone chamber, interior bathed in shadow; then a greenish vapour began to rise, seemingly from the flagstones themselves. Reflexively taking a deep breath, Flora stepped inside, and Branka released the pressure plate. The stone door swung closed once more, sealing itself against the wall.

Several minutes passed. Oghren and Branka shot glares of mutual dislike at one another; while Sten stood rigid against the wall like a sentry. Alistair had pressed his ear to the door for a while; then, unable to hear anything, began to pace in tight little circles.

"Ugh, lad, you're making me dizzy," muttered Oghren, irritably. Alistair groaned, pressing a hand over his forehead.

"I should've gone in with her," he said suddenly, grimacing. "She could have shielded us both."

Suddenly, there came a little rhythmic tap from the other side of the door. Alistair startled, while Branka's face contorted into an expression of delight. She reached eagerly for the pressure plate, and the door swung open once more. The narrow chamber beyond was empty, save for shadows and the wizened corpses of unsuccessful Darkspawn. Any traces of gas had disappeared through cunningly concealed vents in the floor. Shoving past Branka, Alistair went straight to Flora, who was standing with staff in hand.

"Are you alright?" he demanded, his voice taut as a lute string. She nodded, half-smiling up at him as he looked her over anxiously.

"Sure," Flora said hoarsely, as the others entered the chamber. "I guess my shield isn't quite as gas proof as I thought. It kept most of it out, though."

She then gestured towards four brass valves, set in small alcoves at either side of the chamber. "Had to bash a couple with my staff, they were stuck," she added cheerfully, taking her pack back from Sten.

"Let's continue," insisted Branka, near-trembling with eager anticipation.

They crossed the stone chamber, entering another narrow passageway. After several twists and turns, they came out into a mid-sized stone chamber, with a high domed ceiling. There were four stone doorways at each cardinal point, not including the one they had entered through.

When they reached the centre of the chamber, the nature of the next trap became evident. The door they had used to enter swung shut, and the other four opened to reveal behemoth creations of metal and stone. Vaguely dwarven in silhouette, they stood taller than Sten, and bore no weapons save for their own vast bulk.

"Golems," breathed Branka, clutching the mysterious rod at her belt. It appeared to have no effect, and she reached for her shield instead. Sten and Oghren both readied their weapons; Alistair already had his shield raised. Flora, grimacing slightly as she realised that her fingertips were reddened and sore from overcasting, lifted her staff once again.

All four rushed at once, intending to crush the intruders between their monolithic forms. A near-simultaneous crash came as the golems collided with Flora's shield, which arched over the five of them in an intangible golden dome. Feeling the shock reverberate down her raised staff, Flora stumbled and fell against Sten. He steadied her with his forearm until she had regained her balance.

"There's a weak spot at the base of the neck! Break the foci crystal!" yelled Branka, her voice echoing around the vaulted chamber. She and Oghren paired up to take on one golem while Sten and Alistair flanked a second. Flora, offensively useless, flattened the domed shield to a barrier, keeping the final two golems at bay. Sten was the first to wedge his greatsword in the gap between the golem's neck, pressing home the advantage when the golem shuddered. The foci crystal, which provided a source of power for the creature, gave way beneath his blade. As it shattered, the behemoth came to an abrupt halt.

Alistair, who had kept the golem's attention focused on himself by darting back and forth just out of reach, moved to help Oghren and Branka. Between them, the two dwarves had caused enough damage to cripple the creature's legs; as it toppled over, Alistair lunged forwards to thrust his sword into the weak spot.

While the rest of her party had been attacking two of the golems, Flora focused on maintaining the barrier. This became increasingly difficult as the fight progressed; as when a golem fell, the others seemed to become enraged. Frenzied blows rained upon the shield like a hailstorm; she kept the staff thrust upright and braced herself as best she could.

As the second golem fell beneath Alistair's sword, an unexpectedly heavy blow caught her by surprise and she felt her weak knee give way. The barrier dissipated in seconds as she sprawled onto her back, winded. The next moment she rolled to one side with a squawk of alarm as two massive fists slammed into the stone floor, pulverising the tile where she had just rested. Then the two dwarves swarmed it, while Sten and Alistair engaged the second one.

Flora watched them from the floor for several moments, as they successfully brought down the first golem. Alistair had just wedged his second into the neck of the second, when it wheeled away from him. Power visibly draining, it raised a weakened fist and attempted to bring it down where Flora was lying. Caught unaware, she brought up her staff in alarm, and the golem's fist crashed against it. Deflecting the golem's weakened blow, the staff cracked in two, breaking into splintered halves.

Alistair, enraged at the creature's audacity, shoved his sword home. The foci crystal shattered and the stone behemoth slumped over, lifeless. There was silence for a long moment, broken by Branka's gleeful cackle. One door had opened on the death of the last golem, beyond which they could see a shadowed passageway. Without waiting for anyone, the female dwarf ran forwards and disappeared into the darkness.

"Hold, woman- !" called Oghren in vain at his wife's departing back. When she paid him no heed, he grimaced and spat a broken tooth onto the stone. "She's crazed. Lost her fool mind."

Flora groaned, looking at the splintered sections of her staff.

"I should've got Wynne to strengthen the repair charm," she muttered despondently, tucking the broken halves through the straps of her pack. Alistair grimaced in sympathy, reaching out to haul her to her feet.

As they followed in Branka's wake, he noticed a stiffness to her gait and gestured to her knee. She shook her head wordlessly, and he gave a little grimace of sympathy.

"I'll give you a piggyback later," he murmured, gesturing forwards. "Once this is taken care of."

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: So this is my interpretation of the trials they had to face before reaching the Anvil of the Void! Lol, forget trying to describe the spirit apparatus… definitely repressing that bad boy


	64. The Paragon Caridin

Chapter 64: The Paragon Caridin

The path opened up into a vast cavern, the ceiling dozens of feet above them and speckled with constellations of lyrium. The path curved upwards and to the right, a single precarious ramp leading to a high central island. To either side, the stone dropped away sharply to slow-moving rivers of magma below. It was a visually stunning sight, but no one was taking heed of the breathtaking surroundings.

All attention was focused on the figure near the top of the stone ramp, blocking the way to a gleaming lyrium-infused anvil positioned on the central island. The figure was a golem, far taller than those they had fought before. It was rusting and archaic in design, but an aura of power radiated from it. Branka was standing before it, gesticulating angrily with the strange rod she had carried at her waist.

"Is that golem-  _talking?"_ asked Oghren, his mouth dropping open in surprise.

As they drew nearer, they began to make out Branka's words. There was a strange jerkiness to her movements, her fingers clenching and unclenching compulsively.

"Even if you  _are_ Caridin, what do I care?" she shrieked, the words carried away by thermal currents rising from the magma below. "Nobody cares about a Paragon from ages past. I am Orzammar's champion! I will reclaim the glory of our lost empire!"

"Caridin, as in Cross?" muttered Alistair to Flora, and she gave a helpless shrug.

"His statue is in the Hall of Heroes," she mumbled, the memory appearing on the surface of her mind like a raised anchor.

Branka was advancing on the vast golem now, her fingers on the pommel of her sword.

"You must _not_  use the Anvil," stated the golem, agitation in its rusted tone. "You do not understand the cost!"

Oghren, with a frantic sideways glance at the Wardens, edged closer to the ramp.

"Branka, maybe you should listen to the talkin' golem," he hissed; his wife apparently paying him no heed.

"Could you explain for the non-dwarves present?" interrupted Alistair, slightly irritably. The golem turned its blank stare on him; metal face solemn and unchanging.

"I atone for my past mistakes by residing in this body," it said, raising an iron finger to gesture behind them. They turned to see a stone panel inlaid in the distant rock wall, vague carvings just about visible.

"Inscribed there are the names of those whom I sacrificed to create the golems of old, during the First Blight." The strange being's speech was stilted and archaic; the words had a hollow metallic ring to them. "The creation of a golem requires the sacrifice of a living dwarf. You must not use the Anvil for such a purpose!"

Flora grimaced, not quite grasping the situation. Oghren, however, let out a long breath of disbelief.

"Branka, yeh surely not thinkin' of that," he said, appalled. "It's not the dwarven way."

The dwarven woman, who had not taken her eyes off the Anvil behind the once-Paragon Caridin, let out a half-hysterical shriek of laughter.

"I sacrificed my House to get here, Oghren! What makes you think I wouldn't do  _anything_ to reclaim the glory of our people?! The dwarven way is not hiding in a handful of cities like rats in a hole, while Darkspawn run riot over  _our_ empire!"

Flora stepped forward, indignation overriding her natural reserve. "You can't turn people into those… things! Not even for good purpose: it's not right."

This caused Branka to wheel around, eyes flashing with outrage and manic purpose.

" _You_  dare to descend into my world, human, and lecture me on ethics and morality!?" she shrieked, her voice lost in the cavernous space. "You know  _nothing_ of us, you festering boil!"

"Festering boil? Ooh." Flora, accustomed to being shouted at, was intrigued at this new insult. Oghren groaned, lifting the vast ax from his shoulder with heavy purpose.

"The lass is right, Branka," he called, expression resigned. "The Deep Roads have taken yeh mind. We'll stop this madness!"

Branka let out a wild laugh, reaching for the strange wooden instrument at her belt.

"Your jokes were never very funny,  _husband,"_ she retorted, and there was no humour in it. "I suggest you not try and stop me."

"You're outnumbered," pointed out Alistair, shield already in hand. Branka grinned, showing gums and lips shrivelled from the consumption of Darkspawn flesh.

"We'll see," she murmured, and the once-Paragon Caridin let out a rumble of warning.

"Watch! She has a golem control rod!"

Branka raised the rod and there came a soft grinding of stone behind them. Two golems, hitherto slumped unnoticed in the shadows beside the entrance, slowly straightened. They began to march up the ramp, trapping the party between them and Branka's recently unsheathed crossbow. Flora suddenly wished that her staff was not in two halves and tucked into her bedroll.

"Focus on the mage!" shrieked Branka, a bolt already loaded and aimed between Flora's eyes. She had seen the golden barrier in action in the previous chamber, and knew full well how it could change the outcome of a fight.

"Take her down!"

Flora, alarmed, brought up a hand. The crossbow bolt clattered uselessly against the near-instantly formed gleaming barrier, falling to the stone below. Alistair and Sten headed towards the golems, while Oghren confronted his wife.

"I want a divorce, woman!" he bellowed, raising his shield to deflect a second crossbow bolt; while Flora's attention was diverted by Alistair launching himself towards the secondary golems. Meanwhile, Caridin was advancing on Branka from behind, metallic features impassive. Branka let out a hysterical laugh, loading another bolt.

"You think I care?! I took lovers  _during our engagement._ A Paragon married to someone like you- what a joke!"

Flora scowled, outraged on behalf of Oghren, but he only gave a cackle in response. "I'll take that as a  _yes,_ then?!"

"It's a yes, you nug-humping bas- "

Just then, Caridin barrelled into Branka from behind, winding her and lifting her up by the scruff of her neck. She dropped the crossbow and the control rod, letting out a shriek. Immediately, the two golems at the base of the ramp ground to a halt, slumping forwards. Alistair took advantage of their momentary halt to thrust his sword into the chink in their armour, shattering the foci crystal within each in turn.

"Leave here and do not seek the Anvil again," stated one Paragon to the other, while Branka squirmed frantically.

"Put me down!" she shrieked back, eyes flashing dangerously. "I will transform the Casteless into golems and they will become Orzammar's  _stone fist_ of vengeance!"

"The cost is too high," said the old Paragon, and somehow his rusted monotone appeared to be tinged with regret. The next moment, he had held Branka out over the void, several dozen yards above the lava below.

"Your final chance," Caridin stated, while Oghren let out a groan.

"Branka! You silly old cow, just  _give in!"_

" _Never!"_ she howled, then her cry was elongated as the golem released her. She plummeted out of sight; her shriek grew fainter and then ended abruptly. A shocked Flora put her hand over her mouth, eyes widening. Oghren gazed over the edge with a grimace, mixed emotions on his florid face.

"Foolish woman," he breathed, as Alistair and Sten came up the ramp. The vast stone Paragon turned his gaze on the four of them, inscrutable and impassive.

"If you do not seek the Anvil, then why are you here?"

Flora removed the hand from her mouth and stepped forward, swallowing a knot of fear.

"We were going to get her to come back and support a candidate for Orzammar's King," she said, hoping that her voice wasn't trembling. Caridin turned his hollowed eyes to her, listening carefully.

"And why do you care for the fate of a dwarven city, human?"

"We're Wardens. We need an army, and only a King can give us one. There's a Blight," she replied, then found to her surprise that she no longer needed to focus on keeping her words steady. Her voice was clear and even, with no hint of a tremor.

If golems were capable of sighing, Caridin would have heaved a great one.

"It was during a Blight that I committed my own crime," he murmured, casting his stone gaze on the inscribed panels. "I would not see more dwarves enslaved to the Anvil."

"We don't want to enslave anybody," replied Flora, suddenly overtaken by gloom. "We needed Branka, and now she's dead."

"Chargrilled," added Oghren, portentously.

"You needed a  _Paragon,"_ interjected Caridin, suddenly. "If you promise to break the Anvil – I cannot destroy it myself – then I will craft you a crown which only a Paragon could create. Then you will be able to choose your King."

Flora looked at Oghren, who shrugged. "The  _deshyr_  will recognise the work of a Paragon," he admitted. "Without Branka, I think it's the only way."

The sentient golem inclined its heavy, rusting head towards Flora. She was staring at the Anvil with a mixture of suspicion and irritation; annoyed that this seemingly innocuous object was the root cause of their troubles in Orzammar.

_If this thing didn't exist,_ she thought to herself, darkly.  _Branka wouldn't have gone searching for it, and Orzammar would have had a Paragon on hand to sort out their succession crisis._

"Does it tempt you?" asked Caridin suddenly, mistaking her contempt for longing. Flora snorted, shaking her head with vehemence. She could see a sinister parallel between the process of creating a golem and the transformation of mage into abomination.

"No!" she exclaimed, lowering her pack to the stone floor and sitting down. Bending her knee before her, she rolled up the woollen leg of her breeches and began to rub the sore joint. "No one should have power like that. Taking away someone's will and turning them into a … mindless monster."

"We humans prefer our armies sentient and squabbling amongst themselves," added Alistair cheerfully, sensing that the culmination of their Deep Roads journey was near.

With a solemn nod, Caridin informed them that it would take him several hours to create a Paragon-worthy crown. He retreated back to the raised platform where the Anvil stood, retrieving various materials as he went. Before long, the rhythmic sound of a blacksmith's hammer rang out around the cavern.

Oghren had gone to inspect the list of names carved into the wall panels, inscribed there in remembrance by Caridin himself. Sten, taut with impatience but aware that their goal was at hand, waited silently. Alistair was sitting cross legged on the stone ramp beside Flora, her leg across his lap as he massaged the joint expertly.

" _I Espy_ , with my cunning eye, something beginning with G.  _Guh,_ " he enunciated carefully to assist her with the spelling, and Flora shot him a flat stare.

"Golem," she said, and he nodded.

"Bah, that was easy! How about this:  _I Espy_  with my cunning eye, something beginning with….  _suh._ Um, S."

Alistair looked around thoughtfully, the clanging of the hammer a constant dull peal in the background.

"Stone?"

"No!"

" _Sten?"_

"No!"

He frowned, then triumph dawned on his face. His finger rose to the rock ceiling, gesturing at the lyrium-infused formations growing downwards.

"Stalactites?"

"Yes!" Flora beamed at him and he grinned back, reaching out to smooth down her untidy hair.

"Give me a kiss as a reward for my victory," Alistair murmured, flashing her a winning smile. Flora leaned forward without hesitation, placing her hand on his cheek to turn his face towards her own. She kissed him fleetingly, her lips brushing like feathers against his mouth.

"This is the strangest backdrop ever," she whispered as she pulled back and he laughed, glancing around at their surroundings.

"Can't argue with you there, my dear."

Leaving her pack and the broken halves of her staff with Alistair, Flora propelled herself awkwardly to her feet and approached Caridin and the Anvil nervously. He did not pause in his work, but seemed to acknowledge her presence. The hammer appeared a child's toy in the creature's metallic fingers, but beneath it a starkly beautiful headpiece was beginning to emerge. She kept out of range of the sparks, clearing her throat.

"You said you fought in the First Blight?" she asked tentatively, staring up at the impassive grill embedded in the golem's face. It nodded, turning the crown over with infinite care.

"Two hundred years, it had lasted. My own part in it was very small. Long after I had been imprisoned within this form, generations continued the war. One could live their entire life fighting the Darkspawn."

Flora swallowed, the blood momentarily running cold in her veins as she envisioned a centuries-long Blight.

"Did you know any Wardens? Our Warden-Commander said that they were founded around that time."

Caridin shook his head, grunting in the negative. "They were not established during my participation. I do not understand anything about their Order."

He paused for a moment in his hammering to eye her up and down, an air of dubiousness in his expression.

"Where are the other Wardens? I assume there are others. Unwise to venture into the Deep Roads with so few."

Flora swallowed, glancing over her shoulder reflexively at Alistair. He was manfully but unsuccessfully trying to tie the halves of her staff together with a leather strap from his pack.

"They're all dead," she said, the ever-present shadow of Ostagar lurking at the back of her mind. "They were… betrayed. By a general. Or- "

She faltered, recalling Cailan's insistence that the Wardens meet the horde head-on in the valley, with only the King's army as support. Cailan had not wanted to use the Right of Conscription to summon the dwarves, elves and mages; preferring instead to end the threat before it had properly begun. Then her mind summoned a memory of that fateful night at Ostagar- the horizon lit by a mass of blazing Darkspawn torches, so many that it almost appeared the sun was rising.

_How arrogant of Cailan to not summon the full strength of elves, or dwarves. Why would he choose not to? So he could be glorified alone? Would we have been outnumbered, even if the general had brought the army down? There would be no retreat from that valley; the men and women were caught like rats in a trap._

_Could Loghain see this, from his position high up in the trees?_

For the first time, the practical fisherman's daughter acknowledged the rationale behind Loghain's decision.

_However, he's still gone and made himself King. So, there is that. And Duncan died because of him._

Flora realised that she was staring rather stupidly into space; Caridin long since having returned to his work. Lost in thought, she wandered back down the stone ramp towards Alistair. Sitting down beside him and feeling her knee give a twinge of protest; she leaned her forehead against his pauldron. He put his arm around her shoulder, fingers absentmindedly stroking the sweat-damp linen sleeve of her shirt.

After some time, Caridin had finished. The crown was tall and imposing, cut with geometric designs that reflected the firelight. Oghren took it reverently, his eyes gleaming with dampness.

"I never thought I'd touch something created by a Paragon," he breathed, then looked around in alarm. "I'm not carrying it back to Orzammar, I'll lose it. Here, Sparkles. You take it, you have the best defence."

Flora took the crown with a little  _moue_  of anxiety; then squatted down and opened her pack. While she was rearranging the contents to fit the crown inside, Caridin turned his impassive stare on the others.

"You said that you would destroy the Anvil," he reminded them, and Alistair nodded dutifully.

"How exactly  _do_  we destroy it?" he asked after a moment, circling the solid lump of metal and eyeing it dubiously. "It looks awfully … sturdy."

"I cannot lay a finger on it for harmful purposes," stated Caridin, then gestured wordlessly down at the magma below. "Push it into the lava. It will be sufficient."

As Flora rearranged a squashed sandwich and several mouldering apples around the crown to make everything fit back in her pack, a sweating Alistair and Sten lifted the lyrium-infused Anvil between them. Carefully, they manoeuvred towards the edge of the stone ledge, before thrusting it into the void. The Anvil fell for three long seconds, before hitting the slowly roiling surface of the magma. Within moments, it had sunk beyond trace. Caridin gazed after it, his expression strangely impassive.

"I have done my duty," he stated, and there was a sad hollowness in his tone. "And I have lingered far beyond my natural years. Return to Orzammar, kingmakers. It makes no difference to me whom you choose to bear the burden."

Flora stood up, slinging the pack onto her back. The golem turned to face them all, lifting its metallic chin. Electricity sparked within the iron confines of its chest.

"There is a service tunnel which serves as a short-cut to Orzammar. It will return you to the dwarven capital in two days."

"Thank you," said Flora impulsively, strangely feeling a lump of sadness rising in her throat. The golem turned away from her, gazing down into the lava where Branka, and the Anvil, had so recently perished.

"Goodbye, Wardens," the once-Paragon said, stoic to the end. "And… may you always find your way in the dark."

His final words imparted, he allowed his bulk to topple over the edge. Alistair, who had not been expecting it, gaped. Flora, who had, stepped forward to watch the golem disappear beneath the burning magma.

"Well," muttered Oghren, with a small grimace. "That's that, then. Let's get out of here."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I only took one line from the game in this scene – Caridin's final words. I'm pretty sure that so far, I've hardly used any dialogue from the game (the purpose of this story was to develop my own very basic creative writing skills) – I used the inscription in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and I'm pretty sure that's about it, apart from the occasional phrase! But Caridin's last words – may you always find your way in the dark –really resonated with me, and I wanted to use it.


	65. I Like Your Nose

Chapter 65: I Like Your Nose

Sten had found the entrance to the service tunnel, Caridin's purported shortcut back to Orzammar. To their mutual relief it was not as cramped as the one they had used to bypass the road collapse on their first day in the Deep Roads. The tunnel was plain and utilitarian, lit by channels of magma below, the molten liquid covered by iron grills. Every five hundred yards, the narrow corridor opened out into a circular storage area, stacked with rotted crates and dusty sacking.

They walked for hours, ignoring the deep yawn of tiredness in their fatigued bones; all eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the Deep Roads. Sten had taken both Alistair and Flora's packs as though they weighed nothing, in order to allow the male Warden to give his younger female counterpart a lift. Alistair gripped each leg beneath the knee as she hunched against his back, exhausted. Flora was beginning to lose count of the days they had spent beneath the earth's surface, with only Darkspawn and deranged dwarves for company.

As they trod the footworn flagstones, Alistair was reminded of when his warden-sister used to return from Cailan's reckless scouting patrols back at Ostagar, so tired she could barely walk straight. At Duncan's command, Alistair had carried her on his back down to the Warden bunk tent, slightly uncomfortable at their proscribed proximity. Now, after weeks-  _months-_ of enforced closeness, her body seemed to fit naturally against his own; and he only felt disconcerted when she pulled away.

Finally, at one of the circular storage areas, Oghren flung his pack down and announced that he was going no further.

"My feet feel as though they're being chewed on by nugs, I got so many blisters," he complained loudly, tossing his bedroll alongside his pack. Sten looked as though he would not have minded leaving the irritating dwarf behind, but then Alistair nodded in agreement.

"We've gone far enough for today," he announced, and the Qunari let the packs drop to the floor with an irritated flare of the nostrils. "If the- golem? Paragon?  _Caridin_  was right, we should reach Orzammar tomorrow."

"Aye," muttered Oghren darkly, planting himself squatly on his bedroll and reaching for a bottle. "We better had, I'm almost out of ale."

Alistair kicked out their bedrolls, then lowered a yawning Flora to the ground. She sat on the damp material and rubbed her eyes, eyeing their surroundings blearily.

"Enjoy your nap?" asked Oghren, his words slurring slightly. Sten wrinkled his nose, removing some salted meat from his pack and ostentatiously turning his back on them.

"Nngh," Flora replied, grimacing and looking around. Alistair squatted beside her, rummaging in her bag and tossing her a dented apple.

"You're cushioning the Paragon crown with sandwiches?" he asked and she nodded, taking a large bite of the bruised fruit.

"Not taking any chances," she mumbled, as he lifted it out and placed it on the stone. "They'll use this thing to choose a King or… or we'll just crown  _Sten_  instead."

The three of them stared at the silverite headpiece wordlessly for several moments. Oghren, draining the last drops from the bottle, gave a long belch and grinned.

"So, who wants to try it on? How about you, handsome? Ever fancied being King Alistair?"

" _Definitely_ not," replied Alistair emphatically, while Flora gave a little grimace beside him. She then shook her own head, taking another bite of apple as the dwarf eyed her with a challenge in his eyes.

"I don't look good in hats," she replied placidly, passing the half-eaten fruit to her warden-brother. "They make my ears stick out. What about you?"

"Och, not if I can help it," Oghren replied, the ginger braids of his moustache flying as he shook his head. "I've avoided the Ancestors' attention for forty years, and I'd like to keep it that way. Too much like temptin' fate."

Flora reached out to take the crown and replaced it carefully in her pack. The silence around them was a welcome change from the snarl of Darkspawn, or the metallic creaking of the golems. It had been a day full of horror and violence; the worst since the day that the Circle Tower succumbed to the maleficar. The sacrifice of Branka's House for her own malformed obsession, the terrible fate of Laryn and the deadly struggle over the Anvil all tangled together into a dark stain on her mind.

Rousing herself from her gloom, Flora saw Oghren slumped over his empty bottle, and Alistair similarly sombre; she did not know whether the cause of her brother-warden's despondency was the day's events or the dwarf's lighthearted use of  _King Alistair._ After a few moments spent fumbling inside her tunic, her fingers finally found what they were looking for. Flora pulled out a pack of cards, stealthily retrieved from their room at the Tapster's Tavern, and triumphantly dropped them onto the stone.

"Who wants to play a round of Wicked Grace with me?" she said, forcing brightness into her tone. Immediately Oghren let out a roar of approval, sitting upright and rubbing his hands together.

"Ah, I'll play with yeh, lassie! Except," here, he leered openly at her. "Why don't we make it  _Strip_  Grace? Eh heh heh…"

Alistair nearly choked on a mouthful of water, spluttering wildly as Flora tilted her head, appearing to consider the proposal.

"Hmm, I think probably  _not_ ," she replied, solemnly. "Just in case Darkspawn come charging down the tunnel. We don't want to be caught naked."

The dwarf laughed, clapping his hands together and reaching for the cards to deal them out.

"Hey, Prince Charming, yeh in?"

Alistair finished mopping up the spilt water and nodded, shuffling himself closer. Oghren grinned, launching cards at them with practised fingers.

"How 'bout we have a round of  _Strip Grace_  when we're topside, then?"

Sten looked around with a poisonous glower. "You were planning on accompanying us on the surface?"

Oghren gave a mild shrug, rheumy eyes moving over his five cards.

"Ain't much left for me in Orzammar now that Branka's…. well. Might catch up with a few old Surface friends."

"The more the merrier," replied Alistair, with a little glance at Flora, who was squinting at her hand with furrowed brows. "Right, Flo?"

"Mmm," she mumbled vaguely, then smiled over the top of her cards. "Sounds good."

"Ha! Then it's decided. And, lassie, you didn't give me an answer!"

Flora turned her pale sea-grey stare on him, raising her eyebrows. "About what?"

"About  _Strip Grace,_ on the Surface. Yeh up for it?"

She grinned and nodded at him, shrugging a shoulder mildly.

"Sure."

They played two games, the second lasting nearly an hour. Alistair won the first game with a full hand of Songs, then was quickly eliminated in the opening round of the second game. Flora, whose impulsivity on occasion paid off, managed to survive several more hands against the dwarf, before being resoundingly beaten.

On the third round, Sten silently approached and placed himself within the circle, his face expressionless. Alistair's jaw dropped, while Flora's face nearly split in half with the width of her beam.

"Sten!" she breathed, eyes round. "Are you _joining_  us?"

The Qunari scowled at her, receiving his share of cards from a grinning Oghren.

"Such an alarming lack of logical thinking and tactics was on display, I felt compelled to demonstrate true skill," he stated, lip curling as he spoke.

It took Sten thirty seconds to eliminate Flora and an additional minute to dispatch Alistair. Four minutes later, a gobsmacked Oghren was forced to admit defeat, throwing his cards down as Sten displayed a matching suite, expressionless.

"By the tits of my Ancestors," the dwarf breathed, eyes wide. "That was impressive. You should enter contests!"

Having so elegantly made his point, the Qunari rose to his feet and returned to his bedroll without another word.

"Oh, please enter contests!" called Flora, enchanted by his talent. "I'll be your manager. For ten percent of your winnings! No!  _Fifteen_."

The abandoned storage chamber, one of several dozen similar rooms strung along the hidden service tunnel, fell silent as they retired to rest. Exhausted, no one made mention of keeping watch; trusting in the Wardens' ability to sense the proximity of Darkspawn. Sten, who would never admit to feeling cold, pulled his bedroll over beside the bronze grill, waves of sulphur-tinged heat drifting up from the magma below. Oghren, in a moment of inspiration, had produced another bottle formerly hidden at the bottom of his pack. After downing it in six glorious minutes, the dwarf had passed out halfway to his own bedroll.

Broad back turned towards their companions, Alistair propped himself on an elbow and gazed down at his sister-warden. Flora was flat on her back on the damp bedroll, her arms flung behind her head, looking solemnly back up at him.

"You look deep in thought," he murmured, admiring the chaotic nature of her hair, which rebelled against her vain attempts to restrain it. "What's on your mind?"

"I was just thinking that I like your nose," she replied, reaching up to touch it gently. "It reminds me of… a boat."

Alistair grimaced down at her, his eyebrows rising. "You mean it's big?"

"No," she replied, carefully. "I mean- it's strong. And proud. Like a ship's helm."

He laughed, trying to keep the sound muffled out of courtesy to the others. Both appeared to be fast asleep, Oghren's snores echoing around the circular storage chamber. Reaching down, Alistair brushed a thumb gently down the slope of her own nose, returning the gesture.

"Everything always comes back to the sea with you, my dear," he said, softly. "Well, I like your nose too. And your eyes. And your-  _mouth_."

As he stroked her face, the warm hazel of his irises abruptly darkened. Flora saw a sudden blaze of desire flare up in her brother-warden's eyes, his breathing coming harder and more erratically. There was a strange mingling of affection and lust in his expression, although the latter seemed to be quickly taking precedent.

"Kiss me," Alistair ordered quietly, a steel thread of command running through his voice. Flora blinked up at him for a moment, unused to her brother-warden showing such authority. Briefly, she wondered if arousal drew out some kind of hidden dominance from within him, disguised by years of subordination and Chantry-ordained submission.

Moments later, her body tired of the frantic machinations of her mind; and took matters into its own hands. Hips rising reflexively towards Alistair's, she sought out her mouth with his own. His hungry tongue parted her lips almost immediately, probing with an assertiveness that took her breath away. The kiss was defiantly passionate and almost  _too_  fierce, a vain attempt to exorcise the memory of the previous day's horror.

Unable to help himself, Alistair leaned over further until his elbow could no longer support him. Driven by lust, he lowered himself fully on top of her, caught up in the sweet apple-taste of her mouth. Flora could feel his arousal hard and insistent against her thigh, and felt a sudden rush of warmth deep in her abdomen that took her breath away. She tentatively nudged her pelvis against his own, feeling his hardness press into her own yielding softness. It felt good, yet confusing, and a little strange.

Alistair let out a strangled groan, a type of sound that she had never heard come from him before. His mouth moved to her neck, as the fingers of one hand cupped her right breast through her shirt. He heard her inhale unsteadily as he gave it a gentle, tentative caress, wondering at its ripe firmness. For several long moments, he thrust himself slowly against her, wishing that the layers of material between them could somehow melt away.

Suddenly, Flora sneezed on his hair three quick times in succession. He raised his face and stared at her, she appeared equally surprised.

"Flo?" He lifted himself from her, eyebrows rising. She sat up, then sneezed again, looking stunned. Lifting a sleeve to her face, she wiped her nose, her expression gradually transforming to bewilderment. Alistair couldn't help but laugh at his sister-warden's abject horror.

"Sounds like you've got a cold," he informed her, and her jaw dropped in outrage.

"A  _cold?!"_ she demanded in an indignant hiss. "No; it's not possible. I don't get  _colds._ My body is a perfect apparatus of healing."

Alistair grinned, watching her raise her fingers to her throat and summon the ethereal golden energy. Her expression contorted with intense concentration as the yellow mist lit her throat from within. Several moments later, she let out another sneeze.

" _No!"_  she muttered, mingled bewilderment and disbelief on her face. "I can't heal it! How is that possible? I can cure  _Blight sickness_ and not the common cold?!"

Alistair smiled at her and thought  _even though you're snotty and sneezing, I still want you. Maker help me._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: I'm actually in the middle of writing the actual Strip Grace scene on the surface at the moment, it's a fun scene to write! This chapter was also cute – it features Alistair and Flora getting to second base (after sixty five chapters and 200,000+ words, lol). I also thought the concept of Flora catching a cold was funny – since she's such a gifted healer with a naturally very strong immune system, she rarely gets ill. Yet the common cold is beyond her ability to heal, much like it is in modern medicine.


	66. Kingmakers

Chapter 66: Kingmakers

Flora spent an uncomfortable night intermittently sneezing, dozing and trying repeatedly to cure her cold. By the morning, she had achieved nothing except dark shadows beneath her eyes. Eager to reach Orzammar, they packed up their bedrolls and equipment quickly. Despite Alistair reaching out at intervals with his mind, there was still no sign of any Darkspawn presence. At one point Flora's head turned in alarm, feeling the familiar  _pull_ at the back of her skull; but it came from far beneath them. Alistair frowned, somewhat perturbed that she had been able to sense it when he could not.

Ahead the service tunnel began to branch occasionally, but Oghren was able to recognise the runic lettering that denoted Orzammar. They walked for what must have been a half-day, keeping a good and consistent pace.

Flora, glumly experiencing the full effects of her first proper cold in nearly a decade, continued to sneeze at regular intervals. As the tunnel began to slope gently and inexorably upwards, she had a sudden realisation as to who might be responsible for her ailment.

"Brother-warden!" she hissed indignantly, shooting a glower over her shoulder at Alistair, who was bringing up the rear. "I bet this is a result of when you let me fall into that freezing water!"

"Eh?" replied Alistair, blinking at her as he shifted the weight of his pack from one shoulder to the other. She pointed a finger at him, eyebrows shooting upwards.

"You know, when we were kissing in that pool! You  _dropped_ me in the water, remember?"

Alistair, rather unhelpfully, laughed and she smacked him on the elbow. Oghren, blatantly eavesdropping, let out a cackle.

"Ha! That's why yeh don't waste time on  _kissing,_ yeh just get straight down to business! No wasting time flapping lips around!"

Flora opened her mouth to launch into another tirade but Sten put up a hand to stop her.

"I hear something," he muttered, and they all fell silent, coming to a halt in the narrow service tunnel.

_Spiders,_ thought Flora in alarm.  _Giant underground rats. Something we can't detect._

_Please not spiders._

The noise came from above them, muffled but increasing in volume. It sounded like the dull shuffling of mass movement, a crowd of voices, some rising above the others. The sound reverberated down through the stone ceiling, dislodging some dust.

Oghren recognised it first, his dark eyes lighting up like torches.

"That's the sound of the Commons!" he exclaimed, with a great roar of delight. "We're nearly there!"

Thus heartened, they picked up the pace, hurrying up the service tunnel as the dull commotion of market day continued over their heads. The tunnel sloped upwards and the temperature increased sharply. The bare chested Sten, used to tropical Par Vollen climes, was not affected by the sudden humidity; a sweating Flora loosened her tunic and rolled up her shirt sleeves. Alistair and Oghren, in their mail and plate, felt as though they were being roasted alive.

"We must be alongside the lava cauldron," muttered Oghren, wiping his sodden forehead. "I wonder where this comes out."

"Hopefully in the middle of the Assembly," snarled Flora darkly, pulling the damp linen collar of her shirt away from her neck. "Then we can throw this crown at someone's head, get our army and LEAVE."

They rounded a corner and the tunnel ended abruptly in an innocuous wooden door. They stared at one another, then Sten strode forward and slammed his shoulder against the rotting barrier. It splintered beneath his bulk, and they emerged into-

"Dust Town! Ain't you a sight for sore eyes," announced Oghren as they headed down a small alleyway between two crumbling palaces. Flora recognised the decrepit buildings and stench of desperation; with some disbelief, she realised that it had only been a week since the Carta had attempted to take her hostage.

The Casteless stared up at them with slight awe and suspicion as they passed through. As Flora sneezed, they recoiled from her with alarm, turning their faces away.

"It's only a cold," she complained, as a scrawny prostitute cringed back against the wall. "Not the  _plague."_

The light, bustle and noise of the Commons was somewhat overwhelming after days of darkness and weighty silence. Even the firelight of the braziers was dazzling, their eyes used to the muted glow of lava. The market was well underway as they made their way around the perimeter, men and women cheerfully shouting out their wares and prices. The pulse of the city throbbed around them, currents of normal daily life running through the district in marked contrast to the funereal desolation of Bownammar.

They came to a pause outside Tapster's Tavern, Alistair glancing over at Flora.

"Do you think we should… wash?" he suggested tentatively. They were grubby, covered in dust and sweat, and in dire need of a change of clothes.

"No," retorted Flora stubbornly, her jaw set. "They asked us to go into the Deep Roads, we did, and now we look hideous. They'll have to deal with it. Let's just… get this over with."

Sten shot her a look of reluctant approval as they made their way towards the entrance to the Diamond Quarter. The guards stared at them, but passed no comment; despite Flora's broken staff sticking prominently from the top of her pack.

It felt strange to venture back into the  _deshyr's_ pristine halls, after the archaic starkness of the Deep Roads. Somehow, the inexhaustible Orzammar rumour mill had already sprung into action, and hissed whispers followed in their wake.

_It's the Grey Wardens! They've been in the Deep Roads._

_They were searching for Branka. I don't see her._

_I always knew she were dead! What a state they're in. Disrespectful, if you ask me._

* * *

 

They approached the impressive edifice of the Assembly, the sentries posted outside straightening. One of them, a stout dwarf with a blond beard, eyed Flora nervously. He clearly remembered her during her last visit to the  _deshyr_ senate, hands bound and head down. She had hovered nervously on the threshold, anxious about meeting the great and not-so-good of Orzammar.

As they approached the vast wooden doors, Flora remembered the tragedy of Laryn, the madness of Branka and the horror of the Deep Roads, everything that they had gone through to reach this point. There was no hesitation on her part this time as she climbed the steps, chin raised with conviction.

"Miss, if you wait for a moment for me to get the cuffs- " began the bearded guard warily as Flora turned her pale grey stare on him.

"Sorry," she said, softly. "But I won't be bound anymore. Excuse me."

Speechless, the sentries stood aside to let the Wardens and their party pass. The antechamber was quiet, the benches empty except for a single occupied one beside the Assembly doors. The Steward rose in some alarm, bristled eyebrows lifting as he took in their bedraggled state.

"The Assembly is in session at the moment, " he began, flustered.

"Perfect; they'll all be there then," replied Flora mildly, reaching out to try the door. The iron lock gave a rattle, the entrance remaining sealed.

"The doors will be locked until the session has ended!" protested the Steward, then gaped as Flora moved to one side and shot an expectant glance at Sten. The vast Qunari stepped forward and thrust his shoulder against the door. The lock splintered, hanging limply from the wood; the double doors flew open, slamming against the stone. The thud echoed around the circular chamber, rising to the vaulted ceiling of the Assembly.

Sten and Oghren stood to one side as Flora marched into the centre of the room, her pale face determined. Alistair was close behind her, cool hazel eyes daring anyone to challenge his sister-warden over her lack of cuffs. He could see the shocked, hopeful face of Lord Harrowmont on the lowest level of seating, his blue-badged supporters clustered around him. On the other side of the hall was a handsome, dark-haired dwarf with a metal band around his head and a scar disfiguring the corner of his lip.

Flora slung her pack onto the tiles and knelt down, thrusting her hand into its depths.

"Harrowmont, you said they'd bring back a Paragon to choose the true king of Orzammar," called out the handsome young dwarf with the scarred lip, derision clear in his tone. "I see no Paragon, only a mage who should be thrown into the cells for daring to come before us with hands unbound."

"Branka is dead," Flora retorted bluntly, her fingers closing around the cold metal. "But we have a Paragon-crafted crown, for Orzammar's chosen king."

_Or it's Warden-chosen King,_ she thought with a lurch of trepidation, before clambering to her feet and lifting the crown high into the air. There came a sharp inhalation of shock from the  _deshyr,_ and the Steward came forward from behind her to take the crown. Raising the monocle to his eye, he inspected the impossibly intricate geometric carvings and the seal of House Caridin on the base.

"It is a Paragon crafted crown," he breathed, and the  _deshyr_ gave a murmur of excitement. The dwarf, who Flora assumed must have been Prince Bhelen, sported an increasingly ugly expression.

"Who do the Ancestors choose, Wardens? To which candidate does the Paragon wish the crown to go?" asked the Steward, and Alistair stepped forward.

"To Lord Harrowmont!" he said, clear as a bell. His words were met with a great cacophony of noise; shouts, cheers, and some boos. The Steward crashed his hammer into a large metallic gong, demanding silence.

"Quiet! The Ancestors have spoken; and these Wardens have brought back a sign of the Paragon's favour. This city has been at stalemate for too long. Step forward, Lord Harrowmont!"

The old dwarf stepped forward, descending the stairs into the central part of the Chamber. The Steward held the crown high, the finely cut geometric patterns catching the light as brilliantly as any inlaid stone.

"May the Ancestors look with favour upon our new King, Pyral Harrowmont!" he called, as the Assembly began to stamp their feet in unison. The majority of the  _deshyr,_ even those who were not directly affiliated with Harrowmont, were simply grateful that the deadlock had been broken at last. Only Bhelen and his supporters sat there with faces like thunder as the Steward recited the ancient verse of ascension.

"And may the Stone be ever at your back," finished the Steward, as the  _deshyr_ Assembly rose to their feet with a roar.

Alistair saw Flora look up suddenly, her eyes sharpening. He put a restraining hand on her elbow, murmuring in an undertone.

"Wait at least a few moments before yelling  _NOW GIVE US AN ARMY_ , my dear. Give him a moment for it to sink in."

"No," she said back, her voice distant and distracted. "I think- "

She began to move across the chamber, just as a figure erupted from the stands opposite. Harrowmont turned; his mouth opening in surprise as the red-badged  _deshyr_ produced a dagger from within his robes. The Steward let out a cry of horror and the new King's eyes widened as the assassin lunged with dagger out towards his velvet chest.

Then Flora had flung herself between them, much as she had done with the Tranquil in the Circle Tower. A yellow barrier sprung from her fingers, fractions of a second before the tip of the dagger slammed into it, skidding harmlessly to one side.

"See! Magic isn't  _all_ bad," she said cheerfully, as chaos broke out around them.

The Steward howled for guards, sentries came rushing in and engaged with several fanatical Bhelen supporters. The Prince himself, stone-faced, stalked out with his retinue in the middle of the commotion. A surprised Alistair, eyebrows lodged somewhere in his hairline, drew his sword and joined the melee. Flora pulled the ends of the barrier around herself and Harrowmont, enclosing them in an impenetrable glowing sheath.

The dwarf was grey and breathing heavily, and Flora hoped that he wasn't having a heart attack.

"You know, if I'd been cuffed, you'd be dead," she added helpfully. This did not serve to calm the old man down as they watched a grim-faced Alistair shove his sword into a Bhelen fanatic's gut. Unlike Sten, her brother-warden took no joy in killing.

"I can't believe they'd go to these lengths in the hallowed hall of the Assembly itself," breathed Harrowmont, appalled, and Flora gave a mild shrug. Golden mist streamed in a steady flow through her fingers, her staff broken and useless on the floor. She felt the sting of the channeled energy, and knew that her fingertips would be red raw afterwards.

"Well, they have. So, now that we've fulfilled our side of the deal… " She trailed off, looking at him expectantly. The new dwarven King nodded, watching a sentry dispatch the final antagonistic  _deshyr._

"You have done me and Orzammar a great service, child. You shall have your army."

Flora beamed, lowering her hand. The barrier fell in a shower of heatless sparks, and the frightened remainder of the Assembly turned to their King, chattering in panic. Harrowmont stepped forward, raising his chin and lifting a hand to calm them.

"Noble  _deshyr,_ now that those who disrespected the will of our Ancestors have met justice, I raise my first proposal to you. The Darkspawn have swarmed to the Surface once again, and the Grey Wardens come to seek our aid. To offer assistance is not only a matter of ancient duty, but also one of  _honour._ Warden? What have you to say to the Assembly?"

To Flora's alarm the King turned to her expectantly, as did the faces of the three dozen remaining  _deshyr_ of Orzammar's Assembly. She stared up at them, hearing Alistair approach hastily behind her, ready to rattle off a few perfunctory words.

The sad, bloated corpse of what had once been a guard-captain's daughter, twisted beyond recognition by the taint, rose in the forefront of Flora's mind.

_The Darkspawn take women and turn them into monsters. And remember poor, twisted Ruck._

_They slaughtered the rest of the Wardens, and King Cailan, and the Royal Army._

_They murdered Duncan!_

"Someone once told me that the dwarves are the Darkspawn's oldest true enemy," she said suddenly, recalling Caridin's words. The  _deshyr_  gazed down at her, their faces melting into one impassive stare.

"You've fought them since the Blessed Age," she continued, using the Paragon's own phrasing. "The horde break themselves against the walls of Orzammar like waves; but your city still stands strong. We need that dwarven strength on the Surface; we need your unmatchable weaponry and your brute force and, and - your iron will."

The silence was so absolute that nobody dared breathe, for fear of breaking it. Flora looked around, a vague memory surfacing of hearing someone else speak like this, once.  _A long time ago. Who? Not her father, he barely speaks in anything other than monosyllabic grunts._

"Fight alongside the Wardens once more," she continued fervently. "As did your ancestors and their ancestors before them. We need you, standing at our side. After all - the Darkspawn  _feared_  you _first."_

The  _deshyr_  stared at her, Alistair stared at her; and if she could detach herself from own body, she was certain that her own disembodied spirit would be staring at her also.

"Plus," she added, with a mild shrug. "The mages wear dresses and the elves are built like twigs; we need a bit of dwarven muscle."

The Assembly erupted, the  _deshyr_ rising to their feet and hammering their fists on the balconies, roaring in deafening approval.  _To war!_ came the shout, over and over again.  _To war!_

"You're a girl of hidden talents," murmured Alistair in her ear and Flora nodded, wide-eyed and slightly shocked.

"I think I got possessed by an  _actual military leader_  for thirty seconds," she hissed back, still in awe at herself.

"Well, you can make  _all_ the rousing speeches in the future, then" he added, to her slight alarm.

"What? Noooo!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I think their experience Deep Roads was a benchmark moment for both Alistair and Flora – neither of them came out from the depths as quite the same person they were when they entered. Flora has lost some of her fear for nobility, and she also has less patience for delays or people trying to obstruct her. Alistair has clearly grown more confident with regard to Flora!
> 
> Finally: HALLELUJAH, WE ARE OUT OF THE DEEP ROADS! FINALLY!


	67. Reunited

Chapter 67: Reunited

Events moved quickly after the Assembly; their possessions were collected from Tapster's Tavern and King Harrowmont assigned them an emissary named Fellhammer. This stout middle aged dwarf would serve the same role as Pether did for the Circle; facilitating communication between the Wardens' expedition and Orzammar. The new King also donated a mule and a cart full of dwarven weaponry to the Wardens, including a new battle ax for a beaming Oghren.

They were escorted back through the Hall of Heroes by the same steward who had first met them at the vast external doors. Flora gazed up at the stoic carved faces of the Paragons as they passed; noticing Oghren averting his eyes from Branka's proud stone features. Her face had possessed no such nobility at the end, and perhaps he now saw her statue as some sort of mockery. Flora remembered the location of Caridin's granite effigy, the carved golem at its base making more sense to her now. She paused before it, reaching out a hand to touch the statue's foot as their party progressed.

Finally, the gate steward stopped in front of the vast stone doors, just beside the cunningly disguised smaller entrance.

"May your Ancestors watch over you on your journey," he intoned as they gathered eagerly before the doorway. "Farewell."

It would be the first time that the Wardens and their companions had seen the sky for over a week. Sten was the only one with the foresight to close his eyes as the dwarf pushed open the door; daylight flooding into receiving hall. Although it was sunset and the light was diffused with a reddish glow, it was still bright enough to dazzle the unprepared members of the party.

"Maker- my  _eyes!"_  hissed Alistair, fumbling for Flora's arm. Missing completely, his fingers instead groped clumsily at her hip. She had clapped her hands over her face with a groan.

"I'm blind!"

"Aah, how do yeh topsiders stand it all the time?" demanded Oghren, reddened eyes streaming. "I'd forgotten what a harsh mistress the sun is!"

Fellhammer, who had been used as a diplomatic emissary on previous occasions, also had the foresight to turn his eyes away from the sunset.

Then a familiar voice rung out across the stone forecourt: high, excited and distinctly Orlesian.

"They're back!"

Flora heard the rush of footsteps and then someone tall and slender flung their arms around her. She found her head being pressed to a perfumed breast, recognising the scent as belonging to –

"Leliana?" she asked, her vision still blurred from the sudden brightness. The pressure around her relieved and she found herself being embraced by a slightly different physique – leaner and more muscled. A heavily accented voice murmured in her ear, the words like a caress.

"If there's embracing to be done, my Rialto lily," it said, evilly. "I intend to get my just share."

Flora blinked the mist from her vision, focusing on Zevran as he grinned across at her, his dark eyes dancing with mischief. The slight blond elf was only an inch taller than Flora herself. Beside them, an ecstatic Leliana was plastering kisses across a stunned Alistair's cheeks.

As her vision cleared, she saw the rest of their company standing before them on the stone platform, the sun descending in a blaze of fire behind the mountains. Wynne was at the forefront, relief suffusing her features, Pether the Tranquil just beside her. The Redcliffe contingent were there too, many of the knights eyeing Alistair jealously for receiving attention from the lovely Leliana. Even Morrigan was there, supercilious as ever.

"My, my," she murmured as Zevran gave Flora a surreptitious pat on the rear and stepped away. "Look what crawled out of the Deep Roads."

Leliana decided against embracing Sten, who stood to one side and glared off into the distance.

"We got the message that you had been sent into the Deep Roads! What lengths will they make you go, it is obscene!"

" _Do_  you have the army?" enquired Wynne abruptly, stepping forward. Her eyes landed curiously on Oghren, and Fellhammer. As Oghren took out a bottle from his pack and took a large swig, her nostrils flared. "I am assuming….  _that_ is not your emissary!"

"Oghren! Pleased to meet you!" bellowed Oghren, a distinct slur to his voice.

Fellhammer stepped forward and gave a practised bow.

"Anten Fellhammer, my lady. Orzammar is happy to provide the Wardens with whatever military aid they require, in order to defeat the Blight."

" _Now_ they're happy to," muttered Alistair under his breath. "After we jumped through hoop after hoop."

"Oghren wants to accompany us," said Flora, a hoarse edge to her voice. Wynne shot her a look, nostrils flaring.

"Child, were you injured in the Deep Roads? Do you require healing?"

"No," replied Flora, gloomily. "I have a cold." She scowled as several of their companions shot her incredulous looks. "I know! I can't heal it!"

Leliana wrinkled her nose, recoiling elegantly. "Ech – I believe a warm bath may help with that. All four of you smell distinctly-  _subterranean."_

"She means you all reek of death," interjected Morrigan helpfully.

* * *

 

They returned to where the company had been stationed for the past week. The camp had an air of longevity about it, with tents well entrenched and a designated cooking area to one side. The sun continued to slide beyond the horizon, casting flame-hued colour over the snowy slopes. The evening air was clear and crisp, early stars making a tentative appearance in the pink afterglow of sunset.

Alistair walked alongside one of the Redcliffe contingent, who was busy relating a message from Arl Eamon. The Warden's attention had slid to one side, where Leliana was loudly bemoaning the state of Flora's hair. Flora was nodding solemnly, but Alistair recognised a vacant look in her eyes.

_It was strange to be in the company of others again,_ he thought for a moment,  _I had almost grown used to it just being the three of us. Four, including the dwarf. I suppose the Deep Roads takes away all sense of time passing. Maker knows a day down there feels like a lifetime._

At the camp, Wynne efficiently organised the drawing of baths, enlisting Morrigan into heating the cold spring water. With a flared-nostril glower and a pointed look at Alistair, Wynne directed Flora's tub to be brought discretely behind Bodahn's wagon.

"Don't boil me like a lobster," entreated a pinkening Flora nervously, hair plastered to her shoulders as Morrigan perched neatly on the edge of the tub. The witch had the end of her staff lowered beneath the waterline, just between Flora's bent knees. The staff was giving off a steady source of heat, warming the tepid water around it.

"Don't worry, I'm not a fan of  _seafood_ ," retorted Morrigan, with an arch of her finely plucked eyebrows. As Flora's jaw dropped in outrage on behalf of her beloved Herring's main source of income, Wynne appeared around the edge of the wagon.

"I've been speaking with Emissary Pellhammer," she said, a slight and reluctant smile creeping over her face. "It appears that you and Alistair- made a very good impression on the  _deshyr._ And Sten said that you impressed him."

Flora rested her chin on the edge of the wooden tub, staring up at Wynne in disbelief.

"He said  _what?!"_ she breathed, wondering if she had heard the senior enchanter correctly.

"That he may not have agreed with every decision you made, but that you made them with conviction and stuck to your choices."

Flora beamed, as Leliana pulled two tangled stands of her hair apart with a grimace, removing what appeared to be a clump of dried blood.

There was an atmosphere of hesitant optimism around the campfire that evening. Leliana, with little else to do for the past week, had hunted the surrounding woods to near extinction. The aroma of roast goat filled the camp; to Zevran's relief, the meat was accompanied by grilled tubers and other root vegetables.

Alistair had told the others about the Proving, provoking laughter with his description of 'Warden Aristo.' Oghren gave a truncated description of their quest into the Deep Roads for Branka, skipping out the worst sections so not to cast a cloud over the evening. By silent agreement, they had not brought up the terrible fate of Laryn.

Wynne had dropped her roast goat in alarm on learning that they had been responsible for choosing Orzammar's next ruler.

"If only it was as easy up here," muttered Alistair darkly, wishing that he could simply place a crown on Arl Eamon's head and make him King.

"We also saw the Archdemon," interrupted Sten, and the camp fell into a shocked silence. It was the first time that evening that he had spoken of their foray into the Deep Roads. Alistair felt a cold fist of fear grip his throat like a vice as he recalled the vast, leathery wings of the beast beating above them. The creature's horned head had been vast; the purple flame spewing from its mouth so hot that they had felt it even in their hiding place.

"What was the creature like?" asked Morrigan eventually, making no effort to disguise her curiosity.

"Ruddy great dragon," muttered Oghren, his tone uncharacteristically sober. "Claws and teeth like swords. Ugly as an Ancestor's arse. Vicious beastie."

Flora cleared the hoarseness from her throat, so that everybody turned to look at her.

"I got a good look at it while it was flapping around," she half-whispered, wiping her nose on a handkerchief donated by Bodahn. "Definitely saw a few weak spots. Good one on the underside of it's neck, Alistair. Perfect for you to stick your sword into, while I shield us from it's teeth, claws, and fire-breath!"

"That's the spirit, Sparkles!" cheered Oghren, raising a tankard in approval.

Zevran nodded, raising his eyebrows as he ran a whetstone along the edge of one of his gleaming daggers.

"And then once it is slain, I shall show you how we celebrate in Antiva!" he enthused, while Leliana rolled her eyes. "Fountains flowing with wine; dancing girls; endless mountains of food. And of course, orgies!"

Flora, who still didn't know what an orgy was, smiled obliviously. Oghren gave a roar of approval.

"Elf, yeh had me at wine fountains!"

Later, a yawning Flora excused herself just as Leliana retrieved her lute. The bard began a sweet and wistful Orlesian ballad, while Alistair rose to his feet to follow his sister-warden. Before he left, he recalled that one of the Redcliffe knights had mentioned something to him earlier about Arl Eamon. Quietly, so not to disturb Leliana's singing, he approached the knight and bent down.

"Sorry, what was the message from the Arl?"

With some difficulty the knight tore his eyes from Leliana.

"Aye, warden. Says that he's got some visitors, folks interested in offering assistance. Important ones, from the sound of it."

"Who?" asked Alistair, worried suddenly that this might be some new ruse of Loghain's in the making.

"A variety. One of 'em is a Cousland, from the north coast."

Beside them, Wynne's ears pricked up. The senior enchanter leaned over, allowing Leliana's song to muffle her words.

"I'd received a letter from the Circle in Jainen, who are based on the Waking Sea. They said there'd been trouble at the Cousland family seat – Highever – in recent months. The teyrn and his family have been murdered, usurped by a treacherous Arl. Apparently, this Arl is now working for Loghain."

Alistair gritted his teeth, as he always did whenever the General's name was mentioned; but on this occasion, he was distracted by Wynne's earlier remark.

"One traitor serving another, fitting. You mentioned Highever? That's near where Flora's from."

Wynne nodded, her eyes clouding over with thought.

"Yes, Alistair. The village of Herring falls within Cousland territory."

Alistair frowned, trying to ignore Leliana's increasingly mournful verse about a jealous wife slaying her unfaithful husband in a crime of passion.

"Why has this Cousland come to Eamon? Do they want the Arl's help in getting their seat back?"

The knight interjected here, shaking his head. "The Arl sent for them, Ser."

Wynne shrugged, raising her eyebrows. "Something for us to puzzle over on our journey back to Redcliffe. I love a good mystery."

Alistair wandered between the trees and wagons of their retinue, looking out for their own battered tent from Lothering. Locating it beside a sturdy, snow-covered beech tree, he ducked his head inside. It took him a few moments to realise that the shadows inside hid only their packs, bedrolls and a tangle of blankets.

"Flo?" he said out loud, withdrawing his head and peering around in confusion. Despite the lack of torches, a full moon above cast a brilliant glow over the mountain pass; no clouds present to muffle its light.

Suddenly, from somewhere behind him came the sound of a sneeze. He turned around, saw nothing but the snowy woodland and the distant light of the campfire. Then he looked up and saw Flora perched on a thick protruding branch, about halfway up the tree. She rubbed her nose against her sleeve defensively as he squinted back up at her.

"Back at your old habits, eh?" he asked her lightly; she tilted her face away to gaze up at the moon, the corners of her mouth turning down.

"Flo," Alistair repeated, his brow furrowing. "Are you – alright?"

In reply, he got only stubborn silence. Striding forward and taking the trunk in hand, he heaved himself up more through brute strength than agility; a feat which would have been impossible if he had still been wearing full armour. Flora peered over her shoulder in alarm as he clambered up towards her.

"Don't fall," she croaked as he slung his legs over her branch, waving a hand at her concern.

"You think you're the only one who climbed trees when you were younger?" he retorted, shuffling along the branch towards her. "Oh, I've climbed my fair share of- "

Alistair almost lost his balance just as he reached her; she had been watching him and shot out a hand to grab his shoulder. Catching his breath, he nodded at her gratefully, adjusting his position on the branch.

For several minutes, they sat in silence. From their elevated position, they could see over to the campfire, their companions still huddled around the flames. Oghren appeared to have passed out, flat on his back as Wynne stepped delicately over him. Alistair could also see Zevran and Leliana behind Bodahn's wagon, the Antivan elf's hand firmly nestled inside the bard's tunic.

Hastily, Alistair averted his eyes and peered across at Flora. Her face was solemn and still, the moonlight illuminating the finely carved planes of her face. For a moment, he recalled Leliana's words from their camp outside Redcliffe.

_Those aren't the cheekbones of a fisherman's daughter._

Then the machinations of his mind came to an abrupt halt as he saw dampness in her eyes, and remembered that fear showed on her face as solemnity. She dropped her gaze from him hastily, muffling a sneeze against her sleeve.

"I'm fine," she mumbled, blowing her nose noisily on Bodahn's handkerchief. "I just- it's…"

She trailed off, but Alistair knew what she was about to say.

_The army of Darkspawn they had seen marching to the surface. Chain nets and the fate of Laryn. Caridin's suicide; the attempted assassination of Bhelen._

_The Archdemon._

Alistair remembered Flora's bravado at the campfire earlier, her declaration that she had  _definitely_ seen a few weak spots on the dragon's scaled hide. Even during their darkest moments after Ostagar, she had maintained a relentless and brutal optimism.

"Flo," he said impulsively, reaching out to touch her arm. "Nobody is expecting you to be brave  _all_  the time. It's alright for you to show that you're afraid, you don't need to… hide yourself up trees to get upset. They know we're just- warden recruits."

She turned to look at him, her expression suddenly fierce.

"No, I don't want to do that," she replied, her grey eyes silvery in the moonlight. "I've seen my dad go out in winter storms, into seas that could have broken him and his boat against the rocks in a heartbeat. I saw him go out in winds that lifted roofs from houses; dragging in the nets when the waves were high enough to hide the horizon. But I was never scared, I never worried that anything bad would happen. Because he never showed his fear. He was always brave for us. If he can do it, so can I."

He stared at her as she coughed, her sore throat punishing her for such an impassioned and lengthy speech.

"That's commendable, my dear," he murmured finally, reaching out to draw her to him. "But I'm your brother-warden. You can show anything to me."

She leaned back against him as he slid his arms around her waist, pulling her against his chest. He rested a chin on her shoulder, brushing loose strands of still-damp hair from her ears.

"You sound like Zevran," she whispered, raising an eyebrow to the silent trees before them. " _Yoouu…. can show ANYTHEENG to me, my Rialto leelly."_

Alistair laughed out loud at her massacre of the Antivan accent, brushing a thumb around the edge of her ear. "Let's get down; you might not be cold, but I'm freezing."

Inside the tent, they huddled together beneath the blankets. Alistair restrained the urge to try and kiss her; they were both exhausted and Flora was now snorting and sniffing with reckless abandon.

"You should leave me to my bed of sickness," she said, turning her face against the bedroll with a little groan. "How do people cope with these  _colds?_ It feels like my head is going to fall off."

He pressed his chin against her shoulder, winding his fingers into hers in their nightly ritual.

"They just do," he replied, sliding his arms around her stomach and bending himself around her. This close, he could feel the gentle pulses of her body; the warmth of the blood coursing through her veins, the soft rush of air as she exhaled, the low grumble of her ever-hungry stomach.

"You're going to catch this cold too," she warned him, her face pressed against one side of the blanket.

"Worth it," Alistair murmured against her hair, lifting their clasped hands and pressing a kiss against her knuckles. "Goodnight, Flo."

"'Night, Alistair."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: Cute chapter to write – I know it's not depicted in game, but I imagine returning to the surface after being underground for days would be an absolute killer on the eyes! Tune in next time for STRIP GRACE!


	68. Cards Laid Bare - A Game of Strip Grace

Chapter 68: Cards Laid Bare – A Game of 'Strip' Grace

The company packed up and set off early the next day. They had taken heed of Bodahn's warning that a storm was approaching, not wanting to be trapped or waylaid in the mountains. Leliana was looking forward to spending another night in Redcliffe Castle enjoying the attentions of Bann Teagan; Zevran eager to consume food that had not been dried and salted. Everybody was anxious to return to lower, more temperate climes.

The ground began to flatten as they left the foothills of the Frostbacks behind them. The rest of their journey would follow a relatively straightforward route towards the top of Lake Calenhad, and then down its west coast to Redcliffe.

Morrigan, who had actually deigned to travel with them on foot, successfully wheedled the story of the Anvil from Oghren, who was susceptible to pretty faces. Fascinated, she had drawn every detail from him, and lamented in great frustration that the Wardens had chosen to destroy the weapon, rather than use it for their own purposes.

"Nah, lass," replied Oghren, as Branka's contorted face rose in his mind. He had barely been able to recognise her, at the end. "It weren't right. Taking livin' things and using 'em- yeh no better than a demon that way. They ain't those type of people."

He gestured up ahead, to where Alistair and Flora were riding at the head of the company. Flora was laughing at something that her brother-warden had said to her. He was gesticulating with both hands, nose in the air, relying on the firm grip of his thighs to keep himself upright on the saddle.

" _Aaah, Florah, it is such a peeety that you 'ave not refined your mannairs during your journey,"_ Alistair simpered, continuing to perfect his Isolde Guerrin impression.  _"Tragically, you are still just an 'umble peasant, and not worth of breathing the same air as myself, ze great Arlessa. Go sleep in ze stables."_

Flora gave a little shriek of laughter, then sneezed, which quickly led to a coughing fit. She clung to the neck of her long suffering horse, gasping for air.

"Stop, stop, I'm going to fall off," she croaked, weaving her fingers into the horse's mane.

Alistair, who was determined to cheer Flora up after her bout of melancholy the previous night, grinned.

Wynne, riding beside Leliana further back in the caravan, watched the two Wardens closely with her brow furrowed.

"He's very taken with her, isn't he?" she murmured to Leliana, who was taking a deep breath of lowlands air. Leliana smiled to herself, darting a quick little glance over at the senior enchanter.

"Wynne, you're one of the wisest people I've ever met, if not  _the_ wisest," she began, guiding her horse gently around a pothole. "Don't tell me you can't see the way he looks at her."

Wynne let out a little sigh, looking ahead once more. The red-faced healer was blowing her nose loudly, in a manner that would have appalled Lady Isolde, should the Arlessa have been present. Alistair, however, was looking at Flora as though she was the Blessed Andraste Herself; descended from the heavens to grace them with her presence.

"Our Chantry boy has fallen in love," said Leliana simply, as a nearby Morrigan let out a snort of contempt. "Isn't it sweet?"

Wynne fell silent for a moment, then reluctantly gave a slight nod.

"As long as they aren't tempted to run off to the Free Marches together and abandon us to the Darkspawn."

"Come, mistress Wynne," chided Leliana, shooting her a reprimanding look. "They know that their highest duty is to Ferelden."

Just as the sun began to set at their backs, they ascended a low rise and saw the vast inland lake of Calenhad spread out before them. Although they were at its northern and most narrow tip, the opposite shore was still impossible to make out. On its lonely island, the tall, needle-like silhouette of the Circle Tower stood out against the encroaching dusk.

"I wonder how the rebuilding is coming along," murmured Wynne as their caravan drew to a halt, the Redcliffe servants hurrying to take the horses' reins. "I may send a crow and enquire."

"Oh!" piped up Flora, the hopeful face of the young Dwarven girl named Dagna rising to the forefront of her mind. "Could you add a bit on the end? I have a question. On behalf of someone."

* * *

 

Camp was set up quickly on Calenhad's shoreline; several fires built and tents constructed. Bodahn's sturdy wagon protected them from a chilly eastern breeze, and soon several racks of roast goat were being turned over the flames. Alistair assisted with Bodahn and Sandals' tent, and was rewarded with a large hunk of cheese. As usual, Sten retreated to create his own camp away from the main company, flatly rejecting any invitations to join them.

Flora, expecting the familiar routine denial, offered to help Morrigan create her own hide in the treeline. To her surprise, the witch agreed with a cool little nod. Together, they dragged branches and ferns out of the undergrowth, constructing a small burrow within a partially rotted tree trunk.

"I don't know if it's waterproof," warned Flora, lying flat on her back and peering up at the twilight sky through the branches. Morrigan also turned her dark amber eyes towards the setting sun, assessing the atmosphere with a single practised glance.

"It will not rain," the witch replied after a moment, squinting at the wispy layers of cloud. Flora followed her gaze, the shifting colours of the sunset meaning nothing to her.

"My dad doesn't know his alphabet," she said suddenly, wistfully. "But he can read the sky like a book. He could tell if a storm was coming before there was even the slightest breeze."

Morrigan inclined her head slightly, pulling her travel cloak more tightly around her bare shoulders.

"Mages should spend less time with their heads in books and more time contemplating the world around them," she said acerbically, casting a glance towards the tall silhouette of Kinloch Hold. "There is much they could learn, if they weren't too arrogant to see it."

They ate the last of Leliana's hunted rabbit as the night drew in. Many of their party retired early, tired from the many hours of travel. Soon, only the Wardens, Leliana, Zevran, Wynne, Oghren and several of the Redcliffe knights remained around the campfire. Sparks drifted towards an ink-black sky, and the only sound in the background was the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore.

Oghren, having beaten one of the knights to a drinking contest, was full of pride- and alcohol-fuelled confidence. He pointed a thick finger at Flora, who was tossing strands of grass into the flames to watch them curl and blacken.

"Oi, lassie, do yeh remember the promise yeh made in the Deep Roads?"

Flora blinked up at him from her cross-legged position, the firelight reflected in her pale grey irises. "Eh?"

" _Strip Grace!"_  the dwarf declared, provocation in his tone. "Still up for it?"

She, in dire need of distraction, beamed and nodded. Alistair nearly toppled backwards from his own seated position, gaping at her.

"Finally, some decent entertainment!" announced Zevran, his eyes flashing with wicked delight. "Prepare to lose, everybody."

"Really?" squawked Flora's brother-warden.  _"Really?"_

Leliana clapped her hands in delight, her eyes darting a silent challenge across at the Antivan elf.

"Ah, I have not played Wicked Grace since before I joined the Chantry! I do hope that I haven't forgotten how to play!"

The bard's sweet smile and innocent tone fooled no one; Zevran let out a quiet snort of derision.

"Too early for your tricks,  _cara mia._ The game hasn't started yet _._ "

Wynne gave a small chuckle and a slight shake of the head, rising to her feet. Morrigan had already departed in disgust to her hide, hissing  _debauchery!_ as she stalked away.

"If I were twenty years younger, I might join you," the senior enchanter mused, as Alistair's jaw dropped still further. "As it stands, this old lady might retire to her tent early. Poor Alistair is looking quite red about the ears – perhaps you should also consider venturing to your tent, my dear?"

"I'm fine," muttered Alistair, the flush spreading to his cheeks as Oghren gave an evil little snicker.

In the end, only Oghren, Zevran, Leliana and the Wardens remained around the campfire; the eager-looking Redcliffe knights hurriedly called away by their captain to undertake sentry duty.

"Shall we ask the Qunari to join us?" cackled Zevran, as Flora went to retrieve the cards. Unfortunately she took it as a serious suggestion, and bellowed across the campsite; Zevran almost fell over in horror.

"STEN! Zevran wants you to play  _Strip Grace_  with him!"

Sten, who had been staring across the lake's surface, turned around and shot her a long and contemptuous stare.

"I don't think he wants to," Flora replied to the aghast elf as she returned to the campfire and handed the cards to Oghren.

There was some discussion as to who should deal the cards; Zevran, Leliana and Oghren all having ulterior motives and Flora being too inexperienced.

"Alistair can do it, he's far too much of a gentleman to stack the cards in anyone's favour," suggested Leliana at last; and so a slightly pink-faced Alistair doled out five cards to each player.

"This is the kind of thing that got you beatings when I was growing up," he muttered, as they each gathered up their hands.

"You're not in the monastery anymore," said Zevran, a wicked glint in his eye as he studied his cards. "Time to grow up, Chantry boy."

Flora, who still hadn't perfected her neutral expression, lost her boots and belt in quick succession. An overconfident Oghren, whose mind was slightly dulled by alcohol, made an inopportune gamble and lost his tunic. He grinned and proudly smacked his beer-barrel gut, enjoying Leliana's little moue of alarm.

"You know, ladies, neither you nor my dear Alistair have anything that I haven't already seen at the Temple of Sacred Ashes," Zevran informed them, as Leliana remained stubbornly fully clothed. "Although I admit, the prospect of a repeat viewing is rather exciting."

The Antivan winked at Alistair, who grew so flustered that he played a shocking hand and also lost his boots and belt. Seeing his reddened ears, Flora reached out and patted him on the knee; this calmed Alistair enough to cheat Zevran out of his shirt.

To his credit, the elf had no qualms about standing up and slowly peeling off his tunic; more than confident about the lean, bronzed muscle beneath. His torso was hairless and smooth, the skin an unblemished shade of nut brown.

"Feast your eyes, ladies and gentlemen," he murmured, flexing a well-toned arm. Leliana, who had seen it all before, made a dismissive little snort. Zevran then realised with perturbation that Flora's cry of delight was prompted by a newly discovered apple, rather than over his own honed physique.

With calculated skill, Leliana then deliberately lost the next hand so badly that Oghren declared she had to pay a penalty of three items of clothing. Enjoying the attention, Leliana removed her boots one at a time, then peeled off her tunic and slid her leather skirt over her hips. A modest smile lingering over her lips, she sat back on the grass and allowed the eyes of her companions to roam over her honed form.

She was no less muscled than Zevran, her body perfectly attuned for combat. The elf, who had seen Leliana's body before, still was able to appreciate it with a lazy grin. Alistair's eyes darted across in a quick, furtive glance, before returning assiduously to his cards.

"Very nice, lass!" said Oghren, taking another long gulp of ale. "You keep that in good condition."

Flora was preoccupied gaping at Leliana's smallclothes; which were after the Orlesian fashion. White silk bloomers and a little matching bodice were decorated with rows of pink ribbons, edged with scalloped lace.

"Those are the nicest clothes I've ever seen," she said bluntly, wide-eyed. "I could wear them to a Herring wedding and be overdressed. I could  _get married_  in them!"

Leliana beamed, brushing an imaginary speck of dirt from the ruffled pantaloons. "Sweet girl, I have multitudes! I shall gift you some."

A diverted Oghren then overplayed his hand, laying down a pair of Songs and Serpents. The bard, eyes dancing wickedly, demanded the divestment of his breeches. The dwarf sat there in his smallclothes, clutching a bottle in his lap, cursing under his breath.

"Yeh distracted me!" he complained, shivering slightly in the chilly night air.

Alistair, who was focusing intently on his hand in order to avoid looking at Leliana, played several excellent cards in a row. Unfortunately, his opponent was his own warden-sister. She looked nonplussed as Zevran gleefully demanded the removal of two more items.

Reaching for her shirt, Flora leaned over towards Alistair and lowered her voice, her fingers working at the buttons.

"You know," she whispered, removing the treaties and placing them carefully to one side. "You don't have to beat me at cards to get me to take my clothes off."

A reddening Alistair coughed as she withdrew laughing, and hoped very much that he would not need to remove his own lower garments anytime soon.

"Stop trying to distract me," he hissed, and she winked back at him, wriggling out of her breeches. Reaching up to her neck, she pulled her hair free from the untidy sidebraid and let it fall over her chest, before shrugging the shirt from her shoulders. Crossing her legs demurely, she sat there in her linen smallclothes, thick, dark red hair falling to cover her breasts.

"My Rialto lily, I had forgotten that you wear nothing beneath your shirt," leered Zevran, eyes moving unashamedly over her body. Flora gave a mild shrug, tilting her chin over at Leliana.

"I don't need much –  _support_  in that area," she admitted, acknowledging the bard's bustier build. Oghren let out a cackle, draining the bottle in his lap.

"For a slip of a girl with the appetite of a mountain goat, you have a nice little body. Shouldn't hide it under all that baggy clothing."

The poor Alistair, who was caught between looking and not looking, was the next to fall victim to Leliana's tactics. With clumsy fingers, he removed both tunic and breeches, only to be met with a low whistle of appreciation from Zevran.

"Shoulders like a young bull, Warden. I approve. Flora, you're a lucky girl."

Flora, well aware of how well-built Alistair's chest was after spending the past few months sleeping against it, smiled enigmatically. An approving Leliana let her eyes wander to the red-faced Warden's powerful thighs, wondering at the strength they held and how they would feel pressed against her own.

"I agree," she murmured, raising her eyebrows. "I will have to add this to my poem."

A grim-faced Alistair, determined to see the game through to the end, played a series of winning hands that bested Oghren and Zevran. Leliana, furious with herself for getting distracted by the taut board of muscle that was Alistair's abdomen, also folded.

Flushing, Alistair glanced sideways at Flora, who was seated beside him. She was laughing as usual, clamping an arm over her chest to keep her hair in place. Both of them were in their smallclothes, each with five cards remaining; the pressure of her bare thigh against his own had almost caused him to make grievous errors during the last few rounds. Her pale grey irises met his warm hazel stare, and she gave an evil grin.

"Warden versus Warden," she breathed, eyes dancing wickedly. "The ultimate showdown.  _The Perverted Proving."_

He snorted despite himself, gripping his cards slightly harder.

"Don't make me laugh," he implored. Inwardly, he was grateful for her humour – it helped to defuse the humming tension in the air between them; brought on by their proximity and semi-clothed state. Oghren had turned to the bottle for comfort after being eliminated, and was now passed out on the grass, snoring loudly.

"Come on then,  _Aristo_! I'm eager to win!"

Alistair groaned, his mind tangled with conflict about how to proceed. Being naturally taller than Flora and seated beside her, he had accidentally caught a glimpse of her hand earlier. It was poor, and she was clumsily attempting to bluff it out. In his own hand, he held three Knights. If he played the matched cards; he would win.

"A  _Song?!"_ exclaimed Leliana in surprise, as Alistair –teeth gritted – placed the single card down on the grass. Flora let out a little squeal of triumph, slapping down two Angels.

"Ha! I win! I win!"

Zevran let out a cackle, rubbing his hands together briskly as he nodded towards Alistair.

"Pay the forfeit, Warden!"

Gritting his teeth and hoping very much that Duncan was not looking down from the Golden City- or the  _Peraquialus –_ Alistair rose to his feet. As he thrust down his smallclothes defiantly; he noticed that Flora had kindly averted her eyes to the sputtering remains of the campfire.

Zevran's jaw dropped while Leliana let out a little shriek of incredulous delight.

"Maker, so those rumours about  _longswords of Templars_ were true!" she inhaled, while a flush spread down Alistair's neck. "My, that's...  _magnificent._ "

The Antivan elf was looking distinctly sullen now, his jaw tightening with something resembling envy.

"Built like a bull in more ways than one, Warden," he commented lightly, with a catlike lick of his lips. This proved to be too much for poor Alistair; not waiting to gather his clothes, he grabbed the treaties and used them to shield himself as he fled.

"What's my prize? Is it edible?" demanded Flora, peering around the campfire. The Antivan elf snorted, then gestured towards the direction in which Alistair had vanished.

" _That's_ your prize," he murmured, raising his eyebrows. "As I said before, you're a lucky girl. He's _definitely_ edible."

Leliana shook her head in disbelief, a small smile curling over her face.

"He had the better hand, you know," she informed Flora, turning over Alistair's discarded cards to show her the three matching Knights. "I saw it when I was refilling my ale."

Flora stared at the similar designs, her mouth dropping open in surprise.

"He could've won!" she breathed, her finger running over their carefully inked faces. The one on the right had a strong jaw that reminded her of her warden-brother. "Why didn't he play these?"

"Because, unlike these paper knights, Alistair has a noble and chivalrous spirit," Leliana replied, watching Flora's face closely. Flora blinked, then ducked her head to hide rapidly pinkening cheeks.

"I should go and- return these," she mumbled lamely, clambering to her feet and gathering up both her and Alistair's clothing in a tangle. "Night."

Zevran stroked his chin, idly admiring Flora's legs as she shuffled off between the tents. After a few moments, he reached for the unconscious dwarf's half-empty bottle and raised it in a toast.

"Good game."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: This was a fun chapter to write, lol! I loved the card game scene in Inquisition, so I wanted to include one of my own. The name of STRIP GRACE is brutally awkward, but I couldn't think of a cleverer name. I don't know if I've got the game exactly right, the Dragon Age wikia is basically my reference guide and the page on it is pretty limited. Anyway, would a group of -teen and twenty somethings would definitely need a bit of light relief!


	69. Intimacy and Interruptions

Chapter 69: Intimacy and Interruptions

Flora, clad only in her smallclothes, paused outside the familiar battered tent while clutching a tangle of clothing to her chest. As a stiff breeze disturbed Calenhad's moonlit surface, she knocked her fist gently against the canvas.

"Alistair?" she whispered tentatively, shivering in the sudden wind. "Are you decent?"

A grunt of assent came from within. She ducked inside, letting the flap drop behind her. Alistair had retrieved a spare pair of breeches from his pack, and was just buttoning them at the waist, cross-legged on the bedroll. Flora glanced at the trousers briefly, recalling murmurings about  _bulls_ and  _longswords_. Feeling herself blush, she clutched the bundle of clothing more tightly to her chest.

Alistair gave a little groan, casting her a pitiful look.

"Thanks for bringing my things. I bumped into  _Sten_ on the way back here. He looked at me like I was… a flea. On a rat. Which he had found in his bedroll.  _Eating his dinner_."

Flora winced in empathy, gazing down at him. She remembered what Leliana had said, about how Alistair had held a winning hand; but had thrown the game to prevent her from paying the forfeit.

"Thank you," she said suddenly, and he eyed her.

"For what?"

Flora realised that Alistair would vehemently deny that he had dealt a poor hand intentionally; that he would rather self-deprecatingly blame himself for his own manufactured loss.

Overcome with a myriad of emotion, she tossed the bundle of clothing to one side, her thick and unruly hair only partially falling over her shoulders. He blinked at her for a moment; before he could say anything, she crawled over his half-sprawled body and took his face gently between her hands. Sitting astride his thighs, she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. Her mouth lingering on the skin, she dropped her lips against one cheek and then the other. Finally, she pressed her mouth against his own, tasting the tang of ale on his lips.

Alistair reached out for her as she kissed him, spreading his palms over the small of her back. Her hair hung loose against his chest; the rich mahogany strands standing out in stark contrast against the warm tan of his skin. He sought out her tongue with his own, the raw edge of his desire causing his breath to come hot and ragged. As Flora surrendered her mouth to him, he gripped her hips and rolled her over onto the blanket, instinctively moving on top of her.

"My beautiful girl," Alistair murmured against her lips, lifting one of her slender arms above her head. Her fingers curled against her palm as he began to trail fleeting kisses down the soft underside of her forearm, starting at her wrist. He felt her trembling beneath him, her pulse quickening in response to his tongue. Tentatively he nudged his pelvis against hers, his arousal obvious, seeking reassurance that she wanted this as much as he. She responded by rocking her hips against his in a slow, involuntary roll.

Alistair's shy, eager mouth reached the end of her arm; left a sensitive trail across her shoulder. Carefully he moved aside the thick ropes of hair, baring her breasts. For several moments he stared down at her, lost for words. Flora peered up at him, irrationally anxious, dark red waves spread around her head like some volcanic cloud.

"Maker," Alistair breathed after a moment, and there was something akin to reverence in his tone. "You're  _so_  lovely, Flo." As he said this, he lowered his mouth to her breast. She inhaled quickly, the breath hitching in her throat as he tentatively lowered his mouth to her nipple.

Guided by instinct, his hand came down to bend her leg up, allowing him to thrust his clothed pelvis more deeply between her thighs. Unable to restrain himself any further, he reached down to fumble with the buttons at the top of his breeches. His fingers tangled with Flora's, who clearly had the same goal in mind.

Then, three things happened almost simultaneously. Each would have been irritating in its own way as an individual event; but combined, they proved to be lethal sabotage to the heightened atmosphere in the Wardens' tent.

Oghren, who had evidently aroused himself from his drink-induced coma, tripped over a guy rope and fell into the side of their tent with a muffled  _Nughumper!_ Alistair, who'd thought that the tickling at the back of his throat was merely dust, erupted into a sneezing fit. Finally, Wynne gave a loud and disapproving cough from her adjoining tent.

Spluttering and slightly stunned, Alistair collapsed back onto his own bedroll, gazing at the canvas ceiling in disbelief. Beside him, Flora sat upright, drawing her knees to her bare chest.

"Are you alright?" she hissed towards Oghren's canvas outline, trying not to laugh. The dwarf gave a mumble of assent, picking himself up off the tent.

"Aye, lassie, you get back to whatever it was you were doin'. Sorry for the interruption."

Flora reached for her pack and retrieved another Bodahn-donated handkerchief, handing it to a sniffing Alistair.

"I gave you my cold," she said, rather unnecessarily. He nodded, holding the square of fabric to his nostrils.

"Well, it wasn't unexpected."

Finding a spare woollen tunic tangled in her blankets, Flora pulled it over her head. Meanwhile Alistair blew his nose loudly, eyes streaming. Feeling guilty, she placed a hand on his knee.

"Sorry," she mumbled, pulling a mournful face. "It's my fault."

He looked up at her, shaking his head with a sudden rueful smile.

"Flo," he replied, his voice still half-thick with lust. "I'm just sorry we got interrupted. This is driving me crazy; I… I want you  _so_  badly."

Flora smiled back at him shyly, then dropped her gaze to her knees. She fiddled with the tatty hem of the tunic, pulling out a loose thread and winding it around the tip of her finger.

"Maybe once we get to Redcliffe we won't – be disturbed," she offered tentatively, peering at him from beneath her eyelashes to gauge his reaction. "You know. Or we could just ask the Arl if he has a Potions cupboard."

Alistair grinned at her, reaching out to touch her cheekbone. There was a knowing intimacy in the way his thumb caressed the hollow of her cheek, and the flush on Flora's face gradually spread to her neck.

"Sounds good to me, my dear."

* * *

 

They set off with the rising sun at their backs the next morning, the caravan making its way down the western coast of Lake Calenhad. Arl Lendon of Edgehall, who made a healthy profit from Orlesian trade, kept the roads in his arling well-maintained; and the company made good time. It was a clear and windless day, the surface of the lake a vast, gleaming mirror. Leliana, aware that those surrounding her were perhaps a little tired of Orlesian ballads, sang instead a variety of Fereldan folk melodies.

Oghren, who had not been to the Surface for several years, kept marvelling at the most mundane aspects of their environment- at trees with trunks wider than himself, at the herds of grazing domestic beasts. The incomprehensible size of the lake as it sprawled lazily before them in daylight left him speechless for several minutes.

"So, Sparkles, you said you lived there?" The dwarf rode alongside Flora, gesturing at the diminishing silhouette of the Circle Tower over his shoulder. She nodded, casting another glance at her former home.

"Me, Wynne, and Pether," she explained, nodding to the Tranquil emissary riding in the wagon beside Bodahn and Sandal. "Though we were on different floors. I lived there for four years."

"Locked up?" Oghren asked, recalling from previous visits how topsiders kept their mages confined in prisons. As a dwarf, he did not necessarily disagree with this – magic was a strange and incomprehensible force to him.

Flora nodded, gesturing over to where Alistair was riding just ahead. To his slight discomfort, Morrigan had drawn her horse alongside him, her amber eyes purposeful.

"Yes, watched over by Templars. Like Alistair would've been, if he hadn't been recruited to join the Wardens."

"Wait, watched when? Everywhere?" demanded Oghren, as she nodded solemnly. "Even at night? Even in the washroom?"

"Even in the Potions cupboard?" called Alistair over his shoulder, and Flora let out a little snort.

Morrigan, who alone among their companions was aware of the connotations associated with that particular phrase, nudged her horse alongside Alistair's.

"Am I correct in assuming that the fate of Ferelden is no longer in the hands of two virgins?" she enquired, watching the patch of exposed golden skin at the base of Alistair's neck slowly turn pink.

"Ah," he flailed verbally for a few moments. "What do you- I mean- how do- "

Morrigan's jaw dropped open, and she let out a shriek that startled several birds from the bushes beside the road. They were approaching a small wood, the head of their caravan just entering between the trees.

" _No!_ Surely you jest. It has been months since we were in Lothering and you confessed your…  _inexperience_."

Her cackle drew attention from the others, and Alistair groaned quietly under his breath.

"What have you been doing all this time?  _Hugging?!"_ the witch spat derisively.

"Nothing wrong with hugging," muttered Alistair, a scowl settling on his finely carved features.

They passed into the woods, the bare branches of the trees tangling together to form a shadowed canopy above their heads. The only noise seemed to be from their caravan; cart wheels and horses' hooves against the dirt, Fellhammer chatting idly to Bodahn, the Redcliffe knights merely grateful for the chance to visit home.

Suddenly the sharp-eyed Leliana, riding near the head of their party, gave a shout.

" _Eyes right!"_

There came an ululating cry from the shadowed undergrowth to either side, and five Dalish elves appeared. Their faces and hands had been blackened with mud; their stark green eyes focused and intent. Four of them drew bows and prepared to fire a volley of arrows into the caravan; while the fifth received a knife in the throat from Zevran before she could lift her weapon.

"Send an assassin against an assassin?!" he yelled, launching himself from his horse while simultaneously drawing his swords. "Come, Leliana! A hunt!"

Three arrows flew into the midst of the clustered caravam, one embedding itself into the side of Bodahn's wagon. With no time to retrieve her staff, Flora flung up both palms to shield herself and Alistair. The two arrows intended for their heads hit the golden mist as though it were a stone wall. The fourth arrow sunk into the throat of Lieutenant Cadrim, the leader of the men from Redcliffe. He was knocked from his horse by the force of the projectile, letting out a strangled gasp.

As soon as they had loosed their bows the assassins turned and fled, without waiting to see their outcome. Enraged, the Redcliffe knights charged after them on foot into the undergrowth, fanning out with yells of anger. Sten and Oghren joined them, with weapons drawn; a strange excitement on the Qunari's face. Morrigan, with a swirl of her cloak, transformed herself into a bird to better scout the surroundings and aid those searching below.

"Cowards! Is this another gift from Loghain?!" hissed Wynne, calming her frightened horse as it shied to one side. Alistair felt a hard knot of rage rise in his throat, temporarily paralysed by his hatred for the man whom he despised above all others.

Flora was struck by no such incapacity; as soon as the Dalish had fled, she dropped her hands and half-fell from her horse. Wynne joined her on the ground beside the mortally injured lieutenant. His young squire was there too, wringing his hands in desperation. Cadrim was letting out a strange gurgling sound, the arrow still lodged in his ravaged throat while gouts of blood surged around it. His eyes, wide, blue and frightened, stared up at them in silent terror.

"You have ten breaths," murmured Wynne to Flora, who nodded and reached for the arrow. The squire let out a choked gasp, putting out his hand to stop her.

"You can't pull it out! It'll tear him worse!"

"He's a dead man if she doesn't," retorted Wynne, as Flora leaned over. Alistair, roused from his reverie, descended from his horse and came to join them. He gaped at the lieutenant, already beginning to convulse in death throes on the bloodied earth.

"I can heal it," she mumbled, the golden energy already rising beneath her tongue. She reached for the arrow, her slender fingers venturing without pause into the bloody cavity of the man's throat. He was making a horrible, animalistic moaning; the efficient Fellhammer pressed his legs still to stop him from thrashing. Flora found the arrowhead, wrapped her fingers around it and quickly drew the arrow out. More blood surged upwards in the ragged mass of flesh and sinew.

Flora could see the damage done in her mind's eye; the torn artery, the shredded windpipe, the damaged tendons which gave a man the ability to speak. There was no rational process for her to follow, since she had received no formal tutelage in healing; and so she let her instinct guide her. Clamping her fingers over the man's mangled throat, she lowered her mouth to press directly against his bloodied lips.

"Eight breaths," warned Wynne. "Quickly, Flora."

She  _exhaled,_ yellow healing mist passing from her mouth into his, surging into his throat from within. At the same time, her fingertips gave off similar energy, searing the mangled skin closed. The man's gurgling stopped, his blue eyes bulging.

_He has six breaths left,_ she thought to herself.  _Prioritise: windpipe, artery, then vocal cords._

_**No, artery first.** _

She felt the man's mouth move against hers and pressed her lips harder so that none of the healing mist escaped.

_Three breaths._

_Bleeding stopped. Now for the windpipe._

She had never channelled energy this quickly before; she could feel her fingertips growing raw and painful and a blister forming on the roof of her mouth.

Cadrim stopped spluttering, drew in a long gasp of air. His lungs filled deeply, and he stopped trying to thrash about. Fellhammer, eyes as round as coins, withdrew pressure from the lieutenant's legs.

Flora raised her mouth, keeping her fingers over his newly healed throat. He made a rasping sound, and she nodded, tasting the man's blood in her mouth.

"Keep talking for me," she whispered. The man made an unintelligible croak and she moved her fingers over the bulge in his throat, feeling the vibrations of the damaged vocal cords beneath her thumbs. She gestured for him to continue; he continued to grunt until distinct words began to emerge.

"Nghh- mmm- Ma…Maker…"

"Keep going, please," she instructed, using the coherence of his speech to ascertain how much more healing was required.

"Maker preserve me, I feared I was done for," the lieutenant said, staring up at her in disbelief. Flora beamed, sitting back and wiping her bloodied hands over the bottom of her tunic. The entire process had taken less than a minute.

"Sorry, I've definitely given you my cold," she informed him thickly, feeling another blister forming on the end of her tongue. Ironically, she now sounded far more hoarse than he, the channelling of such rapid energy having irritated her own throat.

Alistair reached for his water pouch and handed it to her; Flora reached out to take it, then recoiled with a yelp. She turned her fingers over and saw that the tips were shiny and red-raw, as though she had held them too close to a flame. The inside of her mouth also stung; she blinked and felt rather pathetic.

"Ironically," she whispered, her voice little more than a croak. "I have a very low tolerance for pain."

Gently, Alistair raised the top of the pouch to her lips and tipped it for her. She took a gulp, then spat a mouthful of bloodied water onto the grass.

"Well then," said Wynne, leaning back against one of the wagons with a small sigh. "I suppose now we wait for the others."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ha I swear it's a coincidence, the numbering of this chapter and the first scene, lol. I've looked up most of the sex scenes in game (FOR RESEARCH!) and they all take place in camp! Two feet away from all the other companions?! Whaaaaat? I swear in Zevran's, you can actually see Wynne's FEET during it. Horrendous! I think, realistically, you would be hard pressed to find much actual privacy in a camping-type-situation. Anyway, it was fun to write some actual intimacy between Alistair and Flora; and it was also fun to write another healing scene for Flora. I wanted to show some sort of progression of her abilities – and since she can't cast offensively, I thought it would be good to demonstrate how her healing has developed.


	70. Winning Over Wynne

Chapter 70: Winning Over Wynne

After ten minutes the Redcliffe knights returned, dragging two elven corpses between them. They were pale and hard-faced, preparing themselves to see their commander lying dead on the grass. When they saw the lieutenant standing beside his horse, still running wondering fingers over his throat, they gaped in shock.

"Sir!" breathed one bearded man as they approached, eyes round as copper coins. "Did you not take an arrow to the neck?"

Cadrim nodded, his face still fixed in an expression of shock.

"I did," he breathed, feeling a faint raised ridge where the skin had been neatly sealed together. "The mage-warden healed it."

He gestured towards the spot where the healer was previously standing. Flora, who always felt uncomfortable with the attention that her magic drew, had sidled off around the wagon to change her bloodied shirt and tunic.

"Bastard slipped through my fingers," announced Oghren cheerfully as he emerged from the treeline several minutes later. "Fortunately, the Qunari has a longer reach than I."

Sten appeared, dragging the headless corpse of an elf by a single leg. He dropped the body at Wynne's feet, who grimaced and stepped back delicately.

"I was unable to extract any information from him," the Qunari stated, bluntly.

"Oh, I wonder why," mused the senior enchanter, eyeing the severed stump of the unfortunate assassin's neck.

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, a bird of prey with a piercing amber stare landed on the saddle of Alistair's horse. The company's attention was diverted by Leliana and Zevran emerging from the trees, hauling a slumped Dalish elf between them. During this time, Morrigan transformed herself back into a woman, leaning forward against the horse's neck with an arch smile.

"Silly little creature tried to hide," she purred; Alistair frowning as he eyed her bare thighs straddling his horse. "Unwise! If a fieldmouse cannot escape  _my_ gaze, what hope does a foolish elf have? I admit, the chase was amusing, for a time."

The elf was bound tightly at the wrists with what Alistair recognised as woven lute strings. Leliana blushed slightly, her gaze darting away.

"I'm not used to taking people  _alive_ ," she retorted defensively, as Flora emerged from behind the wagon. "I had to improvise."

Zevran gave a slight, mocking bow in the direction of the two Wardens.

"Interrogate away, my darlings. These elves aren't Crows – if they were, they wouldn't have made such a pitiful botch of the job. Though I assume they were sent by Loghain."

Alistair glanced at Flora, who replied with a little shrug. They approached the elf as he knelt on the muddied trail, head bowed. The wire around his wrists was cutting into his pale skin, beads of scarlet blood rolling down his fingers.

"Who sent you?" Alistair asked, trying to keep his tone neutral. "Was it Loghain?"

The would-be assassin looked up, pale green eye defiant. He murmured something underneath his breath, too quiet for either of them to hear.

"What's that?" Alistair repeated, leaning closer to the elf. Zevran saw the flash of a blade and gave a yell of warning.

" _Na din'an sahlin!"_ snarled the Dalish, having worked a narrow hand free from the wire to snatch a slender knife from his tunic. As he lunged towards Alistair, Flora shot out her own fingers. Her barrier surged outwards in a fluid, shifting mass of golden energy, faster than the blink of an eye – and quicker than the assassin's blade.

The elf catapulted backwards through the air, ending up pinned upside-down against the side of the wagon, suspended by the relentless pressure of the barrier.

Flora, channelling the full fury of a scorned Herring fishwife, lunged after him, keeping her hand aloft. Her rage was heightened by the stinging pain in her palms, aggravated by the continued use of magic.

" _Wynne, set a course for Loghain's ass,"_ she shrieked, the shade of her cheeks now matching her hair. "Because I'm going to go STRAIGHT UP THERE and destroy him!"

The rest of the company stared, jaws dropping; apart from Zevran, who was capering in delight.

"I love this,  _I love this_. Is anybody else aroused? No? Just me?"

The wrathful Flora continued, the flush spreading down her neck as she jabbed a finger at the centre of the elf's forehead.

"How  _dare_  he?! As if we don't have enough things trying to kill us! Darkspawn! Demons! Bandits! Carta dwarves! Bhelen's fanatics!"

She screeched this directly into the stunned elf's slowly purpling face as he hung upside down before her, unable to move. The barrier pressed him against the side of the wagon, and he let out a strangled grunt. Sten, who had been about to reach for his greatsword, gave a tight nod of approval.

"Now," Flora hissed, giving the barrier a little testing shove. "Talk, before I shove you  _face first_  through this wagon!"

There was a stunned silence. The only sound came from the elf, his face creasing as he let out a choked sob of fear. Flora, who immediately felt guilty, released the pressure of the barrier. The assassin dropped headfirst onto the ground, then huddled up against the wheel and put his face in his hands.

"Please, forgive me!" he begged, tears coursing down his face. "I had no choice. Howe will kill my family if I don't do this!"

Flora blinked, glancing over at Alistair. He was still staring at her, face contorted in mingled shock and admiration. Leliana, sensing the girl's hesitation, stepped in and casually displayed the edge of her dagger to the elf.

"She said  _talk,"_ the bard said, the threat evident even through the ornateness of her Orlesian accent. The elf groaned, putting out his hands to show he was now unarmed.

"Rendon Howe, Teyrn of Highever, has my wife and child in one of his dungeons. He said that he would only set them free if I brought him back the prince's head!"

"Clumsy," murmured Wynne, as Oghren's brow furrowed in confusion. "Loghain appears to be getting desperate."

"Hang on," interrupted Oghren, breaking into the little huddle around the elf. "What prince?"

Alistair was still in a slight state of shock at Flora's loss of temper. The senior enchanter sighed, gesturing towards him.

"Oghren, it's not something that Alistair embraces particularly, but –  _like it or not_  – he  _is_  the son of the old King. Heir to Ferelden and the Westward Isles."

The dwarf nearly choked on his tongue in shock, his expression now matching Alistair's own.

"Well! All the times I called you Prince Charming were surprisingly close to the mark, eh? Can't get one over on old Oghren, heh…"

"Highever," said Flora suddenly, scowling to herself. "The big house at Highever owns half the north coast; someone from there comes to collect taxes from Herring. But the teyrn isn't called  _Howe."_

"I don't know what happened to the Couslands," said the elf hastily, his pale green eyes moving nervously from face to face. "From what I hear, it was  _horrible_. The laurel flies no more over Highever."

For a moment, Flora saw a tattered laurel banner flapping in an airless green sky; she tried to recall where she had seen it.

_In the Fade, when the sloth demon trapped us there at the Circle Tower; constructing each of us a customised prison from our own mind. There were laurel banners hanging at the Warden fortress of Weissheipt._

After a moment of confusion, she dismissed the memory as an anomaly.

_After all, the demon also thought you'd want a victory parade. It got a lot wrong._

Alistair had finally gathered enough composure to speak.

"There's a Cousland at Redcliffe Castle," he said suddenly, recalling the knight's message in Gherlen's Pass. "Arl Eamon summoned him."

Flora frowned, perplexed, while Wynne gave a slow nod.

"The threads are beginning to weave together," she murmured, glancing across at Pether. "Soon, a pattern will emerge."

There was much debate about what to do with the elf before they continued on. Only Alistair and Wynne spoke up in the man's defence, and finally everyone looked to a slightly calmer Flora for the final decision. She had been wrapping her burnt palms in linen, and looked up in faint surprise when she realised they were staring at her.

"Go back to this  _Howe_ , and tell him to season himself up. You know, salt, spices," she said mildly to the elf, tying off the linen bandage into a little bow. "Because when I see him, I'm going to spit roast him on my staff."

Zevran let out a small moan, clutching Wynne's arm.

"I love this side of our solemn little healer," he whispered, licking his lips as Leliana shot him an evil stare. "My Rialto lily, shall we find a convenient bush for some privacy? You've driven me into a veritable  _frenzy,_ as you can see by the state of my breeches."

Now it was Alistair's turn to shoot the elf a dark glower. Flora laughed, and Zevran clutched his chest.

"Your laughter is a dagger to the breast," he intoned.

* * *

 

They continued to follow the road down the western coast of Lake Calenhad. Although Lieutenant Cadrim organised several men to scout ahead, accompanied by the eagle-eyed Leliana, there was no further trouble. They rode until the horses were exhausted; the road well-maintained enough to continue even after dusk had fallen. The sun set prematurely during the winter months, and they were eager to reach the Bannorn of Rainesfere. After two full days of journeying they were all exhausted; additionally, the majority of the company had now caught Flora's cold. She could feel their accusatory glares, accompanied by sniffs and sneezes, on the back of her neck as she rode.

Rainesfere was Teagan's territory, and sure enough a small group of men under the Bann's colour were waiting for them as they crested a low hill. Blazing torches in hand, they rode down to meet the caravan with a shout of greeting. Although Flora and Alistair wore no symbol identifying them, Bann Teagan had clearly provided his men with a description of the company. His second in command, a capable and world-weary man named Ghent, introduced himself to the Wardens with a bow.

"Welcome to Rainesfere, on behalf of Bann Teagan. My lord is still at Redcliffe with the Arl, but he sends his regards."

"Is the Arl well?" asked Alistair, tightening his grip on the shifting horse's reins. A light drizzle began to fall; Leliana let out a sneeze behind them.

Ghent nodded, shielding his eyes from the rain.

"Aye, Warden. He sent me here to watch out for you. There's a farmer here that can accommodate you tonight. If you'll follow me; it isn't far."

They followed him to a squat stone farmhouse nestled between two low hills, fronted by a courtyard large enough to hold their assorted wagons. The red-faced farmer and his wife, dazzled by the presence of Grey Wardens and their company, repeatedly expressed their honour at being able to offer assistance. Zevran immediately began eyeing up the farmer's son, who was far more pleasing on the eye than his grizzled father.

"My, he must thank the Maker that he didn't inherit Papa's looks," murmured the Antivan. "I wonder if mama played away?"

"It can happen," replied Flora, blithely. "I don't look anything like either of my parents."

The Redcliffe contingent and the dwarves were happy with their rooms above the barn; Morrigan disappeared as usual, preferring not to sleep with an artificial roof above her head. The rest of their party took up every horizontal surface in the farmhouse, Oghren quickly passing out in front of the fire and Sten retiring to the storeroom for some privacy. Zevran had discovered the farmhands' quarters and was amusing himself therein. Although Pether and Alistair had initially been shown to the same bedchamber, Wynne ended up rapping sharply on their door after only a few minutes.

"You might as well come into our chamber now, rather than try and sneak in later and risk waking us all," she informed Alistair, with an arched eyebrow. As he followed her down the passage he half-expected a lecture, though oddly none was forthcoming.

Wynne, Flora and Leliana were accommodated in quarters which must have belonged to the farmer and his wife. Leliana was leaning back in a chair beside the window, whose ill-fitting glass let in a slight breeze. She was idly plucking her lute, delicate fingers absentmindedly hovering over the strings. Flora was sitting bare-legged on the bed in her shirt, leaning over several sheets of parchment. She was biting the end of a quill, frowning down at her work.

Alistair went to sit beside her on the bed, his fingers going automatically to her bound knee to massage the tension from it. As he worked his thumb into the joint, he peered down at what she had written thus far. Across the top of the parchment she had scribed a careful alphabet, mostly correct except for an upside-down S and a backwards K.

Beneath the alphabet,  _my name is flora of hering_ was inked in her rounded, sloping handwriting. Alistair took the quill with his free hand and added the extra R in the village's name.

"You've nicer calligraphy than me," he commented lightly, handing back the quill. "I'm going to get you to scribe all my letters in the future."

Flora beamed, a pleased flush spreading over her cheeks. Alistair smiled at her, his hazel eyes warm and affectionate; reached up to nudge a thumb against her chin. Lifting one of her hands, he peeled back the linen bandage and squinted at her palm.

"It looks like it's getting a bit better."

"I think so," she replied, peering at the reddened skin. "It doesn't hurt as much."

She raised her hand to show him her five shiny, raw-pink fingers. Alistair caught her wrist and brought it to his mouth, kissing each of her fingertips gently in turn.

" _You_  don't have a magic mouth," she chided him, and he laughed, pressing his lips gallantly against the back of her hand.

Wynne, who had been pretending to write a letter, finally let out a sound of exasperated submission.

"Alright, alright! I concede. You two seem… very happy together."

The two Wardens looked over at the senior enchanter in surprise. The old woman shook her head, a small smile twisting the corner of her mouth.

"Maker knows I've tried to prevent this; and  _not_  because I'm a sour old woman with only a fading memory of romance."

Flora and Alistair both gaped with remarkably similar gormless expressions. Even Leliana looked up from her lute, curiously.

"I was merely doing what I thought best to protect you –  _both_ of you, Flora, although I know you bore the brunt of my lecturing. But I've changed my stance somewhat – especially bearing in mind what the Qunari told me."

" _Sten?!"_  exclaimed Alistair in shock, as Flora nearly knocked over her inkwell. "What, he said something that  _wasn't_  full of contempt and loathing?"

"He said that in the darkest places of the Deep Roads, you drew strength from one another, and were thus able to face the most terrible of foes without quailing. And, children, you may need that strength when it comes to facing the Archdemon."

"I agree, Wynne," murmured Leliana, batting her eyelashes at Alistair to make him blush. "I think it's lovely. You make such an endearing couple. Beautifully contrasting colouring."

"And I know life has not been particularly kind to either of you," the old mage added, leaning back in her chair. "You both deserve some happiness."

Flora, already pink, was now approximately the shade of her hair. Wynne smiled gently, canting her chin towards the door.

"Flora, my dear, could you possibly bring this old woman a glass of ale? I'm struck by a terrible thirst."

After pulling on a pair of breeches, the obedient Flora left, inordinately happy that the senior enchanter could now reliably remember her name. Alistair narrowed his eyes at Wynne.

"I'm wise to your tricks, old woman!" he warned her, removing his boots. "What do you want to ask me now that she's gone?"

"I'm assuming you _love_  her, then," Wynne stated, expecting a flush and some flustered denial. Instead, jaw tightening, Alistair merely gave a little nod of confirmation. Wynne sighed, then raised her eyebrows as he opened his mouth to speak.

"How do I… know if she loves me back? I don't have much – or  _any_ experience with… this type of thing."

Both Wynne and Leliana gazed at him for a long moment and he met their curious eyes with his own clear, open hazel stare.

"She's always saying that she  _loves_ things," he continued, with a little shrug. "She  _loves_ Herring, her parents."

"Food," added Wynne.

"Fish!" chimed Leliana.

Alistair gave another stiff-jawed nod.

"How do I know if she loves  _me?"_ he asked, aware that he sounded somewhat pathetic. Wynne gave a small smile, rolling up her letter and sealing it within a thin bronze cylinder.

"Alistair, did you not see the way she reacted earlier when that unfortunate elf tried to stab you? I would have feared for the Archdemon itself if she had been unleashed on it in that moment."

Alistair nodded, eyes widening as he recalled Flora's sudden, vicious anger, thrusting her barrier outwards to pin the assassin against the wagon.

"I don't think you need to hear her say the words back verbatim," continued Wynne, gently. Alistair looked down at the parchment, staring at the painstakingly inked  _my name is flora of herRing,_ with his own amendment.

"I'd quite  _like_  to hear the words, though," he countered, with a little shrug. "Just to… reassure myself. That I'm not being an idiot, as usual."

There was silence for several minutes. Through the ill-fitting window, they could dimly hear Zevran's raucous laughter coming from the low building where the farmhands slept.

"You know that if you become King, you cannot take her as your Queen. Even as a healer, she's still a mage."

Alistair, who had been taking a sip from his tankard, spat the mouthful over the floorboards as he gaped at Wynne.

"Maker's Breath!" he hissed, scowling. "I don't even  _want_  to be King!"

Leliana played an idle melody on the lute, pausing her soft humming. "You may make a good one, then. Often the best Kings are those who did not want the position."

"If it comes to a choice between Flora, or ruling Ferelden," Alistair countered, somewhat defiantly. "I'd choose her. Every time. Even if I desired to be King – which I  _don't."_

"You know, it would not be unheard of for a King to keep a royal mistress who was a mage," mused Wynne, and Alistair let out a groan.

"Do we have to talk about this? I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Just then Flora backed her way into the room, eyes wide, clutching Wynne's glass to her chest.

"Sorry I was so long," she explained, crossing the room to hand over the drink. "Lieutenant Cadrim was talking to me for about six years. I couldn't understand his accent, it's so southern. I just kept nodding."

Alistair felt something hot and electric shoot through his mind, making his muscles tense and his fingers clench compulsively around the quill. It took him a moment to recognise the feeling as  _jealousy._ The realisation astonished and slightly shamed him; he sat up and raised an arm.

"Come here, sweetheart."

Flora went to the bed and climbed onto it, settling against his chest with a smooth ease that spoke of long familiarity. He enclosed her within a strong arm, then wrapped the other one around her too and kissed the top of her head.

"Let's get some rest. We should reach Redcliffe tomorrow."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Flora properly loses her temper in this chapter – it was really entertaining for me to write this side of her character, since she's usually relatively patient and placid. But the thought of someone trying to hurt her brother-warden is enough to enrage her; and we get some proper Herring crudeness in her threats! Ultimately, she's far too compassionate to actually kill the would-be assassin, though. We also see the development of her literacy, and the acceptance of Wynne regarding her relationship with Alistair – does this mean no more Wynne-terventions! Maybe?! Maybe once more for good measure, heh heh…


	71. The Teyrn's Son

Chapter 71: The Teyrn's Son

Later, much later, Alistair lay awake in the ethereal pre-dawn hours while Wynne's snores, which rivalled Oghren's in volume and resonance, echoed to the ceiling beams. Flora was curled against his side, her fingers entwined with his own. At her back, Leliana squirmed on the other half of the bed. The bard was usually the image of peace and decorum as she slept; but Flora's cold had brought restlessness to everybody.

Flora opened an eye as the redheaded Chantry sister sniffed and mumbled in her sleep, her respiration impeded by a blocked nose. Alistair caught his sister-warden's gaze and smiled, noticing how her grey eyes seemed almost silver in the half-light.

"How do you spell  _sneeze?"_ she whispered, bringing her mouth close to his ear so not to disturb their fitfully sleeping companions. "I've been lying awake for ages trying to work it out. Does it have two  _suhs?"_

"Just one. Here," Alistair slid his hand beneath the blanket and placed a finger on her bare thigh. Slowly, in lingering strokes that were more caressing than educational, he traced the spelling onto her skin. The final  _e_ brought his finger against the edge of her linen smallclothes; suddenly astonished at his own daring, he snatched his hand away.

Quick as a fox, Flora caught his palm with hers. He could feel her linen bandages, trailing their ragged ends, a rough contrast to the softness of her fingers. Her eyes on his, she brought his hand to beneath her chin and clamped her head down on it, pinning it there.

"My pretty girl," he murmured into her ear, drawing her closer to him.

"I've given everyone my cold," she whispered dolefully back up at him, and he grinned against her hair.

"They'll live, baby."

* * *

 

Near everyone appeared well-rested the next morning, save for Zevran. As the farmer's wife brought out hardboiled eggs and salted meat for the journey, he stumbled from the farmhands' quarters with a dazed expression.

"About time," snarled Sten, who had been up since dawn. "Even the drunken dwarf was here before you."

A slightly hungover Oghren raised a jovial hand. Zevran staggered over to Bodahn's wagon and hauled himself into the back of it.

"Ah, what a night," he moaned, the Antivan accent running strong in his voice. "I love farm boys. So  _deliciously_ uncomplicated."

"You can't even walk straight," observed Leliana with a haughty sniff, perfectly coiffed as always. She had styled her hair in a multitude of snaking plaits, woven together artfully around the crown of her head. " _Some_  of us are concerned about making a good impression when we return to the Arl of Redcliffe.  _Especially_ if there's a Cousland there too."

Zevran made a noise which indicated exactly what he thought of these Couslands. Leliana's nostrils flared.

"You had better show them more respect than that," she warned, blue eyes icy. "They're the most powerful landowners in Ferelden, second only to the King. Even Loghain's holdings don't extend as far as the Cousland's reach over the north coast"

Zevran repeated the dismissive noise, slightly louder. Blindly, he groped a hand into the air, croaking for water. Pether, blank-faced, handed him his own drinking pouch. Leliana smoothed her hands over her head, inspecting her reflection in a nearby shallow puddle.

"I, on the other, will make a  _very good_ impression," she said, preening. "Not as good as if I had my silk dresses and slippers with me, but still…. Does my hair not look pretty, Flora?"

Flora, balancing precariously on the saddle with one foot propped against her horse's neck, nodded as she wrapped her knee.

"It looks lovely," she said dutifully, eyeing the precisely woven strands wrapping around the bard's head. "Like a… fancy basket."

This was not the response that Leliana had been hoping for. Shooting Flora a dagger-like glare, she urged her horse forwards.

The weather was clear and bright, the conditions perfect for travel. Teagan maintained the roads in his Bannorn in even better condition than Arl Lendon. The surface of Lake Calenhad gleamed like dark polished marble, and the spirits of the company could not help but be lifted. Despite the fact that somewhere to the south, the dark stain of the Blight continued to spread; the Wardens had won the aid of both the mages and the dwarves. From here it was a straight route north east – from Redcliffe, to the Brecilian Forest, and then to Denerim.

To Flora's horror, the general consensus of the group was to press on through lunch. She rode in stunned silence as they crossed into Arl Eamon's land, and the earth began to turn to red clay beneath the hooves of their horses. Late afternoon, the vast grey silhouette of Redcliffe Castle came into view, perched on top of the jutting promontory. As they drew closer they caught sight of the village itself; huddled at the base of the cliffs for protection against the bitter winds that seemed to blow straight from the Frostbacks.

* * *

 

Eventually, their company reached the vast iron gates that guarded the stone bridge leading to the keep. Now fully repaired, they hung stalwart and strong, as though they had never been broached. Flora, who remembered watching an undead horde smash their way through these gates as if they were paper, shivered.

"I'm looking forward to seeing Eamon," Alistair was saying to Wynne eagerly, as Morrigan rolled her eyes at his excitement. "I'm hoping he'll have word from Denerim."

"What, saying that the nobles have banded together, overthrown Loghain and stuck his head on a pole above the city gates?" drawled the senior enchanter with a mild snort.

"And his manhood, ideally," added Alistair cheerfully, prompting a nod of approval from Oghren.

"So, this is where human nobles live?" the dwarf mused as they entered the courtyard, stable boys running to lead in their horses. The Redcliffe knights, delighted to be home, disappeared to find old friends in the barracks.

"Hm, not bad. Not a patch on Orzammar, though!"

"Castle Redcliffe is very nice, but quite  _small_ ," breathed Leliana, running her hands over her braided hair to make sure it was still neat. "I've read that Castle Cousland is many times larger!"

After they had dismounted, the knowledgeable bard pointed out a small group clustered beside the training dummies. Resting beneath two green laurel banners were several Templars, a scattering of squires and a messenger, distinct in his travel leathers.

"That must be the Cousland contingent, I recognise the heraldry. I wonder where the lord or lady is? Probably inside with the Arl," mused Leliana out loud, raising her voice above the sound of men and horses.

One of the young squires looked up curiously as the bard's distinct Orlesian accent cut through the commotion. His eyes fell on Leliana, then moved over to Morrigan. After a lingering gaze had been spent on the skimpily dressed witch, his eyes crossed to Flora.

The ale bottle in his hand slipped free; dropped to the cobbles and shattered. The colour drained from the boy's face as though he had been over-bled by some enthusiastic doctor. Blindly, he groped for the arm of the Templar beside him; the older man, irritated, shook him off. A moment later his eyes also fell on Flora, and his jaw fell open in disbelief.

Flora, assuming that their stares were directed towards her mage's staff, scowled.

"I'm going to get some food before we see the Arl," she mumbled, sidling off towards a side-door which she knew led to the kitchens. "I can't face his wife on an empty stomach."

"I'll come with you," chimed Zevran, eyes lighting up. "Just to say hello to a few of the kitchen maids. It'll give them a thrill to see me again."

"Or put them off their dinner," muttered Alistair, darkly.

Oghren and Sten elected to stay behind in the courtyard, neither one particularly interested in human politics. The dwarf had spotted the castle's cider barrels earlier and was determined to find as many flaws as possible with topsider brewing. Alistair, eager to see Eamon, ascended the stone steps towards the main hall with Wynne, Morrigan and Leliana in his wake.

The Arl was standing beside the great fireplace in the main hall, head bowed in conversation with Teagan. The Satinalia decorations had been taken down, the Guerrin family heraldry and portraiture adorned the walls once again. As the guard escorted them into the hall, Eamon looked up. On seeing them enter, his face contorted with a mixture of relief, pleasure and another emotion that Alistair could not identify.

"Alistair," he said, striding to meet them with Teagan at his heels. "I am pleased to see you return safely. Were you successful?"

Alistair nodded slowly, brow furrowing as his eyes moved from the Arl's face to his younger brother's. Both Eamon and Teagan were peering past him, scanning the breadth of the hall.

"The dwarves are ready to support us, yes," the Warden replied, peering over his shoulder. "What are you looking for?"

"Where's your sister-warden?" asked Eamon, with deliberate casualness. Alistair made a vague gesture towards the kitchens.

"Getting food. What's this about?"

Just then, there was a small commotion in one of the side passages, the impatient voice of a young man rising above the noise. The tone was imperious and distinctly northern, although it was tinged with a slight Orlesian affectation.

"Just fetch me some parchment! That's not too much to ask, is it? A single sheet of parchment?"

A slender young man and his retainers burst into the main hall and strode towards them; Eamon Guerrin inclined his head respectfully.

"Master Cousland," the Arl said, with a significant look. "The Wardens have returned from Orzammar."

The young man turned to face them, and he wore the gold coronet of lordship around his forehead. The metallic band barely restrained a dark red shock of curling hair, the russet colour of leaves in autumn. His face was pale and finely hewn, as though carved from marble and his eyes were set wide apart, the pale grey of a winter sea. The young man's expression was solemn, purposeful and eerily familiar.

"Oh, shit," said Alistair, reaching out to grip the back of a wooden chair. Somewhere behind him, Morrigan began to laugh.

"My lord, may I introduce you to Warden Alistair and his companions," said Eamon quietly, aware of the shock rippling through the hall. "Alistair, ladies – this is Master Finian Cousland, son of the late Teyrn of Highever."

Alistair was aware of both Wynne and Leliana bowing behind him; Morrigan stooped to no one and he technically didn't owe fealty to anybody – but even if he  _was_ required to bow, he wasn't sure that he was even capable of it. His whole body was humming with alarm, taut as an over-tightened bowstring.

"Eamon, which one of these women do you claim is she?" asked the young noble, his eyes moving dubiously over Leliana and Morrigan. "Both ladies – no offence – are a little too advanced in years. My younger sister is shy of two decades."

"Flora is in the kitchen, my lord," said Wynne after a moment, aware that Alistair was too shocked to speak.

"Please, call me Finian," said the young Cousland after a few moments, a grimace crossing his handsome face. "I don't stand on ceremony. Especially since – well. I can hardly call myself the son of a teyrn now, with Father usurped and an imposter in his seat."

"Hang on," interjected Alistair suddenly, nausea churning in his stomach. "What do you mean that Flora's your  _sister?_  She doesn't have any brothers and her father is a fisherman."

"Oh, come on, imbecile," muttered Morrigan, with a roll of her amber eyes. "Even you must see the likeness."

Alistair, irrationally determined to defend Flora's parentage in her absence, reached inside the inner pocket of his pack. Retrieving the treaties, he shuffled through the sheaf of parchment to find her Circle record with her name and details of birth. As he removed the papers from the inner pocket, he also took out the parchment with  _flora lov hering,_ and the small gold ring she had given him in return for his mother's amulet, placing both on the long wooden dining table.

Finian strode forwards, his attention caught by the flash of metal. Alistair drew back slightly as the young noble reached past him. He was clad in a forest green velvet tunic, cut in the Orlesian style.

"Where did you get this?!" the Cousland lord demanded, a raw edge to his refined tone. He placed the ring in the palm of his hand, running a thumb over the engraved letters,  _F, C._

"Flo gave it to me," replied Alistair, shaken. The similarities that this man had to Flora were more striking in close proximity – the angle of the jaw, the freckles dotted across the nose; all resonated with uncanny familiarity. "It stands for Flora Cove."

"No, it stands for  _Florence Cousland,"_ corrected Finian shortly, although he too appeared to be losing his composure. "But, Eamon, it'll take more than a ring and red hair to convince me of her authenticity. I may have attended university in Val Royeaux, but the Orlesian wine didn't completely rot my brain. It's been fifteen years since I've seen her; she was a child."

"Does your… sister have any other identifying marks, other than her colouring?" asked Wynne, her tone resigned, as though she had expected this all along. Finian thought for a moment, his brow crumpling.

"She – my little sister – had an usual formation of freckles on her back," he said slowly after a pause, directing his question to the women. "They were- "

"In the shape of a boat," Alistair whispered, gripping the back of the chair even more tightly. " _Peraquialis."_

Finian closed his eyes for a moment, a brief flicker of raw emotion crossing his face before the artificial imperiousness returned. Immediately, it was augmented by a glower of suspicion.

"Yes. Wait, how do  _you_  know what's on my sister's naked back?"

"Maker's Breath." Ignoring the question, Alistair pulled out the wooden chair and sat down, resting his head in his hands for a moment.

"So – what are you suggesting, exactly?" asked Wynne, her tone sharp. "That Flora is a Cousland bastard?"

Finian shook his own head, jaw tight.

"I would that Fergus was here," he muttered to himself, fiddling with one of the bronze buttons on his tunic. "No, Florence was my parents' legitimate child. When her magic manifested, they sent her away to avoid her being taken by the Templars. Sent her to a little village in their teyrnir."

"And also to stop your family name from being tainted by association with a mage," murmured Wynne, though her expression suggested that some puzzling question had just been solved. "So they sent her to Herring, to be raised by locals. Why seek her out now?"

"My parents are murdered," Finian replied, and it was suddenly clear how young he was- a few years older than Alistair, no more than three or four. "My elder brother is either dead or lost to the Wilds. Renden Howe has betrayed my family, and taken over Highever."

"And where were you, when all this was taking place?" enquired Leliana, her voice soft. Finian took a deep breath, lifting his chin.

"I was abroad studying at the University of Orlais– it took several months for the news to reach me. When I learnt what had happened, I sent word through the Fereldan nobility to try and locate my sister. Eamon responded."

Alistair let out another groan; head in his hands.

"This can't be happening," he said out loud, directing his words to a stuffed elk head suspended on the wall. It looked mournfully back at him; the round eyes and long lashes reminded him of Flora.

Finian cast him a curious glance, one eyebrow rising. He turned to Wynne, having noted her senior mage's robes and staff.

"If her magic manifested at five, then by now she must be a powerful sorceress," he said earnestly, his fingers running over the ring in his palm. "I need her to help retake Highever and reclaim my father's seat. I have some Templar-trained soldiers, I can control her."

Morrigan let out another cackle, leaning against the wall and tilting her dark head back against the stone.

" _Powerful sorceress,"_  she gasped, fluttering her fingers to her chest. "'Tis a most funny jest."

"Flora has joined the Grey Wardens," countered Wynne, her pale blue eyes focused intently on Finian. "She has a higher purpose than property disputes. Anyway, as a mage, she has no legal right to anything."

"She's still a  _Cousland,"_  retorted Finian, defiance surfacing in his tone like driftwood.

Alistair raised his voice once more, and such was the unexpected dominance in his words that everybody fell silent. It was the kind of tone that a King might use to silence a squabbling Council, and the significance of this was not lost on Eamon. The Arl glanced sideways at his brother; the Bann gave a small nod.

"That's the problem," Alistair continued bleakly, rising to his feet. "She's not a Cousland, she's the daughter of a fisherman from Herring."

Finian waved away Flora's upbringing with a dismissive gesture that made Alistair's blood boil.

"What girl would not be  _ecstat_ ic to learn that she was not from humble peasant stock; but was instead the daughter of a teyrn?" he said lightly, a smile curving over his face.

This was so blatantly false that it even gave Wynne pause. Alistair briefly mused if it would be worth becoming king simply so he could punch this handsome, young lordling, with his arrogance and Orlesian finery, without incurring a penalty.

"I  _knew_ those cheekbones didn't belong to a fisherman's daughter," hissed Leliana triumphantly to Morrigan, who rolled her eyes. "Right from the beginning. Ooh, this will make for a most interesting twist in my saga."

With a start, Alistair realised that he was the only one in the room fighting for the fisherman's daughter from Herring. Even Wynne, who was nodding slowly, appeared to have mentally upgraded Flora to her new noble status.

"You're all just thinking politically," he accused them, his tone sharpening uncharacteristically. "That it'll buy us more influence in Denerim. But what about Flo?"

"What about me?" said Flora.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So finally, after seventy one chapters, the truth is out! I'll explain my motivation a little bit here: I wanted to put my own personal spin on the origin story, by combining the Cousland with the Amell background. I thought it'd be a creative challenge, and help me to develop my own writing ability as I wove the two origins together. I also think it'll be a great challenge when they get to Denerim to reconcile the fact that Flora is both a Cousland and a mage – it should make for a really interesting political dynamic. It's mostly a way for me to push my own ability as a very amateur writer, and stop me from relying too much on the game's own storyline.
> 
> Unfortunately, my own decision to set myself a writing challenge has slightly thrown Flora under the bus – oh dear! Sorry, Flo, lol.


	72. Freefall

Chapter 72: Freefall

Flora had emerged from the passage that led to the servants' quarters; clutching a half-eaten apple and a loaf of bread. Zevran was sauntering behind her, humming lightly under his breath.

The room fell silent, as rapidly as the sudden extinguishing of a candle. Flora's eyes went first to Alistair, alarmed when he gazed back at her with a terrible, twisted expression on his face.

"Is someone  _dead-?"_  she started, then faltered as her eyes fell on Finian. Standing two dozen yards apart; the two surveyed each other mutely. The similarities in physicality were striking now that they were together- save for the fact that he was several years older, they could have been twins. The autumnal colouring, fine-boned features and startled grey eyes were all identical; and suddenly it seemed ridiculous that anyone should have assumed that she was bred from peasant stock.

The colour drained from Flora's features, and Alistair began to stride towards her, his own face nearly as pale.

" _Florence?_ " breathed Finian, and there was no longer arrogance in his tone, only incredulity. Flora looked up, and there was a strange, shocked recognition in her eyes. She put a hand to her head, as if trying to physically pull free some long-buried thread of memory.

"Who are you?" she said, her voice breaking slightly mid-sentence. Finian glanced over his shoulder, ensuring that his Templars were at his back.

"It's me, Finian," the young lord said, clearly nervous. "Your brother."

Physically distancing herself from his words, Flora took a step back and collided with a column supporting a marble bust. It wobbled precariously and she reached out clumsily to steady it, moving as if in a dream. Wynne, sensing that the young Cousland's blunt approach was only going to cause more pain, interjected before Finian could speak further.

"Flora, it appears that – you were sent from Highever to Herring when your magic manifested as a child, to try and escape the Templars' attention," she said, her words soft and measured. "You're the daughter of Bryce Cousland, the late Teyrn."

Flora did not reply, only shook her head once from side to side. Alistair reached her and fish-roped her with his hand. For the first time since he had known her, her fingers felt cold. She looked up at him, and he saw raw fear and dawning realisation in her grey eyes.

_The tattered laurel banner, scavenged from my memories by the Fade demon at the top of the Circle Tower._

_Florence._

_My dad told me I nearly drowned, and that's why I have no recollections before the age of five. Did it really happen? My first memory is of a mage, hurrying away with staff in hand. What did they do to me?_

_Florence. Why did my head turn, without a pause?_

" _Your father is dead," said the Temple Guardian. You were so frightened until it showed the face of another man, one you didn't recognise. A man in a velvet waistcoat; a noble._

Flora took another step backwards, shaking her head. Alistair could feel her trembling, so hard that her teeth were practically chattering in her head. He clutched her fingers, despairing at his own impotence and inability to come to her aid. Zevran had darted to the side, his own face alight with fascination.

"Don't let her escape!" called Finian to his retinue, beginning to stride towards her. "We _need_  her magic, remember."

Flora raised a hand, imploringly, but the nervous Templars interpreted this as the beginning of a spell being cast. One soldier, a nervy young man scant years from training, let out a shout of warning and thrust out a hand.

For the second time in her life, Flora was hit by a Templar's  _silence._ As had happened in the Circle Tower, she felt as though all the air had been sucked from her lungs; leaving only a vacuum in its wake. She fell to her knees with a gasp, the inside of her mouth numb and her vision narrowing.

"My lord!" interjected a strained Eamon, starting forwards. "I did not invite you here to throw spells at her. Please, restrain your guards.  _Alistair!"_

Ignoring the Arl, an outraged Alistair strode forwards and swung his fist into the over-eager Templar's pimpled face. The young man crumpled to the floor in a clatter of armour, blood pouring from both nostrils.

"Good strike," murmured Zevran, stooping down to assist Flora; who was gasping desperately like a fish plucked from the sea. "Come on,  _cara mia_. Deep breaths, like how I showed you in the mountains."

As soon as Flora's lungs reclaimed some air, she stumbled back onto her feet. Seeing the man with her colouring and features, his Templar retinue and the Arl all converging on her; she dropped her staff with a clatter and fled. The half-eaten apple and bread lay forgotten on the flagstones.

At the main doors, she nearly collided with the contingent from the courtyard. One of them was holding a runed silverite contraption. It had adjustable manacles and a metallic gag, with several strategically positioned lyrium spikes.

"Grab her! Get her in the mage cage!" yelled Finian, abandoning all decorum and hurtling down the centre of the main hall in a whirl of perfumed fabric.

Flora came to an abrupt halt, spun around and darted off down one of the side passages, with the Cousland retinue in hot pursuit. Finian went haring after them, proving that the expensive fabric hid a lithe and athletic physique. The young Templar whom Alistair had punched clambered to his feet and staggered dazedly in his master's wake.

"I'm sorry, Alistair," said Eamon after a moment, genuine regret in his tone. "I fear that this was unavoidable."

Alistair gazed across at the man who had been somewhat of a father to him, many years ago. He recalled another conversation between them; when Eamon had sat him down as a child and explained exactly who his, Alistair's, father had been.

"They're hunting her down like a rabbit!" he hissed, as the sounds of pursuit came from the corridors surrounding the main hall. "You just need her to be a Cousland for your political advantage in Denerim!"

" _Our_ advantage, Alistair," Wynne said, quietly. " _Lady Cousland_  carries more weight than Flora of Herring, and her Warden status balances the stigma of being a mage. And we will need to be as heavyweight as possible to take on Loghain."

"They're outside," interrupted a thoroughly delighted Morrigan. "I wish to see how this plays out, does anyone wish to accompany me?"

They ended up in the courtyard, empty due to a sleeting rain; the rest of their company having sought shelter in the stables and servants' quarters. The Cousland banners leaned wearily against a wall, dripping water. Flora, knee throbbing, was cornered beside the training dummies by two adolescent squires. Panicked and unable to focus, she summoned no gleaming shield to protect herself. Instead, seeing a gap open up between their grasping hands, she shot towards it.

The squires went to follow her, only to have Sten step forth from the shadows to intercept them, a silent and impassable barrier. The two youths gazed up at the vast Qunari, arms crossed and expression un-amused.

"I suggest you cease your pursuit."

Finally Flora found herself trapped on one of the high ramparts surrounding the main courtyard. Finian and his Templars advanced on her from one tower; his squires and guardsmen from the other, cornering her between them. Alistair, Eamon and the others were approaching up from the courtyard on a flight of stone steps.

"Florence!" shouted Finian, edging towards her with his hands out placatingly. "Sister! Please, calm yourself. No need to be flinging spells around."

" _She can't!"_  retorted Alistair, who had ascended the steps two at a time. "Just stop for a moment and listen!"

A badly frightened Flora, knee sending jagged signals of pain to her brain, backed up against the battlements. Over the wall was a drop of a hundred feet, ending in the serene navy surface of Lake Calenhad.

"Flo,  _please_ ," begged Alistair, and she stared at him, his compassionate hazel eyes burning through the mists of panic clouding her brain. For a moment, she looked as though she might step towards him.

Then one of the Templars raised the runed mage cage, and she recoiled in alarm. Clambering up onto the stone battlements, she removed her boots one at a time, balancing precariously on the rain-slick wall.

"Hold!" Finian snarled at his retainers, his sea-grey eyes widening in confusion as he stared at Flora. "What are you  _doing?"_ There was no arrogance in his tone, only naked bewilderment.

"Flora, don't be a fool," muttered Wynne, as the Arl also started alarm.

Despite the circumstances, Zevran's face split in a grin as Flora defiantly thrust down her heavy woollen breeches and pulled off her tunic. She scowled down at them in a pair of Leliana's ornate Orlesian silk bloomers, and her own tatty shirt. Although she was standing in her smallclothes on a windswept battlements, rain lashing at her hair; there was a defiant imperiousness about her that seemed only to affirm what she was so determined to deny.

"Child, don't!" interrupted Eamon, taking a step forward. "The water is too far. The fall will kill you."

"I'm  _not_  a Cousland," she informed them all defiantly, her bare feet planted squarely on the damp stone wall. "I'm Flora, of  _Herring_."

Her grey eyes caught Alistair's own imploring ones for a split second, and then she took a deep breath and toppled backwards off the edge of the wall. The young master Cousland let out a shout of genuine fear; they all rushed forward to the battlements.

Flora fell, feeling the wind whip her hair, the walls of the castle shrinking above her as she dropped away. She saw the scared face of the fraud who called her  _sister_ for a split second, and then he too vanished. Closing her eyes against the rain, she felt a momentary spasm of guilt over Alistair.

_Sorry, brother-warden._

_Oh, I hope I don't hit a seagull on the way down._

After a count of three, she thrust out her hand blindly beneath her. The gleaming barrier extended out from her fingers like the prow of some ethereal golden ship, driving forward into the water and shattering the surface tension. Two vast walls of water rose up to either side; she fell inelegantly between them and plunged into Calenhad's depths.

Flora knew that it would be cold, but it was even more frigid than she had imagined. She gasped as her head broke the surface, the air snatched from her lungs as thoroughly as though stolen by another Templar's  _silence_. Treading water, head swivelling to orient herself, she saw the wooden docks of Redcliffe village on the near shore.

As it turned out, she did not need to swim all the way to the jetty. Two figures, wearing oiled leathers to protect against the rain, drew their fishing boat alongside her. The elder, grey beard bristling with confusion, squinted down at her.

"My, this is a strange catch," mused Bardon, reaching out a hand to pull her into the boat. "When did the depths of Calenhad start to produce half-clothed girls?"

Nat shrugged, retrieving a blanket to wrap around Flora as she sat in the bottom of the boat, shivering and sad.

"Not sure, Dad. Let's go back though, eh? Looks like a storm coming in."

Bardon nodded, eyeing Flora curiously. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, then peered into their buckets.

"Lots of haddock," she whispered, the edges of her voice raw. "Ooh, look at the size of that eel."

"Aye, it's a beast," said Bardon, shaking his head in warning at his son, who was clearly desperate to ask a dozen questions. "Feel the weight of it."

Flora reached into the bucket and lifted the length of its thick body up in both hands.

"That's very impressive," she croaked, replacing it carefully on top of the haddock. "My dad once caught one he swears was the length of a man."

Bardon returned her stare, thoughtful.

"So- do you want returning back up to the castle?" he asked, and was unsurprised when she shook her head rapidly from side to side. "Well, then. We'll go back to our place and you can help descale these. Our Nat's Alice will get some hot water."

On top of the battlements, the Arl, the king's bastard and the deposed teyrn's son all peered over the stone wall. Far below them on the rain-lashed surface of Lake Calenhad, they saw two fishermen haul a bedraggled Flora into their boat.

Zevran, who hated getting wet and despised Fereldan weather, shrunk against the tower alcove like a cat.

"Got to admire a girl prepared to jump off a cliff to make a point," he said brightly, as Finian kicked the leather toe of his boot against the battlements.

"Why did she run?" he asked plaintively, in a tone eerily similar to when Flora had enquired about their skipping of lunch earlier. "I'd understand why she'd be upset if the situation was reversed. But she's a  _Cousland._ It's a privilege, not a punishment."

Arl Eamon was scowling as he returned upright, having spent several minutes squinting over the edge of the battlements. After conferring with his manservant, he gave a tight nod.

"My lord, I did not invite you here to chase the poor child down like an escaped apostate," he said, steel running through his tone. "Redcliffe owes her a great debt, and I an even greater one; she saved the life of my son. The fate of Ferelden rests on her shoulders – and Alistair's, of course."

Thus reprimanded, the young teyrn's son ran a frustrated hand through his wet russet curls.

"You sound like my lecturers at university," he murmured, pulling the silk shirtsleeve away from his skin. "'Finian, don't sleep with your tutor. Finian, don't bring a monkey to class. Anyway, who is this 'Alistair'? You?"

The two young men sized one another up. Despite the Warden being several years younger, he was two inches taller and far bulkier in build than the slender Cousland. There was something delicate and almost feline about the young lord's face, especially when compared with Alistair's own strong, honest features.

Finian's eyes dropped shamelessly up and down Alistair, then gave a faint nod of approval. Alistair shifted, slightly uncomfortable underneath the man's brazen stare.

"Master Cousland, this is Alistair Theirin, heir to the throne of Ferelden," Eamon said, and Finian's jaw dropped. Quickly recovering, he dropped into a deep and distinctly Orlesian bow.

" _My prince_ ," he said, and Alistair groaned under his breath, moving impatiently from foot to foot.

"Look, can we just go and find Flo? I think she's really upset," he said, somewhat unnecessarily. Morrigan and Leliana rolled their eyes in a rare mutual moment of agreement.

"What a brutal amputation of my sister's name," murmured Finian, returning gracefully upright. "Shall I need my pet Templars? I think you may have broken the uglier one's nose, which won't help his looks. What about the mage cage? Is she likely to turn me into a frog?"

"No Templars, no cages!" snarled back Alistair, feeling his jaw tighten. Arl Eamon gestured to his manservant, who was young and sharp-eyed.

"That boat belongs to old man Bardon," Eamon's man explained, canting his head down towards the village. "He lives just behind the smithy."

* * *

 

Bardon's cottage was a simple three room dwelling, with a private chamber for himself and another for Nat and Alice; the children sleeping at the foot of their parents' bed. To Alice's credit, she did not appear too surprised when her husband and father-in-law manifested on the doorstep with a soaking wet girl clad only in a blanket. Masking her confusion well, she drew Flora a bath in the back room and found her some spare clothes.

"I'm afraid they belong to my eldest, Beran," she said apologetically as Flora fought her way through a vast man's shirt. "He's squiring for Bann Teagan at the moment."

"Thank you," replied Flora, her voice muffled by the material. Nat's wife cast a shrewd eye over the girl as she clambered into a pair of cambric trousers, rolling them up over the knee.

"I recognise you. You're one of them Wardens, what saved us at the end of last year."

Flora nodded glumly, tying her wet hair in an untidy knot on top of her head. Alice shot her a curious glance but asked no more awkward questions.

In the main room of the cottage, Bardon and Nat sat to either side of the fire with the day's catch between them in crates. Bardon glanced up at Flora, who was pale but seemed calm enough. He held up a small knife.

"Ready, lass?"

Flora nodded and lowered herself onto the flagstones with a grimace, gripping the edge of the empty fireplace for support. Nat raised his eyebrows at her, already having stripped three fish of their scales.

"Hurt yourself when you fell?"

She shook her head, catching the knife expertly as Bardon tossed it to her. The curved grip of the descaling tool felt as familiar to her as the haft of her staff; having spent many hundreds of evenings as a child doing the same chore for her-

_Dad? The man who raised me?_

Pushing the thought from her head, she focused on the pile of fish before her, gripping a haddock by the head and angling the blade in the opposite direction of the scales.

"It's an old injury," she replied, already absorbed in the task at hand.

They worked silently for half an oily candle length, the flickering light distorting their shadows against the stone walls. Alice knitted a garment for a grubby child of indeterminate gender, who peered around its mother's skirt at the unusual presence in their home. As the light waned in the leaded window, Alice lit another candle.

"You know, the villagers want to build a statue to commemorate your assistance," said Bardon lightly, placing another descaled fish in the icebox. "Against the undead. Arl Eamon has volunteered to fund it. Any ideas about what you want? You and the lad on a plinth? Weapons raised valiantly?"

Flora nearly dropped her haddock in shock.

"Oh, no," she breathed. "That would be awful _._  Do we have to have a statue? We don't  _need_ a statue."

The old man shrugged, raising bristled eyebrows at her.

"Well, they're set on it so you're getting one. I'd put your suggestion in now, or it'll be two nine foot Wardens."

Flora pulled a little face, thinking; after a moment she recalled the symbol that her old uniform had sported. Her last memory of Duncan had been the silver griffons on his breastplate glinting in the torchlight at Ostagar.

"Make it a griffon then," she said impulsively. "I don't know…. kicking something's head in."

Bardon nodded mildly, tossing a haddock into a second crate.

"Duly noted. Nat, lad, fetch us some more ice from the outside store."

When Nat returned, his eyes were wide and round in his pale moon face.

"The Arl is outside," he breathed. "As well as someone calling himself a teyrn's son. The teyrn's son claims that the future King of Ferelden is with them also."

Alice let out a gasp of shock and alarm, leaping to her feet so that her knitting fell to the ground. Nat looked to his father, who appeared commendably calm.

"Well, lad, stop gawping like a landed fish and ask them what they want."

"Not… let them in?" clarified Nat, tentatively. Bardon shook his head, stroking his beard.

"Not until they say what their purpose is. If it's the lass here, well. She ran  _away_ from them, didn't she?"

Swallowing, Nat went back to the door. A few moments later, he returned, now distinctly green.

"They would like to enter and speak to Warden Flora."

Bardon raised his eyebrows at Flora, who looked conflicted.

"Lass, there's no more cliffs for you to jump off and escape," he said, quietly. "Better to just deal with it."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: This was such a fun chapter to write – also quite a difficult one. I know that Finian isn't giving the best impression, waving mage cages around at his sister; but from his perspective, he hasn't seen her in nearly fifteen years and for all he knows, she is a powerful and dangerous apostate! I also wanted to try and convey that Flora seeks comfort in the familiar – she jumps into the lake, she goes back to the fisherman's cottage and descales fish to calm herself down. It was fun to write about Bardon and Nat again, too! As a side note, in DA: Inquisition, you can visit Redcliffe and see the Warden commemorative statue of a griffon squashing some undead beneath its claws!


	73. With Grace

Chapter 73: With Grace

Eamon, Finian and Alistair entered the small main room of the fisherman's hut, the latter hitting his head on a low beam. Flora was still sitting cross legged on the flagstones, a fish in one hand and a descaling knife in the other. She eyed them with some trepidation, her expression stony and unamused.

"Thank the Maker you're alright," breathed Alistair, relief suffusing his features. "Please, never do that again. I seriously think my heart stopped for a second when you went over that rampart."

Flora immediately felt guilty as he knelt beside her on the flagstones, mindless of the fish. She slid the hand not holding the descaling blade around the back of his neck; her fingers edging into his hairline as he rested his forehead on her shoulder for a moment.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into his ear. "I didn't think."

As Alistair exhaled unsteadily against her neck, Flora's stare fell on Finian, who was holding a scented handkerchief over his nose. In his Orlesian finery, he appeared wholly out of place in the small fisherman's cottage. His pale grey gaze met its mirror in her face, though her own eyes were narrowed in suspicion.

"Alistair Theirin, you promised that you would defend me," complained the teyrn's son, eyeing Flora with mild trepidation. "I think she's going to try and _unman_  me with that blade. Don't look at me like that, sister. You're not the product of  _my_  loins. If you were, I'd spank you silly for that little trick you played up at the castle."

"I promised no such thing," retorted an indignant Alistair, as Flora's nostrils flared and her grip tightened on the descaling knife.

"Nat, perhaps you'd like to tell the Arl about the plans for the statue?" suggested Bardon mildly, as his son continued to gape like a fish. "Perhaps take him to some possible locations. Alice, could you get your whelps to bed? I've a mind for a nap."

As a result of the old fisherman's tactful instruction, the Wardens and the young Cousland were left alone by the empty grate. The room felt cold with the sudden departure of the others; the candles spreading their guttering light over the stone.

"Why is there no fire?" asked a shivering Finian eventually, eyeing the kindling basket with longing.

"Because the fish have to be kept cold," muttered Flora, taking the knife and sliding it viciously against the scales of a large haddock. There were still another dozen in a separate basket to be descaled, gutted and packed away in the icebox.

Finian looked down at Flora for a moment, then came to a decision. He sat down in front of her, wincing slightly as his calfskin breeches came into contact with the oily flagstones.

"Right, show me how to do this, then," he said, forcing brightness into his tone. "If I have to do menial chores to stop you from running away, I'll do them. Promise you won't go jumping into any more lakes."

Flora eyed him with some suspicion, but he appeared to be genuine. Like her, he seemed to be incapable of disassembly; she guessed that he would be a poor player at Wicked Grace.

Soon, a small production line had been set up. Finian and Flora descaled the fish, while Alistair gutted them and packed them neatly away in the icebox. The candles burnt down to their wicks; but the full moon through the window provided sufficient light. They worked in silence for an hour, the flagstones around them soon littered with stray scales.

"I don't understand," Flora said quietly, suddenly. Finian glanced over at Alistair, who gave a small shrug.

"Why didn't my parents tell me that I was adopted?" she continued, in a small voice. "It's common in Herring to be brought up by other than your natural parents, the sea takes so many each year. There's no shame in it."

Finian sighed, lowering the knife and brushing scales from his now-greasy and thoroughly ruined breeches.

"I don't know. Maybe they thought it would be easier to keep you hidden if you didn't know about your parentage. Not that it mattered, since you ended up in a Tower anyway. My parents were convinced you had been taken to the Jainen Circle, but they didn't hear about it until later. How old were you when the Templars found you, sixteen?"

"Fifteen," replied Flora sadly, handing the last fish over to Alistair. "I healed a Templar who was visiting the shrine of Andraste in Herring. His horse startled, threw him; he fell and fractured his spine. I'd never healed anything more complicated than broken legs and hypothermia before; it took three hours. When I was done, he was so angry. He came back the next morning with six other Templar and arrested me. But they took me to Kinloch, not Jainen."

Wanting to embrace her, Alistair wished that his hands were not slick with fish guts.

A quiet Flora was determined not to discuss the matter any further; but at least the familiarity of the fish preparation seemed to have calmed her enough to return to the Castle.

* * *

 

After retrieving Eamon, they returned to find that the majority of their companions had already retired for the evening. Finian seemed keen to speak to Flora further, but she flatly turned him down. As they entered the main hall, Leliana – who had been watching the gates like a hawk – honed in on Flora and swept her away to bathe.

To Alistair's slight alarm, Finian insisted on accompanying him to the washroom in the barracks. Much to his ensuing relief, the teyrn's son was only interested in interrogating the young Warden, his attitude fluctuating between nosiness and a strange defensiveness.

"So, you and Flora are both Grey Wardens, then?"

Finian, perhaps aware that he had acted too bold and brash on their first meeting, had accepted  _Flora_ as suitable enough abbreviation for  _Florence._ Alistair nodded, reaching for the washcloth and sluicing water over his head.

"Our Commander, Duncan..." –  _would the dull throb of pain ever go away?_ – "Recruited me from the Templars eighteen months ago. Then, last year, we went to Kinloch Hold. Duncan wanted a powerful mage, but during our time there – we met Flo, and she impressed him."

Alistair remembered Duncan's excited words as they conferred in Irving's office, waiting for the apprentice to be brought upstairs.

_She has skill, Alistair, and she has demonstrated that she is willing to sacrifice. Did you see the way that she dived before that Tranquil to protect him from the maleficar? No two qualities are more vital for a Warden._

Then a senior enchanter had delivered Flora, who appeared slightly awe-struck at being in First Enchanter Irving's office. She had still been clutching the half consumed loaf of bread in her hand.

"Do they know in Orlais?" Alistair asked suddenly, retrieving his smallclothes. "That there's a Blight?"

Finian grimaced, taking a seat on a wooden bench to dry his hair with a rough-cut square of linen.

"No, although rumours are beginning to creep in at the edges of Val Royeaux. I only heard what was happening here when I crossed the border. No one is taking them too seriously, though. They say the Darkspawn have always drifted to the Surface; that it doesn't mean that's there's a true Blight."

_So no help is forthcoming from Orlais,_ Alistair thought with resignation. Although it had not been unexpected, it was still a damning blow.

"Mother sent a letter saying that my older brother, Fergus, was going to assist King Cailan with pushing the horde back at Ostagar," Finian continued, elegant fingers rinsing the soap from his hair. "Father must have been proud. I'm glad that he never knew what happened there."

The two men looked at one another for a moment, both younger brothers called to purpose when their elder counterparts had failed. They finished their wash, passing the other guards in the barracks' sleeping quarters.

"The Arl told me there's just two of you?" Finian asked, grimacing as a jagged streak of lightning split the sky above them. They skirted the edge of the shadowed main courtyard, as the rolling crash of thunder followed in its brighter cousin's wake.

"Just two Wardens, but we've gathered a company and gained two armies," countered Alistair as they ducked inside the main passageway. "We've not been idle since Ostagar."

Ascending the sweeping staircase leading to the upper floor; they saw Flora and Leliana sitting on the top step. Leliana was in another of the Arlessa's Orlesian silk robes, her nimble fingers weaving Flora's hair into a slightly more elegant version of her usual sidebraid. As soon as she saw the Warden and the teyrn's son approach, the bard withdrew to the passage. Only the sharpest of eyes could have spotted her lurking in the shadows, ears pricked.

Flora, clad in a plain nightshirt, rose to her feet as the two young men ascended. The braid was only half finished, thick ropes of damp hair falling loosely over her arm. Finian eyed her with some apprehension, pausing several steps below. She looked down at him, solemn-faced, then bowed her head.

"I'm sorry about your parents," Flora said after a moment, carefully enunciating the words as though she had rehearsed them several times in her head. "It must have been a great shock to you. I will help you get your house back from this Howe, but we have to stop the Blight first."

Finian opened his mouth as if to respond, but Flora continued on in a rush.

"And I  _will_  listen to what you have to say about me – being part of your family. But not tonight, please. I'm tired and I think I've given myself triple brain pneumonia by jumping into the lake."

This last part had clearly not been rehearsed, and she gave a half-smile and a little shrug. Finian, astonished, blinked down at her.

"Thank you," he replied, his voice oddly naked without the Orlesian affectation or superficial charm. "That was kind."

Flora nodded tightly, reaching out for Alistair's hand. He took it, clasping her fingers and squeezing them.

"Flora has always been kind," he said quietly, the ball of his thumb moving in slow circles against her skin. "I value her compassion above any other."

"Hm. She didn't seem that compassionate when she was ready to castrate me with that fish knife earlier," muttered Finian.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Shorter chapter tonight – I didn't have a lot of time for editing! Entirely my own fault, I love going to the gym but I hate paying for it and travelling there ; so I bought an ELLIPTICAL MACHINE for the house! And it arrived today, and since I'm an independent woman I spurned my husband's offer of help and said that I would do it ALL ON MY OWN. Which took about six million years and somehow installing part of it upside down… but it's done! Hurray! Anyway, normal length chapter again tomorrow.


	74. I Love You

Chapter 74: I Love You

Having said her piece with what she felt was great grace, Flora turned and stalked down the corridor. Alistair, his hand still gripped by hers, stumbled slightly as he was pulled in her wake. Now that the majority of the castle had been restored, the company no longer needed to bunk up with one another in shared chambers. Each one was assigned their own room, a situation which Zevran was gleefully exploiting based on the noises filtering through the door. Eamon, who was far wiser than his choice of wife suggested, had assigned the two Wardens the same chamber.

Finian watched them disappear down the upper corridor, Leliana melting away into the shadows as they passed. His eyebrows rose, mind working rapidly as he watched them disappear into a room at the end of the passageway.

"Flo, I'm proud of you- " Alistair started as they stepped inside the chamber, then was abruptly interrupted by Flora flinging her arms around his neck. Barely waiting for the wooden door to swing shut, she drew his head down to hers and kissed him. He tasted desire on her lips as they pulled at his own, mingled with another emotion that he couldn't quite discern. Alistair groaned against her mouth, gripping her hips and steering her back against the door.

Once again the bastard prince's deep-seated dominance rose to the surface and he gripped his sister-warden's wrists, pinning her arms roughly above her head. Keeping her pressed against the wood, he lowered his mouth to her neck and began to suckle the delicate skin. His free hand went to the strings lacing the front of her nightshirt closed; loosening them enough to slip fingers through. As he used tongue, lips and teeth to make love to her neck, his calloused fingers caressed each small breast in turn; dazedly wondering at how her nipples responded eagerly to even his inexperienced fondling.

Although Alistair's mind was clouded with desire; the thought that he would not last long in these circumstances struck him with perfect clarity. Lifting Flora up in his arms, he carried her over to the bed; groaning slightly as he felt her shifting weight press against his pelvis. Setting her down on the blankets with her open nightshirt riding up around her thighs; Alistair unbuttoned his breeches with sweating fingers. He was just about to take himself in hand when he realised that she was trembling, and not from pleasure. The corners of her mouth had turned down, as if she were about to cry.

Alistair froze as suddenly and completely as if some hidden mage had leapt from the armoire and cast a paralysis spell on him.

"Flora? Flo? I'm sorry," he said, instinctively wondering if he had done something wrong. She slumped back on the bed like a discarded child's toy, shadows falling across her face. Alistair instinctively went to reach for her hand, then recoiled in surprise. He reached up to touch her cheek, feeling clammy and damp skin beneath his fingers.

"Flo, you're  _freezing_ ," he said in shock, so long accustomed to her constant warmth. "Why are you so cold?"

She shook her head mutedly, a tear dripping off the end of her long, Cousland-shaped nose. Alistair pulled his own cambric tunic over his head and embraced her, remembering vaguely that body heat transferred better through bare skin. He drew her down to the blankets, covering her thigh with his and reaching up to cradle her cheek in his roughened palm.

"My darling, what's wrong?"

Flora, who had tried so hard to act with solemn grace all evening, finally broke in the face of her brother-warden's concern. More tears began to seep out and she let out a choked, phlegmatic gasp; as though she had been holding her breath since Finian's unwelcome revelation. Alistair soothed her as she shook; rubbing his hand up and down her back.

"Shh," he murmured softly against her hair, kissing the edge of her earlobe. "It's alright, my dear. Ssh, shh."

When he was younger and earning his keep in the Arl's stables, he had always been good at calming frightened horses. He used to stroke their manes and necks, pressing his forehead between their velvety ears and murmuring nonsense to soothe them. He had possessed big, capable hands even as a child and the horses had always responded well to his gentle strokes and petting. The other lads, quietly envious, used to mock him and say that only a woman could soothe so effectively. Alistair had never minded their teasing, because the horses loved him best.

Now he used those same hands to comfort his sister-warden, who hadn't yet let herself be seen crying in public. Gradually, she stopped shivering and her breathing came more evenly; he kept stroking her hair and touching her back, tightening the laces of her nightshirt to cover her back up.

"I- I… tried to be like Ste-e-en about it," she gasped eventually, and he shot her a quizzical look. "About it all.  _Like Steeeen!"_

"Maker's Breath," Alistair replied, astonished. "Like  _Sten?_ Why?"

"Like a Qunari. I don't remember the word. You… take things as they come." She sniffed, resting her cheek against the hard muscle of his upper arm.

"Stoic?" he asked, and she nodded.

"That's it. I know he's not lying, that-  _noble._  The one who says he's my brother."

Flora, with practicality instilled by the man who had raised her, could see that logically Finian's story made sense. The pieces fit together as neatly as the parts of a fishing rod; and she could see  _why_ the teyrn had needed to send a mage child away to be raised in secret.

But the hurt was emotional and cut her like a blade; a type of pain that she could never alleviate with her magic.

"I'm not angry at my parents," she whispered, referring to the couple who had raised her for a decade and protected her from the unwelcome attention of Templars. "I'm not angry at Lord Finian either. I'm just… frightened. I don't want to be a different person. I'm not Lady Florence Cousland, I don't know _how_  to be her. I'm nothing like Arlessa Isolde."

Alistair reached out and stroked his thumb over her cheek, brushing away a tear before it could slip downwards.

"You don't have to try and be anyone else, and  _especially_ don't be like Isolde," he said hastily, the parallels with his own situation not lost on him. "You've been her since you were born. It's just another part of you, Flo. You might be Florence Cousland, but you're also Flora of Herring. And a Mage of the Circle. And a Grey Warden. All of those parts of you are valid, and none of them diminish the other."

"Like you're a stable boy, and a Templar, and a Warden, and- "

"And an heir to the throne," he finished softly, his mind shaping the words before he spoke them. "I guess - I'm all of those things too. But I can be them all, and still be  _me_."

Flora stared at him; and he was gratified to see a small smile curling the corner of her mouth.

"Wardens above everything else, though," she whispered, her knee pressed against his.

Alistair looked into her sea-grey eyes as she spoke, a shade which he had not known was a recurring trait of the dynasty that had guarded the Waking Sea passage for six generations. The Couslands held the north; defending against Marcher barbarians and Par Vollen raiders alike.

_And now they are betrayed; not from any foreign foe but from within, by a treacherous little Arl. The same one sending these assassins after us. Maker, is it Your intention to weave these strands together?_

"I suppose being a teyrn's daughter might be useful in Denerim. Loghain is a teyrn. If I'm a Cousland, I can…" Flora cast around vaguely. "I don't know. Get into the same fancy whorehouses as him.  _Aha, General Mac Tir, now I too am allowed into the_ Lady's Nosebag _. Watch me disrupt your pleasure and steal your shoes_. _"_

Alistair laughed out loud; reaching for her hand and bringing it to his mouth to press his lips against the skin. To his immense relief, he could feel that that her customary warmth had returned.

"Flora," he said impulsively, her face inches away from his own on the blanket. "I love you."

Flora sat bolt upright; Alistair mirrored the gesture and looked at her, feeling his heartbeat throbbing almost painfully in his throat. She bowed her head low, stray stands of hair hanging loose around her shoulders.

"What have I done to deserve this?" she whispered, speaking more to the blanket than to him. "You honour me."

Alistair reached to embrace her, pulling her up against his chest as he leaned back against the headboard. She turned her head and kissed him; it was soft and tender and there was wonder in it.

"Just being yourself, my Lady-Warden Flora-Florence of Herring, Highever and the Kinloch Circle," he teased, and she snorted.

"I prefer Flora. Do you think the Arlessa will be nicer to me, now that I have such a lengthy name?"

Alistair snorted, resting his chin on top of her head. "Hm, possibly."

He ran his hand absentmindedly up and down her arm until her head dropped against his shoulder and he realised that she had fallen asleep. Careful not to rouse her, he slid his fingers between her own.  _Fish-roped together,_ he thought to himself, and the notion nestled warm and comforting in his mind.

* * *

 

Flora woke in the grey hour before sunrise, with her hand clasped in Alistair's and his arm around her shoulders. She had an odd feeling that she was being watched; slightly anxiously, she glanced around the mid-sized, ornately decorated room. Her suspicions were confirmed a moment later when she caught sight of Morrigan, leaning against the  _armoire_ with a feline smirk. The witch's eyes were gold and glowing like small lamps suspended in the shadows.

"Good morrow,  _my Lady,"_  she murmured, then gave an amused little laugh. Flora groaned, sitting up and rubbing her fists into her eyes. For a few blissful moments, she had forgotten about the events of the previous evening. Beside her, Alistair stirred drowsily, throwing his arm across her lap.

"Please don't call me that, I hate it," she implored and Morrigan laughed, sauntering across the room to perch on the edge of the bed.

"I admit, Warden; that is one view we both share," the witch admitted, running her fingers over the edge of the velvet bedspread. "The utter pointlessness of the social hierarchy. In the Wilds, the predator reigns. In human society, a desperate peasant could easily take down a pampered noble, yet the lord rules supreme? Nay, in my opinion, people should demonstrate their superiority through their ability to challenge an enemy, not through some archaic pretence of bloodline!"

Flora, who wasn't quite sure if she shared Morrigan's viewpoint to  _that_  extent, nodded inanely. Alistair yawned, half-opening his eyes, then grinned reflexively on seeing Flora beside him.

"Morning, darling," he murmured, then rolled over on top of her and kissed her enthusiastically. A moment later, sleep-blurred vision clearing, he noticed that she was frantically mouthing something up at him, her hair spread about her on the cushions like a halo.

"What? What?" he asked, confused. She slid her eyes pointedly to the side; his gaze followed her glance and he nearly fell off the bed in horror. Morrigan was eyeing the defined muscle of his naked back with increasing interest.

" _Aah!_ Maker's Breath, woman, what are  _you_ doing in here?"

Alistair sat upright and frowned at her; she blatantly raked her amber stare over the honed bulk of his bare chest, marred only by the occasional old scar.

"Why are you clutching the sheets like a maid? 'Tis a shame that there's no discernible brain inside that fine physique," the witch commented acidly, adjusting her skirt over her leg. "Anyway, can't one come and say hello to one's  _friends?_ After all, it is a fine morning."

Flora yawned, leaning back against the headboard as she peered out of the leaded window. The sun was a faint suggestion on the horizon, the greyish twilight still determinedly holding court. Their carts and wagons were already in the main courtyard, supplies being replenished by various Redcliffe servants. She watched two kitchen elves carry a vast wheel of cheese, wrapped in wax paper, out to a covered wagon.

"I'm hungry," she said absentmindedly, rubbing her stomach through the linen nightshirt. "I might go and find some breakfast."

"Ah, but it appears as though Alistair has already eaten," commented Morrigan archly; at which he sighed, preparing himself for some acerbic or insulting remark.

"Go on, say it. Are you implying that I look fat? It's that, isn't it. I am fat."

The witch shook her head, then leaned forward and turned the freestanding mirror on the bedside table around to face the two Wardens. Flora stared at her own reflection in confusion for a moment, then gaped.

Her neck was covered in small bruises; purple smudges haphazardly scattered from just below her earlobe, then all along the length of her clavicle. They were not painful, but slightly tender to the touch. She recalled Alistair pressing his lips hard against the delicate skin beneath her ear with a groan; holding her against the door and biting softly at her collarbone. From the sudden rush of colour to her brother-warden's face, it was clear he too was recalling the memory.

"If you do wish to try and hide them, I suggest you move quickly," advised Morrigan, with a wicked little smile, sliding off the edge of the bed and sauntering back towards the shadows. "I can hear footsteps outside."

 


	75. A Morning Meeting in the Bedchamber

Chapter 75: A Morning Meeting in the Bedchamber

Flora brought her fingers to her neck and clasped her throat lightly, feeling the golden mist seep from beneath her nails. With a heady mix of embarrassment and fascination Alistair watched as the bruises faded beneath the gentle motions of her fingertips. Sensing his gaze on her, she tilted her face towards him and crossed her eyes. He snorted, still slightly appalled at himself.

"You're blushing," she observed archly, and Alistair put a hand to his flushed cheek.

Just then, there came a faint knock at the door. It proceeded to open just as Morrigan enveloped herself in a veil of darkness, fading away into the shadows beside the armoire. The Arl entered, followed by two of his servants. The men were carrying a large canvas board between them, which – as they deposited it on the bed – turned out to be a detailed map of Ferelden.

"Sorry for the early entrance," apologised Eamon, who was finely and  _fully_  dressed in fine red velvet. "I thought it best we make a start."

Several other members of their company joined them; Wynne and Leliana entered deep in conversation, Oghren brought the stench of hangover with him, Zevran sporting a satisfied smile.

"I'm exhausted," the Antivan announced, stretching his limbs like a cat. "Pleasantly so. And a little sore. I may need a massage."

"You're incorrigible," hissed Leliana, as the elf shot her a wink. Wynne went to the curtains and opened them, letting the weak morning sunlight illuminate the room.

Sitting upright in bed, Flora rolled up the trailing sleeves of her nightshirt and peered over the map. She was grateful that Alistair had taught her to recognise the names of their intended destinations, the shapes and forms of the labels familiar to her now. As Alistair puzzled over how he felt about the intrusion; Flora identified Redcliffe, the Brecilian Forest and – far on the east coast – Denerim. Her eyes returned to the north coast reflexively, spotting the inlet where Herring lay; though it was too small to be included on a map of this scale. Reluctantly, her eyes slid eastwards, to the black dot marked with a carefully inked keep.

_We used to call it Hiver, or just 'the big house'._

As if on cue, the teyrn's son entered. Finian looked less confident than he had the previous evening; though he was as finely dressed as the Arl. Dark shadows beneath his eyes indicated a poor night's rest, his dark russet curls rumpled.

"My lord," acknowledged Eamon, inclining his head; while Leliana swept herself into a pretty little bow. Finian came to join the impromptu council around the bed; his curious gaze moving from Flora to the bare-chested man beside her. It was obvious that he was unsure how to react; on the one hand, they were hardly more than strangers to him, on the other- his newly-found sister was sitting in bed with the heir to the throne. Not only that, but it was clear that she had spent the night in his company.

The others in the room were also aware of this, and the atmosphere suddenly thickened. For a few moments, nobody breathed.

Flora saw the conflict in Finian's eyes and, feeling oddly sorry for him, took a deep breath and summoned from her reserves of grace.

_No more jumping into lakes and hiding in fishermen's cottages,_ she thought sternly to herself.  _What would your dad say if he saw you being so dramatic? Things always seem better in the morning._

"Morning, brother," she said, kindly; and if the word sat strangely on her tongue, she made no show of it. Wynne gave her a small, secretive smile of approval; and the Arl exhaled steadily.

"Morning," replied Finian, relieved. He caught her eye, flicked his gaze sideways to Alistair's muscled chest, then gave her a tiny thumbs up. Despite herself, Flora snorted.

"So, with the caravan, it'll take a week and a half to reach Denerim," started the Arl, placing a single silver coin on the map over Redcliffe. "We'll take the southern Kingsroad, which – as far as my scouts have told me – has escaped the spread of the Blight."

"How recent is your information?" asked Flora, recalling how quickly the Darkspawn army had moved out of the trench in Bownammar. The Arl shot her an small glance of approval, nodding.

"It's recent; I had a raven from Storren yesterday. Now, I've requested that some of the local lords accompany us – they are loyal to me, not to Loghain, and their words will add weight to our cause at the Landsmeet."

"If Mac Tir is so determined to create civil war, we must ensure that our faction is not found wanting," added Wynne, squinting down at the canvas map. "Who will be accompanying us?"

"Teagan, naturally," replied Eamon, sliding the silver coin eastwards from Redcliffe, following the inked highway. "Also, the Arls of Edgehall and the Western Hills; and possibly the Bann of Calon. None of them bear any love for Loghain, and are willing to lend their support to our purpose."

"Which is  _what_ , exactly?" interrupted Alistair, a frown entrenched on his face as he watched the coin move inexorably towards Denerim. "To depose Loghain and get the support of the Royal Army against the Blight?"

"At this stage, yes," replied Eamon, after a brief and tumultuous pause. "But the throne of Ferelden cannot sit empty for long, Alistair. You know this. The nobles need a leader, and the country needs a king."

Alistair fell silent, feeling his stomach churn as a wave of nausea rolled through his abdomen. A note of panic, clear as a struck bell, rang through his brain.

Then, beneath the blanket, fingers gripped his own and clasped them tightly as Flora fish-roped him in their peculiar little ritual of reassurance. Alistair swallowed the nausea back down, raised his chin and stiffened his jaw.

"I do know it," he said, and was surprised to hear no tremor in the words as they came. "We'll… deal with that as it comes."

_See, sister-warden, I too can be as stoic as a Qunari. I too, can act with grace._

Flora's fingers squeezed his once more. Alistair returned the pressure, fiercely.

"So we travel eastwards, until we reach Standing's Fork," the Arl continued, moving the coin representing their company across the canvas map. "Then our paths will divide. I and the other nobles will take the northeast road to Denerim, so we can initiate the Landsmeet. It'll take at least six weeks to assemble."

Flora stared down at the map, her grey eyes darkening. Alistair, glancing sideways at her, knew instinctively what she was thinking.

_At least six weeks? At least? All the while; the Darkspawn taint spreads and the Blight takes root in the south. And then they'll come north, and they'll reach Herring -_

"Flo, these things never happen quickly," he said, quietly, being more versed in Warden history than she. "The Fourth Blight lasted twelve years."

"The First lasted two hundred," Oghren added, recalling the golem Caridin's fateful words.

Flora nodded, staring gloomily down at the map. Although she could not recall how to spell their next destination; she remembered the first few letters-  _B, R, E, C._ Leaning forward, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears, she planted a finger in the patch of green dominating the south eastern portion of the map.

"We're going here," she said, tracing the inked lettering. "Brecilian Forest. To see the elves."

"Aye," replied the Arl, inclining his head. "I'm not sure where their villages are- they certainly aren't marked on here – but I'm sure they'll, ah, find you."

"Ah, my Dalish brethren," smiled Zevran, his eyes glittering. "I wonder what we shall make of each other?"

As the impromptu meeting ended and the company withdrew from the Wardens' chamber; Flora exhaled and looked over at Alistair. A shaft of wintery light from the rising sun illuminated the pale gold strands in his hair and warmed the cool olive of his skin. He smiled back at her, giving a small shrug.

"So, strategy meetings in the bedchamber now? What next?"

"War councils in the washroom," suggested Flora, with a little cackle. Alistair grinned at her, a flicker of regret passing over his face.

"Well, I can think of better things to do in the bedchamber," he murmured, going to kiss the side of her neck. The next moment he froze, eyes widening. At his small yelp, Flora twitched in alarm.

"What is it?"

"You missed one," said Alistair, gazing at a distinctive reddish mark beneath her ear. The two Wardens looked at each other for a moment, in mutual helplessness.

"Oh well," Flora said, eventually. "I don't think it was exactly a secret."

They breakfasted in the main hall, which was fuller even than during the Satinalia feast. Trestle tables groaned with food, but there were plenty of mouths to feed. Three Arls, two Banns, the young Master Cousland – all were accompanied by retinues of varying size. The Wardens and their company dined at the top table, as requested by Arl Eamon and his wife. To Flora's muted alarm, the Arlessa had insisted that she sit next to her. Alistair's prediction that Flora's sudden social promotion would draw interest from Isolde had proved to be more than accurate.

"Do you like these eggs?" the Arlessa asked, watching her like a hawk as she spooned some into her mouth.

"Yes, they're very nice," mumbled Flora dutifully, wishing desperately that she was sitting next to Oghren instead. The dwarf had just finished his second plate of Orlesian pastries; normally she would be keeping pace, yet she now felt obligated to summon some semblance of manners.

"They're from quails, bred especially for their distinctive taste. Imported from the Free Marches," Isolde said, proudly. "I'll get a man to show you the sandalwood coop we had built especially."

"Is a quail basically a chicken, then?" asked Flora. The Arlessa narrowed her eyes, while on the other side of Eamon, Alistair grinned through his own mouthful.

"Come, my dear," Isolde said, forcing a smile. "This  _surely_  can't be the first time you've had quail's eggs  _frits profondement_  ."

"Bless you," said Flora automatically. "Is a quail a  _duck?_ "

This prompted a deeper scowl from the Arlessa. Finian, who sat on the Arl's right hand side, leaned forward and called down the table to his newly found sister.

"You know, our father- the  _teyrn_ \- always preferred simple, basic Fereldan cuisine to fancy foreign stuff. He always said that he'd never eat anything he couldn't pronounce."

Isolde narrowed her eyes but fell silent. Flora shot Finian a look of equal parts wariness and gratitude.

Redcliffe servants cleared away the remaining breakfast food and empty platters, Eamon's Mabari hounds wandered the floors looking for scraps. The various banns and arls of south west Ferelden waited for the lord of Redcliffe to speak, leaning back on their chairs and eyeing him. These nobles who dwelt in Ferelden's outer reaches were hardier than their eastern counterparts; their edges sharpened by their proximity to the enemy border. Their lack of refinement often led to mockery by the eastern lords; yet these roughened men and women had historically spilled far more blood for Ferelden than their Denerim counterparts. Now they looked to Eamon, their eyes moving to the Wardens who sat at his side. Gradually, the room settled into an expectant silence.

"My lords and ladies, now we have breakfasted, it will soon be time to depart for Denerim," the Arl said, rising to his feet. "The caravans are ready and we may not return for some time. I invite the Grey Wardens, who have taken up Ferelden's defence, to speak."

Later, both Flora and Alistair would look back on this invitation as somewhat of a defining moment. It almost seemed to mark the ending of something, or the beginning of something else – whatever it was, it was clear that a certain  _transition_ had taken place. Alternately, perhaps it was only confirming what had been developing since they both stood in despair and darkness outside Flemeth's hut, and eventually the northern girl from Herring had said well, l _et's build the army, then. Let's just do it._

Alistair looked at Flora; Flora stood up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I'm a medievalist historian by trade and one thing I always find fascinating is the concept that a leader's bedroom was not a private area – often discussions and strategy meetings would take place there; councillors would come in with news and queries, and often servants would sleep at the foot of the bed itself. I'd be well pissed off if someone interrupted my beauty sleep with some inane question, lol!


	76. The Right Lure

Chapter 76: The Right Lure

As Flora rose to her feet, she realised that she did not know what she was going to say. If they had known beforehand that they would be asked to speak, Wynne or Leliana – someone good with words – would have written something inspiring; then either she or Alistair would have memorised it. Inwardly, Flora berated herself for not paying more attention to Cailan's vigorous and rallying monologues at Ostagar.

_Too busy snacking,_ she thought mindlessly; staring out at the crowd of faces.

The southern nobles looked up at her and she saw her youth and inexperience reflected in their doubtful eyes. It was possible that Loghain's claim about the Wardens' role in the death of the old King still rang in the ears of some who were present. For a moment she felt a jolt of panic, seeing herself as many of them still viewed her.

_You're just a fledgling Warden, a recruit. Moreover, you're the daughter of a fisherman. What can you say to make them listen?_

Suddenly, she could see her father before her; so vivid that Flora wondered if perhaps she had fallen into some waking dream – perhaps Connor's magic had allowed the Fade to bleed into reality and summon memory to life. It felt so real that she could almost hear the plaintive cries of gulls, and taste the tang of salt on her tongue.

_It doesn't matter how big the fish are, the man who raised her said as he lowered his rod into the shallows. Find the right lure, and you can catch anything._

_Find the right lure._

The world came back into focus around her; and Flora realised that she knew exactly what to say to the doubting men and women before her. Taking a deep breath, she cast out her line.

"Three months ago," she said, and her voice was quiet enough to make them lean forward to hear her. "Alistair and I travelled through Lothering."

The border lords looked at the slender girl curiously, as she spoke in her soft, slightly husky northern accent. Despite her youth – and the majority of the nobles present were twice her age – she carried herself with the gravity of someone beyond her handful of years. Her face was solemn, and the older nobles recognised the Cousland features present straight away– the clear, grey eyes, the generous mouth and the high cheekbones.

"It was a village like any other, with a Chantry, an inn and a blacksmith. It had farmers living there, who laid traps in their fields to protect their crops. You know, I come from a small village myself, although we fish rather than farm," Flora continued, her voice still quiet enough to make them sit up and listen. "I'm sure that you have dozens of villages like Lothering in your arlings and bannorns,"

_Poor, lost Lothering. You're going to be my lure._

Her voice was almost gentle, the words hypnotic as she illustrated a pastoral scene that would seem familiar to any landowner present. Every noble present could name at least a half-dozen villages like Lothering from their own holdings. As Flora continued; the only other sound in the hall was the quiet snuffling of the Mabari. Finian's own hound, Jethro, lay obediently at his master's feet. Finian himself sat beside the Arl, the hairs slowly rising on the backs of his arms.

"I've also seen Lothering more recently, and there will be no more farming there, not for a long time."

The edges of her words began to sharpen, the sounds growing little barbs as they came from her throat; she raised her voice slightly, and the dogs fell silent. "The ground is poisoned, probably for years and possibly for  _ever._ The blacksmith and the inns are ruined; the Chantry lies desecrated. The dead have been taken for meat, to feed the army that destroyed them. To fuel the continuing destruction of this land."

Her words tended towards bluntness rather than bluster, favouring brutal honesty over bravado. In this way; they appealed to the hard-faced border lords, who had never enjoyed the comfort and security of their eastern peers. They sat up and listened to her intently now with eyes keen as blades, envisioning their own lands overrun and Blighted.

"When General Mac Tir quit the field, he betrayed King Cailan and let him die. But by betraying the Wardens, he betrayed all of Ferelden. For now there are only two of us left to kill the Archdemon responsible for this Blight."

Flora took a deep breath, realising that her fists were clenched and that she could not loosen her fingers if she tried.

"It's felt at times as though the whole world has been our enemy," she continued, her words lashing out at those who had been deceived by Loghain's lie. "We've faced death at every turn- from assassins to Darkspawn, from demons to the common bandit. But despite this, despite all those who have tried to stop us, we have gained the aid of the Fereldan Circle, and the dwarven King has pledged to send an army. How did we manage to do this?"

Flora, caught up in the passion and impulsivity of her own words, gestured to those sitting beside her. She thought of Morrigan avoiding the puddles on the road to Lothering, Leliana kneeling before the statue of Andraste with tearful reverence. Sten charging through the Carta hideout, leaving destruction in his wake. Zevran crouching beside her, teaching her how to breathe the thin mountain air. Oghren sinking his sword into the Broodmother, with a yell of triumph. Wynne's words of wisdom; and Flora realised that even her nagging was borne from genuine care and concern.

_Alistair. The two of us standing in a Korcari swamp, waving yellowed parchment and yelling our grief and defiance towards the ruins of Ostagar._

"Because we had help, from the very beginning. Without our allies, we would have achieved nothing. I am awed by their strength and purpose."

Flora stopped for a moment then took a deep breath, looking out at the nobles. The atmosphere was almost electric; she could feel the tiny individual hairs on the back of her arms standing on end.

_Reel them in, daughter of Herring._

"Now, we need your help," she continued, her voice strident and forceful. "Alistair and I will take care of demons and Darkspawn, but you have to help us in Denerim. Loghain claims that there's no Blight; but under his rule, the villages and towns in your own lands  _will_ suffer the same fate as Lothering."

Flora stopped, the ghost of her threat resonating to the rafters. Her breast rose and fell; she realised that she was breathing hard, having been near-shouting at the end. She cast her grey eyes over the nobles and prayed for a good catch.

_Duncan, wherever you are – on the Peraquialus, or in the Black City advising the Maker on military matters – I hope I'm saying the right thing. I hope you're proud of me._

" _Will_  you help us?" she asked; and before she had finished her sentence, the border lords and their retainers were on their feet, swords raised to the ceiling. A great defiant rose, loud enough to set the Mabari hounds off in a cacophony of barking. The Arlessa grimaced, putting her fingers in her ears, but Arl Eamon was smiling, on his feet with the others.

"Can you do that in front of an army of ten thousand?" he asked her, raising his voice over the noise. Flora thought about it for a moment, then gave a shrug.

"I'm not very good at counting past twenty," she replied, cheerfully. "Ten thousand sounds like a lot more than that. I'll do my best, though."

The nobles gradually streamed out of the hall, talking amongst themselves and sorting out final instructions. Aware that they might be away for several months, many had appointed seconds or sons to take charge of their estates during their absence. Bann Teagan caught the Wardens' attention as he left, giving a salute and a small smile.

As Arl Eamon prepared to say goodbye to his wife, Flora sidled over to the last remaining table still containing food, and began to surreptitiously stuff bread rolls inside her tunic.

"Who have you been listening to, child?" came a voice in her ear, and Flora turned to see Wynne just behind her.

"Eh?" she replied, shoving a pastry into her pocket.

"You are capable of speaking very eloquently. When you  _choose_ to do so, obviously." replied Wynne, and Flora gave a little shrug.

"I don't know," she said, wondering if she could fit an apple alongside the pastry. "I just say what's on my mind."

During the chaos of last minute preparations, Alistair caught up with Flora in the passageway. Having been accidentally jostled by an impatient retainer, her smuggled food had fallen out onto the flagstones. She was now kneeling and trying to gather it up, while rapidly losing ground to a delighted Mabari.

"No!" Flora moaned in horror, watching another pastry disappear between its ravenous jaws. "That was  _mine_. How rude."

Alistair watched, nonplussed, for a long moment. When Flora returned upright, she turned around and nearly dropped everything again in shock.

"Ooh," she complained, tucking an apple back inside her tunic. "You can move as silent as Zevran when you want to. How can you be so big and also so sneaky?"

"You're better than me at making speeches," Alistair said, as she took a bite of a pastry and offered the rest to him. He took it, but paused before raising it to his mouth. "You reminded me of Duncan. He didn't often make speeches to us Wardens, but when he did – they were like yours. Blunt and… uncomplicated."

"I was thinking about Duncan when I was speaking," she admitted, brushing crumbs from the front of her tunic. Her clear grey eyes met his, honest and open. "I didn't want to let him down. Or the Grey Wardens. You know, by making a poor effort."

Alistair reached out and touched the side of her face, brushing his thumb over the high plane of her cheekbone.

"My clever girl," he said quietly, conscious of the movement in the corridor around them. "What would I do without you?"

The company set off just as the sun crested the eastern Hinterlands. It was still early enough for morning mist to cling to the low hills, the light grey and watery. The caravan had now swelled to nearly fifty people; including the various arls, banns and their retainers. Scouts on fast Ferelden Forders were sent ahead to check that the way was clear; while the slower baggage wagons followed at the rear. Like his younger brother, Eamon kept the roads in his estate in excellent condition; and so the caravan made good time even with their increased numbers. Morrigan, somewhere in the sky overhead, kept a close eye out for any would-be assassins.

Leliana was in her element, proving her worth as an entertaining travel companion. She was able to sing any song that was requested, and the Arl of Edgehall was especially impressed by her ability to play the lute while keeping her horse steady with the grip of her thighs. Oghren and Sten had found some common ground in discussing the benefits and drawbacks of various types of dual-handed weapon. Those unfortunate enough to venture too close to their wagon were quickly privy to intense discussion about how many swings of a spiked mace it would take to decapitate a man.

Zevran was eavesdropping blatantly on Wynne's conversation with Finian. The young Cousland had taken great pride in showing off his horse when they left, a beautiful chestnut roan with rippling, muscular hindquarters. Finian had boasted that she was the fastest horse this side of the Frostbacks; Wynne had gently pointed out that since they were travelling in a caravan, he would need to match the speed of the slowest wagon.

Wynne, who had surmised that Flora was a Cousland before anyone else, was curious to learn more about her unusual background.

"I thought she was a bastard, until I saw how similar you look," the senior enchanter admitted, peering ahead to where Flora was riding alongside Alistair. Having overhead her admission that she was poor at numbers, he was counting off the fence posts as they passed them. She was repeating the numbers dutifully, chanting  _twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three._

"Florence –  _Flora_ and I both resemble our father more," explained Finian, his fingers resting loosely on the reins. Beside him, the Mabari hound Jethro trotted with tongue hanging out, easily keeping pace with the horse. "Fergus, our older brother and… I suppose the new teyrn of Highever, should we ever get it back, takes after our mother."

"You said he was at Ostagar?" Wynne asked, as their caravan began the painstaking climb into the low hills of the Hinterlands. Finian started to nod, then broke off into a shrug.

"That was where he was heading, according to my mother's letter," he explained, his horse picking its way delicately around a puddle. "That was around the same time that the old Warden-Commander came to Highever, looking for recruits. But with me in Val Royeaux studying and Fergus already committed to join the King, he left empty handed. Said he would meet up with an apprentice and head to the Circle Tower instead. My mother's letter described him as seeming very grave."

"I suppose he knew of the Blight," replied Wynne, knowing that Duncan had arrived at Kinloch Hold with Alistair a week and a half later. "And you've had no news of Fergus since?"

Finian shook his russet-curled head, shoulders slumping slightly. Wynne suddenly felt rather sorry for this young man, who had received the news that his parents were murdered, his family seat stolen and his elder brother missing-presumed-dead in the form of a letter.

_And his newfound sister spends her time alternately scowling and ignoring him._

"Do you remember much about Flora when she was at Highever? Or the circumstances of her removal?"

The caravan drew to a halt as several men went to remove a large tree from the road. Ahead, they could hear Flora's voice rising triumphantly.

"Fivety  _one_ , fivety  _two_ , fivety  _three_ -"

" _Fifty!_ Not fivety."

Finian nodded slowly, squinting up at the early afternoon sun. A bird of prey circled lazily, casting its eye over the scrubby grassland.

"I was ten," he said, his voice distant. "Florence was five. She left with a mage our father had found. He promised to take her somewhere small and isolated, a place with no access to a doctor, where the people might appreciate a healer. It was raining, the night they left. My mother wrapped Florence up in so many blankets that she looked like a small barrel. The mage did something to her head that made her forget everything about herself, not that she had much in there anyway. Then they left, and my father said  _Well, that's that, then_. They told people that she'd gone to stay with relatives in Orlais."

"Fascinating," breathed Wynne, as Flora overhead the tail end of their conversation and shot them a suspicious glare. "I wonder who the mage was? An apostate?"

Finian shrugged, watching the bird of prey let out a scream, diving towards the barren grassland with talons outstretched. It rose a moment later, triumphantly clutching a small, wriggling victim.

"I don't know. I've wondered the same thing."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Haha, when I first began to think about Flora and her origins, the fact that she was from a fishing village was actually pretty inconsequential. It's funny to think that it's become such a huge part of her character! Ironically I've been fishing exactly once, I went with my dad and a hook went through a fish's eye and I almost vommed everywhere, so that was the end of that, lol. It was fun to weave the Cousland origin into Flora's story here – with Duncan visiting Highever as he does in game, but finding no available recruits there!


	77. Dancing the Blanket Hornpipe

Chapter 77: Dancing The Blanket Hornpipe

They continued on for several hours, running into no trouble on the road. Any bandits who may have been lurking alongside the road thought twice when they saw the size of the company travelling. Their route climbed upwards into the hilly, exposed grasslands of the Hinterlands, where there was no shelter from the relentless wind. It snatched hair from leather ties and delighted in loosening the canvas from the side of Bodahn's wagon, setting it to slap rhythmically against the wooden frame.

The sun had just begun to set when they started to descend a low rise; leading towards a small, barren wood. A dark bird wheeled downwards from the sky and fluttered onto a nearby fencepost. It's shape blurred and elongated; the nearest horse shied away as Morrigan revealed herself.

"There are Darkspawn ahead," she informed Leliana, who was closest to the head of the caravan. "They appear to be hunting a band of refugees. Just in the fir wood below."

The nobles kept themselves back, allowing the Wardens and their companions to ride ahead. Finian appeared as though he had half a mind to join them; Eamon put out a restraining arm.

"Hold, my lord," he warned. "As it stands, you're the only Cousland remaining who can inherit."

Wynne also remained behind citing exhaustion, suggesting that she would be more of a liability than an asset in her current condition.

Leliana, whose horse was the fastest, arrived in the wooded clearing first. She surveyed the scene in an instant: several ragged refugees were clustered around a man on a litter. A group of about a dozen Darkspawn surrounded them, mostly Hurlocks. A taller Hurlock hung back at the rear, almost as if he were directing the attack.

For those who had not ventured into the Deep Roads, it had been several weeks since they had last seen Darkspawn. As soon as they heard the throaty, bestial snarl, recollections of the enemy came rushing back with a surge of dread. The fact that the creatures possessed the vague shape of a human only heightened their grotesqueness; since there was nothing humane about these beasts. Blighted skin was stretched over malformed skulls; they had little in the way of lips and so their teeth were permanently exposed in a horrific grimace. They were unnervingly fast, and possessed a brute strength capable of knocking a grown man in full armour over in a single punch. From every orifice the taint oozed, seeping from the corners of their whitened eyes like tears, dripping from their raw-wound mouths.

Leliana, calling upon the Maker to bless her arrows, took down two in rapid succession. This drew the attention of the horde away from the refugees, three of them charging towards her instead. She ducked to the side, just as Zevran launched several throwing knives. Two silver blades embedded themselves into a Hurlock's skull, it dropped with a grunt onto the leaf-strewn floor.

A pair of Darkspawn then charged at the bard and she darted to one side against a tree. The next moment she felt blistering heat soar over her head as a blast of flame incinerated a snarling Hurlock where it stood. For a moment, Morrigan and Leliana stared at one another. The final Darkspawn charged them and, after a brief pause, the witch and the Chantry sister took it on together.

Meanwhile, Sten and Oghren had distracted another pair, their vast two handed weapons scything through the air and cleaving mutated flesh with ease. Their style of killing was brutal and efficient; leaving twisted limbs strewn across the clearing.

Half of the Darkspawn patrol, including their emissary, was still focused on the easy kill. Five creatures advanced on the refugees, rusted blades raised, when Alistair launched himself into their path. Crashing his shield with his sword and yelling to get their attention, he drew them across the clearing and away from the cowering family.

With a golden shield defending him from their retaliating blows, he took out two in a single thrust; Warden-strength allowing his blade to punch through two sets of decrepit ribcages. Withdrawing the sword, half-glimpsing Flora in the corner of his eye as she hovered at the edge of the clearing, he turned to take on the emissary.

After a bodily tackle from Oghren, another Hurlock was quickly dispatched. Alistair, using his shield to protect against a blow from the emissary's rusting sword, shoved his sword into the creature's gut and yanked it to the side. Stinking entrails dropped over the damp leaves as the beast fell with a gurgle. Now, from the isolated snarls remaining, there only appeared to be a few of the creatures left. They were not near the refugees, nor were they harassing the bard or the hedge witch.

Looking around in the shadows, Alistair saw the final two on either side of Flora. She was leaning against a tree looking mildly annoyed, the staff still on her back. Her palms were held out in either direction, keeping both Hurlocks at bay as they hurled themselves against her barriers. As they flailed with tooth and claw ineffectually against the golden shield, she flashed a toothy smile over towards her brother-warden.

"Set fire to them!" yelled Finian as the rest of the party arrived at the edge of the clearing. "Electrocute them with lightning!"

Flora shot him a perplexed look as Alistair came striding to her aid, sword raised.

"She can't," replied Wynne, as they watched the Warden take out the two Darkspawn with long practised skill.

"What do you mean, she  _can't?_ " retorted Finian; his jaw slowly dropping as Wynne explained Flora's unique abilities. "Maker, isn't she a mage? I've never heard of a mage who couldn't draw upon all aspects of the Fade."

"Flora is – certainly someone who can use magic," replied the senior enchanter, carefully. "I'm not sure if I'd call her a traditional  _mage,_ as such. I do have my suspicions."

Flora dropped the barriers just as Alistair, breathing hard from adrenaline, disposed of the final Darkspawn. She patted him on the arm, and he grinned down at her, removing his helmet and rubbing the back of his neck.

Just then, Leliana's shout rose up from the centre of the clearing. The two Wardens stared at each other in alarm for a brief moment; there was dread in her tone.

The refugees were huddled together; the evening twilight casting long shadows on their pale faces. It was a family, an elderly man and a woman in her middle years, accompanied by two young boys. They were gathered before a litter, upon which lay a man of similar age to the woman. He was making a strangulated sound which passed for breath, his skin was a sinister, mottled grey. A bloodied bandage was wrapped around his limp wrist, and tendrils of darkness had already begun to seep up his neck. The centres of his pupils were a stark white.

"Pa tried to defend us," whispered one boy, intimidated by the presence of so many well-armed strangers. "They attacked us last night, too. He killed them."

"He has the taint," stated Sten, as Morrigan gave a nod of confirmation.

"He'll soon become a ghoul. Best to kill him now before he inevitably turns on you."

Leliana scowled at the Qunari and the hedge witch, shaking her head as the dying man's wife let out a choked sob. Arl Eamon strode forward and the woman dropped to her knees, identifying him as a noble.

"Please, Ser. Any aid you can offer us, we would gratefully accept. We've been travelling for weeks."

"Redcliffe Castle is but a day north from here," replied Eamon, reaching out to help the woman to her feet. "Go there, tell them that the Arl sent you. They will offer assistance."

"Maker bless you," whispered the woman, her face collapsing with mingled grief and gratitude. "But, my husband… "

Meanwhile Flora had already dropped her staff and pack, sinking to her knees onto the damp, rotting mulch. The man, beyond speech, let out a mangled sob. One of the small boys, seeing her staff, whimpered.

"Are you a doctor?"

"No," said Flora, then thought for a moment. "Wait, maybe? I suppose so."

She took a deep breath, and lowered her mouth over the man's own bloodied lips, tilting his chin up to open his throat. As she  _inhaled,_ she reached out to clasp the man's wrist, her fingers wrapping around the torn and bloodied flesh where the blighted fangs had embedded themselves. Golden mist seeped out, sealing the wound.

"What's she  _doing?_ " whispered Finian, bewildered and voicing the thoughts of several other nobles who had clustered around Eamon.

"She may not be able to produce fire or lightning, but she  _can_ do this," replied Wynne, deciding that an audience was unnecessary and directing the others to the removal of the Darkspawn corpses. As the stinking bodies were dragged into a pile and gleefully torched by Morrigan, Flora continued to  _inhale_ the Blight and  _exhale_ her own healing essence; in a rhythm as well practised as any of Alistair's battle stances. There was something almost primeval about the way she healed, her instinctual methods taught in no Circle classroom.

At once, the man gave a groan far more human than bestial. Disorientated, sensing someone bending over him, he sat up abruptly. His wife gave a sob of disbelief; along with her sons, she ran to embrace her husband.

"Ouch," said Flora, wincing and sitting back on her heels as his forehead collided with hers. The next moment, she felt her stomach lurch sickeningly. Not wanting to vomit over the joyous family reunion, she crawled several yards away on her hands and knees before retching onto the leaves.

Alistair had been waylaid by the old man, who was falteringly relating his own past glories in swordsmanship and attempting to instruct the young Warden on technique. It was Leliana who knelt beside Flora, holding her hair away from her face and rubbing her back soothingly. Finian hovered in the background uncertainly, running a hand through his rumpled russet curls.

After Flora had disgorged her lunch and all of the smuggled pastries onto the rotted leaves, Leliana offered her a water pouch. Flora rinsed her mouth, spitting onto the dirt and gargling to clear her throat. Zevran knelt down and held another flask out to her, nodding encouragingly.

"It's Antivan brandy; take it. It'll clean your mouth out."

Alistair finally escaped the attentions of the old man as the family began to head for Redcliffe Castle. They left the litter behind them, its former patient now carrying one of his sons on his shoulders. Alistair went to Flora, his eyes bruised with alarm as he saw her pale and unsteady on her feet.

"Hold, we've already taken care of her," replied Zevran, waving the bottle of brandy as Alistair reached for his own water pouch. "She's fine, look."

Her brother-warden nodded tightly in gratitude, relieved when Flora gave him a little smile. Already, the colour was returning to her face, grey eyes clear and bright. A moment later, she no longer needed the support of Leliana to stand upright.

"Fascinating, how your body seems to neutralise the taint," Wynne commented in passing as their company moved towards an adjacent clearing to set up camp. "It must be a result of the potency of your healing magic; the Blight can't take root."

A sudden thought struck Alistair as they went to join the caravan in the riverside clearing, his arm draped around his sister-warden's shoulders.

"I wonder if that's why your Joining was different," he mused, recalling how Flora had merely swayed, her eyes closing for a moment, after ingesting the Darkspawn blood. Flora shrugged, distracted by Finian trying none-too-subtly to get her attention.

"I don't know, maybe.  _What?"_  This was directed at Finian, who widened his grey eyes – so like her own _–_ reproachfully.

"They didn't even say thank you!" he said indignantly, referring to the refugee family. "You saved that man's life."

"It's payment enough to see the happiness of his family," Flora retorted, hackles rising. "I don't  _need_ anything from the people I help. I don't need anything from  _anyone._ Especially not a noble!"

This last part was directed pointedly at him; with a little shiver of irritation, she threw Alistair's arm from her shoulders and ran forwards to walk beside Wynne.

Finian was silent for a moment, listening to the sound of wet leaves beneath his Orlesian leather boots. The trees to either side were dark, night seeming to fall more quickly within the shadowed woods. Alistair, golden-haired and olive skinned, seemed to glow like a brand in the violet dusk. Finian glanced sideways at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Are you sleeping with my little sister?" he asked conversationally, after a moment. Alistair startled, nearly tripping over a hidden tree root.

"Eh," he replied, eyes sliding away evasively. "Define  _sleeping with._ "

"You know, dancing the blanket hornpipe. Forging the moaning statue."

"Thunder-humpin'!" contributed Oghren, who being short had avoided their attention until his unwelcome comment.

"In that case, no," replied Alistair, honestly. Finian shot him a look, but said only  _hm_ in response.

Oghren was not quite so muted in his reaction, letting out a yell of disbelief that sent several nocturnal creatures scurrying for cover.

"Yeh haven't made the bronto with two backs yet?!" he demanded, jaw dropping. "Stone take me! Why not?"

Alistair let out a little moan, clutching the strap of his shield more tightly.

"It's not – appropriate. We aren't…you know… in front of people." He trailed off helplessly, unsure how to define the relationship between himself and his sister-warden.

"But why  _not?!_  Yeh  _sleep in the same bed!"_

On seeing that he would extort no definitive answer from the blushing young man, the dwarf shook his head mournfully.

"You'd better not rest on yeh arse too long, my lad," he advised with a sage tap of his nose. "She's a lovely lookin' lass, someone'll soon show her the ways of the bedchamber. Like that blasted, slimy Antivan elf."

"That's my sister you're talking about," commented Finian mildly, as the two of them watched Alistair fleeing down the path ahead of them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Poor Finian is rapidly realising that Flora is not the powerful sorceress that he envisioned would retake Highever on his behalf! Incidentally, I love how embarrassed Alistair is at the fact that it is now public knowledge that he and Flora have not "made the bronto with two backs" yet. OOH I love a good Shakespearian analogy for sex, haha.


	78. A Contest of Strength

Chapter 78: A Contest of Strength

The wooded clearing was large enough for multiple campsites to be set up; naturally the arls and banns clustered together beside the river. The contrast between their camp and that belonging to the Wardens quickly became evident – the nobles' tents were larger and had some basic furniture, ensuring that velvet-clad rears were not required to make contact with damp leaves. Bodahn, Sandal and the emissaries made their own camp slightly down river, using their wagons as makeshift barriers against the wind.

Finian hesitated for a moment, before directing his two retainers to construct his tent beside Sten's stick-and-pole accommodation. It was a mild evening, with only a faint scattering of snow flung across the damp earth. Morrigan deigned to join them for dinner; mostly because she still delighted in gloating over Finian's presence, and the visible discomfort it caused Flora. Wynne, claiming a headache, had retreated to the tent to talk with Pether.

Alistair had positioned himself as far from Oghren as possible, and was talking to Eamon; who had ventured over from the nobles' campfire. The young former Templar was also trying to ignore Zevran and Leliana's increasingly provocative flirtation, which veered between barbed compliments, insults and barely disguised lewdness. Sten was inspecting one of Flora's stolen pastries, which she had donated to him in a moment of generosity.

"My ruby-haired lassie," announced Oghren, with a sudden grin. "I've an idea!"

Flora, who had been studiously avoiding Finian's attempt to catch her eye all evening, peered over at Oghren. The dwarf pointed at her, then over at a low, flat rock half covered in wet leaves.

"Let's have a test of strength an' mettle! An  _arm-wrestling_  competition."

She beamed at him, not at all dissuaded by the fact that her arm was about half the width of his. "Alright!"

The Arl snorted, withdrawing tactfully to the nobles' encampment with a wish that they enjoy themselves.

"And like any competition, there must be a  _prize_ for the overall winner," continued the dwarf, gleefully. "A kiss, from our lovely Grey Warden with the magic mouth."

Flora thought for a moment, then nodded solemnly.

"But what if  _I_ win? What prize do I get?" she asked plaintively, only for Oghren to cackle contemptuously, taking a long swig from his tankard.

"Ah, let's be realistic, lassie, yeh've got a snowball's chance in the Deep Roads of winnin'."

Zevran, eyes lighting up, extracted himself from Leliana and flexed a sinewy arm.

"Ah, at  _last!"_  he announced, placing his lips against his own lean muscle. "I have been waiting for this moment for a long while."

Leliana, pale blue irises flashing like shards of ice, also sat up determinedly.

"Waiting for the day when you are beaten by a woman? Well, I think your time has come!"

To Flora's relief, Morrigan did not enter the contest, wrinkling her nose and pointedly ignoring Oghren's request. Sten, to their surprise, agreed – mostly to demonstrate how superior Qunari strength was compared to the lesser races. Flora began to look slightly worried, eyeing the Qunari's vast arms and wondering if he would attempt to claim the prize.

Then, to her abject horror, Finian somewhat tentatively raised his hand.

"I don't know what weird stuff they taught you at this 'university' in Val Royeaux," Flora said bluntly. "But we don't snog our brothers in Herring."

" _Snog?_  What? No, no," Finian hastened to add, jabbing his finger at his cheek. "Here is fine!"

They decided who would compete against whom by drawing straws from the clumps of reed growing on the riverbank. Squaring up on either side of the flat rock and bracing their elbows, Oghren and Flora went first. After Leliana had counted down from three, Oghren let out a roar of triumph and with barely any effort, slammed Flora's hand onto the stone.

"Haha!"

"Ouch," complained Flora, sucking on her bruised knuckles. Oghren grinned, taking another long swig of ale.

"Ah, it's alright, lass. You're near-skinny as an elf, no one is expecting you to do well."

Zevran scowled, hoping to be pitted against Oghren in later rounds. To his dismay, he was drawn against Sten. The elf took a deep breath and put up a valiant struggle, but the Qunari barely seemed to expend any energy in crashing the elf's long-fingered hand into the rock.

"I don't suppose you're offering consolation prizes?" Zevran asked Flora hopefully, who snorted and shook her head, lifting her mouth from her now-healed knuckles.

Bann Teagan, who had wandered over when he heard Oghren roar in triumph, was matched against Leliana. She tossed her short, braided hair, smiled prettily; then proceeded to slam the Bann's fist downwards with a squeal of triumph. The Bann conceded defeat gracefully, descending to sit cross-legged on the damp leaves to watch the remainder of the contest.

Alistair and Finian squared off against one another, Alistair harbouring a tentative optimism. Although the other Wardens had often left him out of their drinking games and discussions of women; they had always lined up to try and best him at arm wrestling. When he inevitably won, they would invite him to sit down and join them for a drink; and for the span of an evening, he knew the joys of acceptance.

Poor Finian, who had the slender, fineboned body of a poet, did not stand a chance. Alistair did not intend to lose but he also did not want to humiliate his sister-warden's brother. After Oghren had begun the match, Alistair counted inwardly to five before pushing the young Cousland's hand down onto the rock.

Sten was then paired against Oghren; the half-drunk dwarf letting out a cry of disbelief as the Qunari dispatched him with ease.

"Nooo!" he moaned, as the expressionless Qunari withdrew to let Leliana take his place. Alistair coughed to hide his awkwardness, holding out his hand to the bard. She grinned back at him, pale blue eyes boring into his.

"Don't hold back because I'm a lady," the Chantry sister urged, batting her eyelashes and enjoying Alistair's discomfort. "I can take whatever you're capable of dealing out, I promise you."

"Oh, you're no lady," muttered the still-bitter Zevran, from the losers' stands of their campfire.

Alistair, hoping that the neck of his collar was high enough to hide the encroaching blush, clasped her fingers between hers. On the dwarf's count, he made no effort this time to disguise his strength. Leliana let out a gasp of indignation as her arm was bent back against the stone.

"Well," grumbled Oghren. "There goes one of my fantasies. Two lovely redheads; it would've been the stuff of  _dreams._ "

Flora had now gone green at the increasingly real possibility of having to kiss Sten. She shot a pleading look at Alistair, who stared back at her with mild trepidation.

" _Stel brek,"_ hissed Sten, taking a knee opposite Alistair and extending a massive arm.

"Ten silver on our seven foot friend from Par Vollen," said Zevran to an enthralled Leliana, who gave a little nod. On the one hand, the physically powerful Alistair regularly took the most punishment on the field and remained standing – he was first into the fray, and his strength had been proven against the most formidable of foes.

On the other hand, Sten was a Qunari.

Oghren, clutching his now drained tankard, used it to assist in the countdown.

" _Three… two…_ hic!  _One-_ go!"

Despite Alistair's obvious bulk and brute strength, he was still human. The Qunari outclassed him in both weight and height. And if a human was all that Alistair was, there would have been no contest.

Unfortunately for Sten, Darkspawn blood had been coursing through Alistair's veins for the past eighteen months; granting him preternatural Warden strength in addition to his own raw power. Slowly but steadily, he edged the Qunari's arm backwards, sweat beading on his forehead.

Sten's expression never changed, but his lips drew back in minuscule increments over his teeth with every inch that Alistair gained on him. Then, all of a sudden, it was over- the Qunari's hand was pressed flat against the stone, and Alistair was leaning forward and breathing hard, eyes fierce.

"Damn," muttered Zevran, impressed despite himself.

"The winner!" crowed Oghren, grasping the panting Alistair's hand and raising it in the air.

"Please don't pull my head off," said Alistair nervously, eyeing Sten. The Qunari merely grunted in reply, withdrawing to his tent with a muttered  _asit tal-eb._

"Time to claim your prize," the dwarf announced as they returned to the campfire, with a gleeful edge to his tone.

Flora looked at Oghren, wondering if he had engineered the whole competition to bring about this outcome. She nearly snarled  _I might have had to kiss STEN_ out loud; then restrained herself when she saw the look on Alistair's face. He appeared anxious, hazel eyes wide and blown near-black, shooting glances like little darts at their companions. Flora realised that he was nervous, the Chantry-instilled shyness still ingrained within his bones.

It had been different in the heady, claustrophobic desperation of the Deep Roads; when death felt near enough that Alistair was able to temporarily lose his inhibitions and kiss her openly. On the riverbank there was no tent wall of canvas offering some semblance of privacy; only the stark glow of the flames and the curious faces of their companions. Even Bann Teagan was still sitting beside the campfire, absentmindedly sharpening a small cuirass blade on a whetstone.

The compassionate Flora, wishing to spare her brother-warden any embarrassment, leaned towards him with her palm pressed against the sodden leaves. Gently she raised a hand to brush down the perpetually rumpled tuft of hair springing from the top of his head, then very softly and chastely pressed her lips against the centre of his forehead.

"There," she whispered, patting his cheek gently as she withdrew. "Your prize."

She could sense his hazel eyes boring into her even as she sat back on the damp grass. Oghren let out a disappointed snort, draining the dregs from a near-empty bottle.

"Call that a prize!" he muttered derisively, tossing the empty bottle to one side. "The kind of kiss given by yeh great-auntie Myra."

An owl gave a mournful hoot from somewhere in the dark woods behind them. There was a long beat of stillness. Flora looked over at Alistair and saw that his eyes were burning dark and hot, like coals taken from the base of the fire. She smiled at him reassuringly, absentmindedly pulling at the loose threads of her tunic.

All at once, and thoroughly without warning, Alistair lunged across the damp grass. He grabbed her face between not-so-gentle fingers, and pressed his mouth hard and impetuous against hers. Taken by surprise by the sudden fierceness of the kiss, Flora toppled backwards; he moved with her, kept kissing her, desire coursing through his veins and an unvoiced claim in his lips. For a minute, the obedient, hesitating outer layers of Alistair were peeled away like the skin of an onion, revealing a core of steely dominance; the hereditary authority that ran through his veins manifesting itself for the span of a kiss.

"I think you're out of luck there," murmured Leliana to Zevran as Alistair pulled back, aware that eyes were on them but only interested in the slightly gobsmacked face of his sister-warden.

" _I_ think I'm going to transfer my affections," replied Zevran, his dark gaze smouldering as he swept it over Alistair. "I love a man of command."

"That's more like it," crowed Oghren triumphantly. He nudged Finian, who had absorbed himself in adjusting Jethro's collar. "Yeh can look now, lad."

Flora returned upright, the elbows of her shirt green from the damp grass and her hair half-escaped from the leather tie. Alistair had retreated to his previous position; there was no flush of embarrassment on his face, only a hard and confident surety.

"Well," commented Bann Teagan at last, raising his eyebrows. "I admit, that was not wholly unexpected."

Later that evening, when everybody had retired to their tents, Flora rested in Alistair's arms and watched a beetle burrow its way through a gap in the canvas. Two retainers posted on sentry duty were airing petty grievances about their respective lords directly behind the Wardens' tent, and – combined with Sten's loud snoring – this dissuaded Alistair from initiating anything more intimate with his sister-warden.

After an hour, Leliana thrust herself indignantly inside the tent, collapsing next to them.

"I can't take that Maker-damned elf any more," she hissed, as Flora stretched, sleepily. "He keeps talking about Finian, then Alistair, then Finian  _and_ Alistair!"

In the dark, the latter opened his eyes in alarm.

"What?"

A yawning Flora raised an arm to release a fold of trapped blanket, allowing Leliana to take some for herself. The bard wrapped it around her ample assets, inadvertently yanking it off Alistair.

"Sorry, Alistair, did I steal it off you?"

"It's fine," muttered Alistair, drawing the perpetually warm body of his sister-warden closer. Leliana paused for a moment, then spoke into the shadow, her words hanging heavily in the damp air.

"It warms my heart to see you two together," the bard murmured, resting her cheek against the mouldering bedroll. "The Maker shines His blessings even in the darkest of times."

"It also makes for a better verse in your poem," replied Alistair mildly, applying gentle pressure to Flora's fingers as he gripped them.

_A cruel pale eye, with the malevolent stare of an unrepentant murderer. An exhalation of foul, stinking air carrying blight so pure that a single inhalation would be fatal. Then, the caressing vicious whisper, in an ancient tongue that had never been transcribed._

_A half-glimpse of buildings, shadowed and phantasmal, already fading from view. Darkspawn swarming a town like flies over a carcass. Dead fish washing onto a graveyard of a shore, abandoned boats left to batter themselves against jetties._

_The horde crawling out, their backs to a rising winter sun._

_**We see you!** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Aah, this was such fun to write! It's fun to go back and edit more light-hearted chapters, since I'm in the middle of Return to Ostagar at the moment and it's just full of doom, gloom, dead Wardens, Darkspawn, Cailan corpses, omfg Duncan's sword?! It's dire and depressing, so I'm happy to return to my arm-wrestling contest, haha. Incidentally, there's no way that Alistair would beat a Qunari if he wasn't pumped up on Darkspawn blood- omg, is that like DOPING? ALISTAIR, YOU DIRTY CHEAT, taking notes from the Lance Armstrong school I see. Lol. Also Sten definitely just let him wiin ahahaha


	79. Nowhere Rains Like Ferelden

Chapter 79: Nowhere Rains Like Ferelden

Flora sat bolt upright, staring blindly at the mouldy canvas wall of the tent. For a brief, panicked moment she had no idea where she was; then she caught sight of Alistair stirring next to her and Leliana curled up in a huddle on her other side. Through a gap in the entrance flaps, she saw the greyish light of predawn.

_We're in the Hinterlands, on the road to the Brecilian Forest. To see the elves._

_It was a southern coastal town I saw in the dream. Was it Gwaren, Loghain's seat?_

The dream had felt so real that she was almost able to taste the sea salt on her tongue. The pull of the Archdemon was like a fishhook embedded in the back of her brain, a constant, needling presence. The back of her shirt was damp with a cold sweat, and she pulled it away from her skin with a grimace.

Alistair looked up at her, a silent question in his hazel eyes. She nodded; replying in kind. He let out a little sigh, reaching out and placing a large, heavy hand on her bare thigh.

"At least I didn't wake the camp up screeching this time," she whispered. He snorted and raised his arm; she sunk back down against his chest.

"Go back to sleep," he murmured drowsily, kissing the top of her hair.

Flora lay there for a few minutes, but – tempting as it was – she knew that she would be unable to settle back down. Besides, she did not  _want_  to fall asleep and risk some innocuous dream scribing itself on her memory over the vision of the Archdemon. When she closed her eyes she could still see its malevolent gold stare etched on the back of her eyelid; she was not ready to banish the vision before she had dissected its possible meaning.

Retrieving her breeches, Flora clambered carefully over Leliana's curled up body and extracted herself from the tent. She recognised the dawn sentries as two of the Arl's knights who had accompanied them to Orzammar. They gave her a nod of greeting and she waved at them, edging barefoot down the dew-slick grass of the riverbank. Partway down she lost her balance, half-sliding the rest of the way to the river with a grunt. It was wide and shallow, the water flowing clear over a rocky base. In the centre, salmon were thrusting their bodies violently against the natural flow of the river, fighting to get upstream.

Flora watched the fish for several minutes, admiring their defiant struggle against a force far greater than their own individual strength. Then, gripping the moss slick rocks with her bare feet, she built a small semi-circular barrier of stones in the shallows of the river. Sitting back on the damp bank, she rested her chin on her knees and waited; eyes on her primitive fish trap.

Half an hour later, she scrambled back up the damp grass triumphantly, clutching a half dozen carp by their tails. They joined the smoked meat and eggs prepared for breakfast; and before the early morning mist had fully burnt off, the company was on its way again.

They made good time through the woods, and everybody was secretly relieved when they emerged back into open farmland. Leliana's angelic voice soared above the caravan; many of the southern Fereldan nobles were now completely enraptured by her. She tolerated their clumsy attempts at flirtation peaceably and in good humour, skilfully deflecting any serious intent.

Their route began to descend as they reached the end of the plateau; the path cut in meandering swathes down the side of the hill. It was a grey afternoon, the sun a flat white eye, misted over with cloud like a cataract. Fortunately, the previous day's wind had died down; much to the disappointment of the Mabari hounds who had enjoyed snapping their jaws at the hollow breeze.

The conversation between the riders had turned to competitions, Oghren's mind still stewing over his defeat in the arm-wrestling contest the previous night.

"In my glory days in Orzammar, I won a competition for the most kegs smashed in a half-candle length," the dwarf boasted, chest inflating with pride. "Got this here battle-ax when I won."

"Well, in Antiva, I too was awarded a prize," retorted Zevran, draping an arm over the side of the wagon as it rumbled along the road. "We used to have contests in the Crows to demonstrate our skill with a blade. I could hit the target dead-eye-on with a blindfold. I won a beautiful pair of leather boots." The elf looked melancholy for a moment, his eyes staring straight ahead as if seeing the sun baked streets of Antiva rather than the soggy dampness of southern Ferelden.

"I won many academic prizes in university in Val Royeaux," offered Finian, leaning down from the saddle to wrestle a stick from Jethro's jaws.

"Because you were sleeping with half of your tutors," retorted one of his retainers, a man with dark curling hair and a wicked smile. Finian laughed, shrugging a shoulder elegantly.

"Aye, Tommaso. I think as a Fereldan noble, I was somewhat of a novelty to them," he said, frankly. "Sister, did you ever win any prizes?" Then, when she studiously ignored him: "Florence? Flora?"

Flora looked up, shading her eyes against the waning afternoon sun.

"Ehhh?"

"Did you ever win a prize in the Circle?"

Beside them, Morrigan let out a little snort of derision.

"For what? Magical ability?  _Ha!"_

Flora shrugged a shoulder as she reached down to tighten the strapping around her sore knee.

"I never won anything at the Tower," she confirmed, amiably. "Unfortunately nobody was willing to horribly injure themselves so we could have a healing competition."

Alistair, finally escaping the attentions of the Arl of Edgehall, nudged his horse forward to catch them up. As soon as he was out of earshot of the minor noble, he let out a groan.

"They've been chasing me all day," he complained, drawing alongside the wagon that was pulling Zevran and a yawning Oghren. "I wish they'd leave me alone."

"Alistair, I shouldn't denigrate our accompanying nobles too much," chastised the sharp-eared Wynne, who handled her horse as skilfully as one twenty years younger. "These men and women will be supporting you at the Landsmeet. You want their loyalty to be unwavering, even when confronted by Loghain."

Alistair muttered something under his breath but remained quiet, watching Finian throw the stick for Jethro.

"Oh, I  _did_ win one prize at the Circle," said Flora to herself, then scowled as she realised that she had inadvertently announced this out loud. Immediately Zevran pounced on it.

"For what, my Rialto lily? Best legs?"

"No," replied Flora, somewhat vaguely. "I won a prize for the best-kept bunk."

Morrigan immediately collapsed into peals of laughter, to the slight alarm of her horse. Zevran grinned widely, and even Wynne allowed herself a small smile.

"Ah, I forgot about the domestic awards," she murmured. "Adolescents can be so untidy without motivation. Some of those apprentice dormitories were so filthy, even the Tranquil could not maintain them."

"The only reason my bunk was so tidy was that I didn't want the Tranquil to make it for me," explained Flora, starting to snicker quietly to herself. "I kept my stash of food from the kitchen in there."

"Child, you're incorrigible," hissed Wynne, as Alistair grinned over at his younger sister-warden. Flora, who naturally had no idea what  _incorrigible_ meant, beamed.

After a long day of travelling they made camp at an abandoned farm, the crumbled stone outbuildings providing some shelter against the wind. As they were setting up campfires and tents, the skies opened. Fires – and dinner – were quickly abandoned in favour of retreating inside tents and trying to staying warm. The black rainclouds brought a premature darkness; Wynne read until the shadows crept over the parchment, while Oghren played another few rounds of Wicked Grace with Leliana and Zevran. Sten, who despised rain but would rather die than display any discomfort, was stoically practising his manoeuvres.

Morrigan, to Alistair's horror, made her way inside the tent in which he and Flora were resting. Flora was unwrapping the bindings on her knee and inspecting the swollen joint; while he was cleaning his shield with a polishing cloth. As Morrigan ducked inside the tent, Alistair's face contorted in almost comical dismay.

"'Tis as if the Archdemon itself had broached your tent," the witch complained, taking a seat and artfully arranging her skirts over her bare thighs. "Surely, I am not  _that_  repulsive, Alistair?"

Alistair muttered something under his breath, while Flora smiled placatingly and shifted herself over on the bedroll.

"Do you want some of these?" she asked, holding a palmful of hazelnuts out to Morrigan. Morrigan appeared about to decline on principle, then paused and gave a reluctant nod. Flora reached out with her free hand to grasp the dark-haired woman's fingers, turning her palm over and carefully tipping the nuts between their hands.

"There you go," she said, smiling as Morrigan blinked at the unexpected contact.

"I… thank you," replied the witch, unsure whether she was grateful for the food or for the touch itself. Flora smiled at her, then returned to her task. She wound the linen strips tightly around her knee, using her teeth to pull the knot tight.

"Does it hurt?" asked Morrigan, meeting Flora's eye. Both were momentarily cast back to Flemeth's hut, when Flora had woken up three days after Ostagar, in the terrible aftermath of the Darkspawn's victory.

_Your man quit the field, the witch had said. The King is dead, the Wardens annihilated, save for one other._

_She had tried to heal her knee, her focus shattered by grief and denial, and done irreparable damage to the bone and sinew. It was the first – and so far, the only – time that her gift had let her down._

"Yes," said Flora, shrugging her shoulder mildly. "But no worse than the Arl's old arrow injury, or Zevran's traitor-wound. It's fine."

She was referring to the only scar that marred the elf's torso, which he had showed them proudly on a previous evening. Alistair had believed it merely an excuse for the assassin to disrobe; but Flora had seen a shadow in Zevran's eyes as he recanted the old betrayal, and resolved to ask him about it before they reached the Brecilian Forest.

"Warden," said the witch suddenly, her eyes still on Flora. "The irritating Chantry sister mentioned that you were able to shield against dragon fire at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Is this true, or another of her delusions?"

"It's true," replied Flora, glancing over at Alistair, who looked slightly discomfited. Confronting the Temple dragon high in the Frostbacks had been the one time that he had ever doubted her abilities. She reached out and rested her fingers on his knee; he covered them with his palm.

Morrigan nodded, an internal struggle manifesting itself in her luminous gold eyes. Finally she took a deep breath, as if steeling herself.

"The reason I ask is – I have just cause to suspect Flemeth of possibly trying to kill me."

When both Alistair and Flora looked at her with identical gobsmacked expressions, Morrigan tossed her head in irritation.

"Look at you both! Perfectly suited; a pair of moronic peas in a pod. No, don't ask me  _why,_ " the witch continued impatiently, as Alistair opened his mouth and then abruptly shut it again. "It is sufficient to say that she might try, and you know that she can take the form of a dragon. Will you defend me, if that comes to pass?"

"Is that a possibility?" muttered Alistair, eyes wide. "Maker's Breath, we'll have to add angry witch-dragons to our list of  _things trying to kill us."_

" _Will_ you, though?" demanded Morrigan, nostrils flaring. "Shield me against her?"

"Of course," said Flora placatingly, patting the witch's elbow. "You didn't need to ask; I would shield you against anything that was trying to hurt you. Templars, demons, vengeful family members…"

Morrigan stared at her for a moment, then inclined her head fractionally.

"Thank you," she said, the words sounding almost foreign coming from her mouth. Flora smiled back at her, withdrawing her hand. They sat in almost companionable silence for a moment, listening to the rain hurl itself manfully against the canvas. Eventually, Flora began to shuffle over to the entrance of the tent, to Alistair's slight alarm.

"Where are you going?!" he hissed, flicking his eyes sideways at Morrigan pointedly.

"To thank the nobles for accompanying us," replied Flora. "And to distract them from thinking about their fireplaces and featherbeds."

"Shall I come with you?"

"No, no," came the answer, to Alistair's immense dismay. "You did your duty with them earlier."

Alistair heaved a sigh as he watched Flora scramble from the tent, hearing her give a little squawk at the force of the rain. For a moment he recalled how, months ago, she had quailed at the thought of even running into Arl Eamon in the passageway. He glanced at Morrigan, who pointedly turned her back on him and took out a book.

"Where were you keeping that?" he asked, curious despite himself. "Your clothing doesn't exactly have – pockets."

Morrigan shot him a malevolent stare over her bare shoulder, and he quickly averted his eyes. A few minutes of silence passed; Alistair watched the rain gradually permeate through the saturated walls of the canvas.

"Can  _you_  turn into a dragon?" he asked, suddenly. Her back still facing him, Morrigan raised her book pointedly in front of her face.

"Fine, fine, I get the message."

The rain continued, increasing in intensity as the evening deepened. A slightly traumatised Flora made her way from the Arl of Edgehall, whose three Mabari hounds had simultaneously lunged at her as she entered the tent; to the Bann of Calon, a large man who looked at her with barely disguised suspicion.

It transpired that he had once been attacked by an Orlesian mage from behind; which resulted in his being too wary to look at her straight, but not quite daring to take his eyes off her completely. Flora, wet hair clinging to the back of her neck, talked at him patiently while his gaze slid all over the tent like an eel. Finally, her status as a Warden, augmented by her Cousland heritage, reassured him enough that he almost looked her in the eye as she left.

The Arls of Redcliffe and the Western Hills were sat together in a larger tent. They were drinking Fereldan ale, and she shook her head when they offered her a bottle, instead accepting a seat. Flora went dutifully through her spiel, thanking both of them for their support while Eamon smiled down at her like a kindly uncle.

"You know, Reyne has reminded me that I  _had_  heard the rumours about a daughter of Bryce being a mage, all those years ago," he said, and Flora had the distinct impression that he hadn't listened to a word she had said. "I just didn't put two and two together, though I should've done."

"That Cousland nose is unmistakeable," commented the other Arl, nodding his head sagely and slopping ale down his velvet tunic. Flora touched her nose, frowning slightly, as she did whenever anyone mentioned her alleged parentage.

"Thank you," she repeated finally, retreating back out into the torrential downpour and heading towards the final tent. It was smaller than Eamon's, and was decorated in Guerrin crimson.

"Nowhere rains like Ferelden" murmured Teagan, shifting over on his bedroll to allow Flora to sit down beside him. She nodded, drawing her sodden knees to her chin. Suddenly, she was struck by a pang of longing for the northern coast; where the wind blew rain and saltspray sideways.

"The Archdemon was inconsiderate to attack over the winter season. It should have waited until spring, when the primroses are out and the weather is less foul," Teagan commented lightly.

Knowing Flora longest out of all the accompanying nobles, he did not offer her a swig of the Antivan brandy he had been drinking, but instead a small wrapped pastry. She took it while eyeing him warily, not quite comprehending his attempt at humour.

"Well, it shouldn't have attacked at  _all_ ," she replied sternly, missing the joke. The Bann laughed, not unkindly, and glanced sideways at her solemn, finely boned profile. He changed his mind about the brandy, offering her the bottle.

Flora took a small sip, then grimaced and handed it back.

"Ugh," she said, then worried that she had seemed rude. "Sorry. I don't have much of a taste for alcohol."

Teagan didn't seem offended, taking another long draw from the bottle himself.

"I thought Grey Wardens often partook of liquid refreshment before battle," he said lightly, watching as she peeled her saturated shirt sleeve away from her slender arm.

"They do," Flora replied, recalling how the Wardens at Ostagar had gathered around a campfire, drinking and sharing stories until the early hours. Even Duncan had joined in occasionally, imparting some tantalising tale from his days as a junior recruit.

"But you don't?" Teagan asked, and there was no judgement in his tone, only a mild curiosity. Flora shook her head, rolling up her damp sleeves and inspecting a mysterious bruise on her elbow.

"My dad used to say that a drunkard fisherman was a drowned fisherman," she said, feeling a throb of sadness in the back of her throat. "He never touched liquor."

With her soft, slightly throaty northern accent, the word came out as  _lekka._ The Bann realised that she was talking about the man who raised her rather than the man who begot her.

Flora stared at the scarlet canvas for a moment, then roused herself from her melancholy.

"Thank you for accompanying us to Denerim," she said politely, recalling her initial purpose for being in the Bann's tent. "The more people we have to oppose Loghain, the better."

Teagan looked at her for a moment longer and thought  _ah, but if I was fifteen years younger..._

"Take care, child," he said instead, watching her crawl out of the tent on her hands and knees. "Greetings to Alistair."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So I don't know if it's just because I'm a late medievalist-early modern historian by trade, but I got really fascinated by the logistics of the Landsmeet. I know in game, Eamon et al just pop up in Denerim, but that's hundreds of miles away from Redcliffe. And coming up against a pretender like Loghain, who effectively is the current king, the Wardens would need some pretty hefty nobles in their faction to offer them support. So I wanted to depict the creation of that anti-Loghain faction, as well as detail part of their journey eastwards. Sorry if this is quite a boring OOC note, these are more like stream of consciousness things for me, lol. Also I love the name for this chapter – I'm Welsh, where it rains ALL the time!


	80. Two Couslands and a Tent

Chapter 80: Two Couslands and a Tent

The torrential downpour hammered down on Flora's head as she made her way around the crumbling outbuildings, struggling against a fierce westerly wind. She heard Oghren's muffled laughter coming from one tent, accompanied by Zevran emitting a loud curse in his native Antivan. Wynne's tent was illuminated by her propped up staff; Flora could see the senior enchanter hunched over with quill in hand as she scribed some lengthy missive.

Gratefully reaching her own tent, Flora half fell inside, soaked to the skin. It was not much dryer within; the canvas saturated and the earth soggy beneath the bedrolls, but it provided some respite from the relentless wind. Alistair had finished polishing his shield, which lay propped against the tent-pole. He was busy inspecting his reflection in the gleaming silverite, passing his hand over the top of his head with a frown. Morrigan was nowhere to be seen.

"The hair at the front won't lie flat," he commented, sounding surprised. "I never noticed before. Does it look strange?"

Flora, who had left her leather boots outside, was halfway through peeling off her saturated breeches. Fortunately, the wool was thick enough that the water had not permeated to her smallclothes.

"Eh? No, it doesn't. Did you eat Morrigan?"

Alistair snorted, turning around as she struggled to wriggle out of a soaked tunic.

"Ha! She'd be enough to give a Qunari indigestion. No, she left a few minutes ago." He leaned forward and helped her to pull the tunic over her head, carefully lifting her sodden braid out of the way. "How did it go with the nobles?"

Flora shrugged a shoulder, unbuttoning her rain soaked shirt. Alistair delved a hand into his pack, retrieving one of the thin cambric tunics that he wore beneath his armour.

"Here, this is dry.  _Mostly_  dry," he amended, feeling the dampness of the collar. Flora reached inside her shirt and withdrew the treaties. They were slightly soggy around the edges, but the ink had not run. Carefully, she placed them inside the top of her own pack, then peeled the shirt off, dropping it in a soggy pile beside the tent entrance.

Alistair gazed at her with something close to shy wonder. His warm gaze moved over her bare upper body with desire and slight disbelief; much as a parched man would eye an oasis in the desert. Flora grinned at him, made self-conscious not by her toplessness, but by the raw lust in her brother-warden's stare. She could almost sense the atmosphere between them tautening, like an over-twisted lute string. He reached for her, stretched out a hand to caress her cheek, his eyes roaming over her as though she were a prized statue and he a collector of precious things. The next moment his arms were sliding around her, encircling her from behind as his mouth sought out her neck.

From one side of the tent, Wynne's quill scratched busily away at the parchment. On the other came the low snuffling of Jethro, Finian's Mabari hound; while his master conversed in low and urgent tones with a retainer, the one with dark curling hair and dancing eyes. Flora twisted her head round, then smiled at her fellow Warden. As she pressed a finger to her lips, Alistair let out a soft, agitated groan against her ear.

"Where's a Potions cupboard when you need one?" he whispered, and Flora snorted; reaching for the cambric tunic and tugging it over her head.

"There'll be a time," she said softly, pulling her untidy braid through. "And a place."

Alistair let out another muffled grunt of frustration, kissing her fiercely somewhere near her ear.

"The Chantry mother always said I needed to work on my  _patience_ ," he replied, reluctantly withdrawing from her. "I suppose this will be good practise."

Later, it was Alistair's turn to wake in the middle of the night; blood turned to ice in his veins and heart beating a panicked staccato against his ribcage. Yet it was not the Archdemon that had provoked such a rude awakening, but a nightmare cultivated from one of his greatest fears. Not even Oghren's drunken snores coming from the adjacent tent could rouse him from a stultifying cloud of dread. The rain was still hammering the earth outside; he could feel the damp seeping up through his bedroll.

For the first time in months, Alistair leaned towards his sleeping sister-warden and laid his fingers against her neck to check her pulse. Then, not sufficiently reassured by the steady, unhurried throb; he gently touched her eyelid to verify the colour of her iris. Flora woke, squinting up at him with mild confusion, her pale grey eyes silvery in the shadows. Alistair exhaled, suddenly feeling rather stupid.

"Sorry, Flo," he whispered, squeezing their entwined fingers. "I had a nightmare that… that you were possessed."

Flora fell silent, returning the pressure against his palm. For several quiet moments they held hands; she could feel the clamminess of Alistair's skin, and felt irrationally guilty.

"Please, don't worry," Flora said finally, gazing earnestly across the bedroll at him. "Demons never pay much attention to me in the Fade; in fact, they mostly try and avoid me. I think it's because I'd be such a useless vessel for possession."

She caught his eye, gave a rueful shrug, "What trouble could they cause in this body?  _Aha, finally, I have crossed the Veil: watch as I cause devastation by…._ Brutally healing people? Shielding them to death?"

Alistair was sufficiently reassured by her words to return to sleep; within ten minutes, he was snoring gently. Flora, however, had become distracted by an unusual noise outside. It seemed to be a string of mingled Fereldan and Orlesian curses, interspersed with the occasional bark.

"To the bottom of the Waking Sea with you!" went the exasperated voice finally, and Flora blinked, recognising the insult as a regional one particular to the northern coast.

_There's only one other northerner here._

Careful not to wake Alistair, she clambered over his legs and retrieved her damp breeches. Tugging them on over her smallclothes, she decided against trying to manoeuvre her boots on inside the tent.

Outside, the rain had eased somewhat but the wind was still relentless. It took Flora's hair and almost playfully snatched strands of it free from its loose braid, while still being strong enough to send her stumbling. The rest of the camp was bathed in shadow, stars illuminating the outlines of tents and crumbled farm buildings.

One tent did not have such a regular silhouette. Finian, clearly unused to life on the hoof, had done a poor job of constructing his accommodation. The spiteful wind- seeing an opportunity- had pounced, and his tent had partially collapsed. The young lord was struggling with a mass of damp canvas, the Mabari hound sniffling and whimpering at his feet.

"You're not helping, Jethro!" snarled Finian, then startled as he saw Flora watching him warily, barefoot in the wet grass. "Good morning, sister. Are you enjoying the sight of me like this? A Cousland brought low?"

"No," replied the compassionate Flora, honestly. "Where is your man, Tommaso? Can't you call him?"

She was referring to the retainer she saw most often in Finian's company, the slight dark-haired man with the wicked grin. Finian grimaced, running his hand fretfully through his damp russet curls.

"We had a slight… disagreement earlier," he said evasively, grey gaze shifting heavenwards. Flora eyed him but said nothing, retrieving some of the damp canvas from where it had blown against a crumbled outbuilding. She gathered the heavy folds up in her arms, returning to where the slender noble was pacing back and forth.

"And look at this!" her brother complained, holding up one of the tent-poles. It had been snapped in two, irredeemably splintered. Flora shook out the canvas, resting it against the earth and kneeling down to spread the corners flat.

"You put too much weight on it," she replied, removing a strand of wet hair from where it had blown into her mouth. "You need to spread it out."

Her brother stared at her helplessly for a few moments, the broken tent pole in his hands. Suddenly she had an idea; retreating to her own tent, she retrieved her staff. As Finian watched, faintly appalled, she shoved one end down into the rain-softened earth.

"Stop gawping," she hissed at him, the wind slapping wet tendrils of hair against her face. "Help me!"

Using the staff as a replacement pole, the two siblings worked together to reconstruct the tent. It was an arduous task: the wind continually threatened to snatch the canvas over the wall, and the Mabari kept running in circles around their feet.

Finally, worn out and damp, they managed to construct a rudimentary shelter. Flat on his back beneath the damp canvas, Finian looked over to where Flora was sprawled beside him, absentmindedly fiddling with her silver Chantry locket.

"You're good at this," he commented, scratching the base of Jethro's neck. "You get a lot of practise, I suppose. Travelling around together."

Flora nodded, remembering the first few nights after she had left the Circle. Her and Alistair had made the tent under the watchful auspices of Duncan, who gently but firmly advised until she was relatively adept. And now in recent months, she and her brother-warden had spent more nights under canvas than she could count – literally.

_Without Duncan, though._

They were silent for a few minutes, Flora tentatively patting the Mabari hound's muscled shoulder. It made a contented little snort, raising its head to lick the back of her fingers. Startled, Flora withdrew her hand quickly, gazing at it in mild alarm.

"He likes you," Finian commented mildly, watching her changing expression. "He should do; you saved his mother's life."

Flora stared at him, and he took her silence as an invitation to continue.

"She was named Florian, after the old Emperor of Orlais." He waited for Flora to smile at the humour, then realised that the complex dynamics of Orlo-Fereldan politics were lost on her.

"Anyway, she was our father's favourite hunting bitch. One day there was an accident in the courtyard, a messenger's horse trampled Florian and broke her back with its hooves. Snapped her spine clean in two. They went to fetch the teyrn, and when they came back – you were hunched over the dying dog, stroking it with your little hands."

Finian's voice became vague, lost in the memories of an autumnal morning fifteen years past.

"Our father went to pick you up, then noticed that your palms were radiating light. Florian got up without a whine, and ran straight across the courtyard in pursuit of a stableboy. She went on to have several litters of pups, and served my father loyally for many years."

_Until Howe's betrayal,_ he wanted to say, but didn't.

Flora stared at the Mabari, who gazed back at her with soulful, liquid-dark eyes. There was a lump in her throat that felt almost solid, as though she had swallowed an ambitiously large mouthful of food and it had become wedged partway down her gullet.

"It was a huge shock. There'd never been a hint of magic in either mother or father's ancestry. They argued a lot about it, and then arranged for you to be sent away."

Flora had heard enough. Leaving her brother gawping like a fish, she scrambled between the canvas flaps and back out into the wind. Unsure whether the dampness on her cheeks was from the drizzle or from her own sudden melancholy; she clambered back into the adjacent tent. A snoring Alistair was still fast asleep, flat on his back with his mouth slightly open. She looked at him, his olive-skinned features still and even, and remembered his words to her two nights prior.

_Flo, I love you._

Heedless of her damp clothing, Flora crawled on top of Alistair and huddled against his chest, gaining reassurance from the solid board of muscle. He embraced her drowsily, pushing sleep-clumsy hands beneath her shirt to settle against her bare skin.

"Alistair," she whispered, then stopped abruptly, Wynne's words ringing in her ears.

_You know, there is a real possibility that he might become king._

_Ferelden needs a leader; and Alistair is handsome, and strong, and what he lacks in wisdom he compensates for in compassion. He might not want it, but we must all respond to duty when it summons us. We all have our callings, Flora._

_As a Warden, he knows this._

And so Flora did not say anything else, but rested her head beneath his chin and let him embrace her; anticipating the moment when sleep would make everything uncomplicated between them.

The next morning they set out once again on the eastward road. Their equipment and spirits were somewhat dampened; as if sensing their disheartened state, a brilliant sun soon burned through the morning mist. During brief moments of respite from the wind, it seemed almost warm. The Bann of Calon's young squire pointed out a clump of crocuses springing forth from the grass-covered bank.

"Milder weather is coming," commented Teagan as they stopped to let the horses drink from a mossy brook. "It'll be  _Pluitanis_ and Wintersend before we know it."

"Ah, Wintersend," mused Zevran, leaning over the back of the wagon to swipe an apple. "One of my favourite holidays."

"Every holiday is your favourite holiday, retorted Wynne, pale blue eyes sparkling acerbically. "Because it's just an excuse for debauchery."

"If you can't celebrate being alive, what is the point?  _Life_  should be a celebration!" declared Zevran, to the irritation of those around him. Finian especially was looking the worse for wear, his fallen-fruit shaded velvets crumpled and stained.

"Life is a blessing granted by a benevolent Maker," intoned Leliana beside him, determined to draw Zevran's attentions away from the oblivious Alistair.

"A strange attitude, for two assassins to possess," the object of Zevran's newfound lust replied, leaning forward to pat his horse's sinewed neck. "Wasn't your whole job to kill people?"

They continued to travel east; spending most of the morning ascending a low ridge. By this time the company was in good spirits, Oghren and Bodahn sharing stories of newly discovered mutual acquaintances from Orzammar over lunch. The two dwarves had discovered that they were cousins many times removed; a fact which – given dwarven obsession with ancestry – delighted both of them as they tried to unpick the tangled skeins of their shared blood.

The caravan had almost reached the top of the ridge when one of the Redcliffe knights, acting as a forerunner, came riding back towards them with a pale and shocked face. Eamon immediately drew up his horse as Alistair approached from the rear, hand already at his pommel.

"What is it?" the Arl demanded, as retainers grouped themselves tighter around their respective liege lords. "Is it Loghain's men? Darkspawn?"

"It's – I think it's  _Blight_ , my lord," replied the knight after a moment's hesitation. The man shook his head in confusion, lost for words. "You'd better see for yourself, but I wouldn't get too close."


	81. The Blight Scar

Chapter 81: The Blight Scar

"Flora! Wait!"

Flora heard Alistair's voice rising in consternation behind her, and proceeded to ignore it. Sliding from the saddle, she began to scramble up the slope, nearly tripping over a tuft of grass. When she reached the top of the ridge, she stared out at a contrast so strong that it took her breath away.

Above, the sky: a clear and crystalline unbroken expanse of blue, the sun a pale gold eye winking a promise of spring. Below: land which must have once been arable, fertile fields that had fed many generations of Fereldans in their time. There would have been farmers residing there, farmhouses, barns built to house carefully tended herds.

Now nothing remained save for a brutal swathe cut through the land, a deadened scar of rotting, blackened organic matter. Great tumours of blight surged from the earth in swollen sacs, like vast and bloated larvae. The withered remains of cattle, whatever had not been scavenged for meat, lay scattered haphazardly over the filth. Their decaying bodies served as vessels for disgorging more blighted growths. It was impossible to imagine that anything could ever be done with the land again; even if the Blight and bodies were somehow removed, the earth itself looked sallow and dead. A foul miasma hung over the field like a mouldering winding sheet.

Flora gaped in shock, the corners of her vision beginning to blur and an encroaching darkness creeping at the edges of her mind. She felt her knees tremble beneath her, the grass turned to shifting quicksand.

Then a hot pulse of anger blasted through her mind, forcing back the tide of unconsciousness.

Teagan approached from behind; she dodged his attempt to grab her shoulder and ran down the gentle slope towards the blighted land. Her staff knocked against her back and she pulled it free; her mind simmering with rage like a pot coming to boil.

"Flora!  _Flo!"_ Alistair was yelling now, but his voice was muffled by the pulsing throb of the furious heartbeat in her ears. The other members of the company gained the top of the ridge and stared down at the tainted soil.

"Stay back, it's poison."

"Maker preserve us – is that what they leave in their wake?"

Flora reached the edge of the field, her boots sinking into the spongy organic matter of blighted growth. She almost lost her balance, inhaled in surprise and sucked in a lungful of miasmic air. Coughing, she felt the sickly-sweet rot of the taint under her tongue, then the tingling prickle of the golden mist; manifesting within her throat, her body reflexively neutralising the toxic air.

As soon as she had gained her breath, she let out a shriek of pure and unadulterated fury in the direction where she believed Gwaren and the Darkspawn horde to lie; then hurled her staff forwards in a futile gesture of rage. It flew through the air, end over end, then fell noiselessly onto the diseased soil.

" _I'll kill yooou!"_  she shrieked, plunging deeper into the miasma and snatching up her staff. She didn't know whether she was speaking to the empty air; or if she was hoping that the Archdemon had some way of hearing her, connected as they were.

"Flora, control yourself, you're a  _mage!"_ Wynne's voice drifted from somewhere behind her.

_**Calm down.** _

"Flora, please, Flo – come out of there."

Alistair's voice broke through the mist of rage like a shaft of sudden sunlight. Flora exhaled, coughing, then went to retrieve her staff. As she did, she saw something glinting, half-buried in the earth. Slinging her staff onto her back, she pulled the object free. It was a small cooking pan, much patched and mended, as though the family had been too poor to replace it. There was a large dent in the bottom of the metal, and she imagined the owner using it in some frantic last-ditch effort to defend themselves.

A lump rose in her throat; she clutched the pot to her breast. As she turned back to the others, a low, strangulated snarl sounded in her ear.

"Flora,  _behind you!"_

Flora spun around and came face to face with a Hurlock, risen from its comatose state beside a Blight tumour. It was alone and injured, limping and bearing no weapon save for tooth and claw. She flung out a hand; the barrier materialised and expanded outwards in a split second. The lone Darkspawn staggered, then crashed onto its back in the rotted soil. Flora lunged towards it, dropping her staff, wielding only the pan and the pure white heat of her fury. The Hurlock scratched at her, slid its broken teeth along her shoulder in an attempt to find purchase; she hit the side of its skull repeatedly with the pan, and felt something give beneath the dented metal.

On top of the ridge, using humour to disguise his horror at the devastation wrought by the Blight, Zevran commented lightly: "Is our mage-warden  _wrestling_  a Darkspawn? Using a cooking utensil?"

"I believe so," breathed Oghren, who as a veteran of the Deep Roads had already seen the horrors that the Blight could wreak.  _"Get it in the nose, lass!"_

Then Flora felt someone grab her arm and pull her up; she saw Alistair beside her with a sword in one hand and the other clamped over his mouth. His eyes were streaming in the miasmic air as he pleaded with her through his fingers.

"It's dead, Flo, please come out," he hissed, shoving his sword into the limp creature's gut for good measure. Slightly stunned, clutching the pan and retrieving her staff, she followed Alistair out of the reeking shroud hanging over the field.

Eamon, Teagan and the rest of the nobles had not been watching Flora's outburst; on seeing the Blight-scar, they had gaped in mesmerised horror for several minutes, then huddled into a group to confer. At the side of the field, Alistair let go of Flora's arm and coughed, bending double.

"Flora, you have to control yourself," Wynne reprimanded, handing her a water-pouch. "You're more vulnerable when your emotions are heightened; come child, you  _know_ this. It's been hammered into your head since your first day at the Circle."

Flora rinsed her mouth out, then went to Alistair. She stared up at him for a moment, tears rising to her eyes.

" _Look!"_ she breathed, a dangerous tremor in her voice; he wasn't sure whether she was about to erupt into a fit of rage or burst in tears. She could likely go either way, and it was clear she didn't quite know herself how to react.

"Look at what they've done! What would Duncan say?  _What would he say, Alistair?!_ " She flung an arm blindly behind her, gesturing to the blighted swathe cut through the land. And although it was many miles to the north, her indignant fingers also encompassed the decaying ruins of poor, lost Lothering.

Then Wynne was at her side, breathing urgently into her ear.

"Flora, the southern lords are about to look to you.  _They must not see you cry,_ hear me?"

True to the senior enchanter's words, Eamon, Teagan and the southern nobles rode slowly down the slope, keeping their horses well clear of the Blighted field. Leliana, Sten and the rest of their companions came with them; expressions ranging from stoicism to shock. Finian had his hand on Jethro's collar, the hound was gnashing its teeth and eyeing the Hurlock's corpse hungrily.

Alistair looked sideways at Flora, and it was as though an Orlesian mask had dropped over her face. She wore her usual solemn countenance, her chin raised and her grey eyes gleaming like polished silverite. Only a slight tremble of her fingers, clamped incongruously around the handle of a cooking pan, gave away her distress.

"See what the horde will do if they are allowed to rampage freely across Ferelden," she called, forcing steel into her words to keep them steady. "See the cost of Loghain's betrayal! If he had supported Cailan's troops at Ostagar, this Blight would have been over before it had even begun."

_Would it? Or would it have simply ended in five thousand more dead on the valley floor, their bodies repurposed as food for the horde?_

"We continue east," she said, ignoring the lingering questions at the back of her mind. "Finish building our army, then expel the Darkspawn from Ferelden, just as you did the Orlesians two decades ago."

"Are the Darkspawn comparable to Orlais, then?" called out the Arl of Edgehill, his voice taut with strain.

"Unfair to Darkspawn," muttered Teagan, watching Flora closely.

"They die when you stick a sword in them, just as a man would," replied Flora immediately, then forced herself to give a wan little smile, raising the cooking pan. "Or you could try one of these."

The southern nobles admired her audacity, grinning and calling out with boldness to disguise their fear.

"Set the Lady Cousland after the horde armed with the contents of your kitchen, Eamon! Forget swords, arm your men with spatulas!" called out the bearded Arl of the Western Hills, receiving much loud and bravado-filled laughter.

Seeing Flora's face fall on hearing  _Lady Cousland_ , Wynne elbowed her surreptitiously.

"Just smile and nod," she hissed, seeing Flora's mouth open to protest at the unwanted nomenclature.

"But I'm not- I don't  _want_  to be-!"

" _Smile and nod,"_ hissed senior enchanter to junior apprentice. Junior apprentice smiled and nodded obediently, face fixed in a rictus grin, feeling tears prickling once more for reasons that had nothing to do with the Darkspawn.

Then Flora felt the soft, pressure of Alistair's hand on the back of her neck; hidden by the thick, loose ropes of hair. Slowly, his calloused thumb began to rub small, reassuring circles onto the skin, just beneath her hairline.

As the company prepared to move out with increased urgency, Flora heard her brother-warden double over with coughing behind her. He had clearly inhaled some of the blighted miasma when chasing her into the poisoned field. She turned around just as he returned upright, and intercepted his cheek with a hand; drawing his face down to hers.

Pressing her lips against his, she  _inhaled_ , drawing the Blight from him. He went still as she kept her mouth there, unsure whether it was for the purpose of cure or kiss. He chose to interpret it as the latter, sliding his fingers into her hair and kissing her back fervently; not caring that there was no veil of darkness to shield them from the curious stares of others. Teagan adjusted the stirrup of his saddle with slightly more force than was necessary, lips drawing together tightly.

Finally, Alistair pulled back with a soft grunt, gazing down at Flora with warmth in his eyes.

"Enough, or you'll draw enough of the taint from me that I'll be a Warden no more," he murmured.

They set off once more, skirting the edge of the Blighted field. The horses and hounds were more skittish than usual, sensing the poison in the nearby soil. The sun continued to shine brilliantly overhead; but its promises of spring now seemed more like a mockery. There would be no harvest reaped from the fields of scorched earth that were bathed in its late afternoon glow.

"Do you think this land will ever recover?" Leliana asked Wynne, as – to everyone's relief – the road began to wend away from the blighted scar.

Wynne sighed, adjusting herself on the saddle and glancing over her shoulder at the wasteland behind them.

"I pray so, child. I assume that it  _must_  do – the first Blight lasted over two hundred years; much of mainland Tevinter fell to the Darkspawn. Yet they recovered sufficiently. Hopefully, these farmers will be able to return in time."

"If any of them survived," replied Oghren darkly, taking a long gulp from a flask strapped to his hip. "Good luck outrunnin' the horde."

"Some of them must have done," retorted Leliana, her pale blue eyes earnest. "The Maker would have seen that some honest men survived."

"Only those who made their proper Chantry confessions though, eh?" interjected Zevran, earning himself a glare from the orange-haired bard.

Alistair had been listening to the conversation from his own horse, deep in thought. Morrigan, who never forsook a chance to make some disparaging comment about the young Warden, drew alongside him.

"Goodness, 'tis an early spring miracle," she breathed sarcastically, as he shot her a sideways scowl. "There appears to be some activity in that dusty space between your ears! Quickly, summon a scribe to record this historic moment for posterity."

Alistair was too caught up in his own musings to respond to the witch's insult.

"The people who lived here – if anyone has survived – they need to be compensated," he muttered, almost to himself. "They should be given land and… and gold. Enough to rebuild their lives."

Wynne, who was riding alongside him, gave a small and private smile.

"Will that be your first ordinance as King?" she asked softly, and Alistair startled, as though waking from a dream.

"What? No! No. I just mean, it's something that should be done. By… someone."

"Hm," replied Wynne, raising her eyebrows. "Indeed".

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I know once you leave Lothering in game you can't go back there, but I really wish you could – I want to go to those areas covered with the dark stain on the map and see what the land looks like in the aftermath of the Darkspawn horde. There's a lot of foreshadowing in this chapter, it was really interesting to write. Incidentally, a winding sheet is the Medieval term for what they used to wrap a corpse in before burial in the earth (because coffins were often too expensive!).
> 
> Character art of Flo at my tumblr thelionandthelight at tumblr dot com tag #floraart


	82. Mage Cage

Chapter 82: Mage Cage

Aware that they were now in territory crossed by the Darkspawn horde, the company sent out scouts to ensure that their path ahead was clear.

The pace of the caravan increased, everybody eager to put the blighted fields far behind them. The nobles were quiet, perhaps imagining their own lands corrupted and poisoned in similar fashion. Far to the south, the purplish skyline of the Southron mountains was just visible.

_Ostagar,_ thought Flora, her stomach lurching unpleasantly. From a quick glance at her brother-warden's drawn face, he had also grasped the significance of the jagged ridge.

The weary nobles insisted that they make camp in a small wood nestled at the head of a shallow valley. A narrow brook wove its way between the trees; soon, cooking pots were filled and meat retrieved from the wagons. The tents were assembled quickly, clustered in similar groupings to the previous nights.

While the Arl's servants and various retainers busied themselves with the setting up of camp; Eamon consulted with the Wardens and their companions. It was decided that a quick scout of the surrounding area should be performed. Everybody was on edge, conscious of the fact that they were in the direct wake of the Darkspawn horde. When the Bann of Calon loosed his sword with a clatter against his shield; a servant shrieked and dropped a cooking pot into the fire.

As the half-light of dusk sank over the low valley like a veil, the different groups set out. Flora and Alistair each accompanied a small patrol venturing in different directions; with the logic that they would be able to sense the Darkspawn presence well in advance. Leliana, who had insisted that a true scout worked alone, disappeared off into the trees with her trusted bow.

"Alone in the woods at twilight; the perfect opportunity for seduction," mused Zevran, deliberately trying to provoke a reaction from Alistair as they crossed a small stream and made their way up a shallow bank. As usual, the Warden did not disappoint; the colour of his cheeks flared up and he shot the elf a sour look.

"Excuse me," interjected Wynne with equal disapproval. "Do I not count as a person anymore? Why am I not counted? Is it because I'm old?"

"Ah, my dear Wynne," purred Zevran, flashing her a catlike smile. "You know that  _you're_  my true desire. I ache to see beneath those formal robes, catch a glimpse of the finely aged body beneath, fermented like Antivan wine."

Alistair groaned, wishing he could put his hands over his ears as he walked. They emerged from the trees onto an open expanse of grass; several wild hares taking fright and darting into the long grass as they approached.

"Please," he implored, as the light began to fade around them. "Behave, both of you. I think I'd rather have been with  _Sten."_

Just then, a throwing blade hurtled past him, lodging itself in the neck of an unfortunate hare. As Alistair yelped, Zevran slid past him to collect his kill.

"No tough old goat meat tonight," the elf murmured, scooping up the hare and slinging it over his shoulder.

"You almost hit me!" retorted Alistair, hazel eyes wide with indignation. Zevran grinned insouciantly, trailing his fingers lightly across a gaping Alistair's jaw as he sauntered back.

"My dear, if I'd wanted to hit you, you'd be hit," he replied, and then was cut off by the sound of a woman's shriek, echoing low across the valley. The sound was one of shock and anger, and it was not clear who it belonged to. Wynne, Zevran and Alistair glanced at one another for a split second, before turning back towards the trees.

Meanwhile, Flora, Sten and Oghren had ventured further into the woods. They followed the path upstream, eventually coming across its source: a small spring nestled between two boulders. Sten, as the tallest, leaned down and refilled their water pouches; while Flora eyed the dark crevice with suspicion. Ever since their foray into the Deep Roads, she was more wary of anything that originated underground.

Oghren was lamenting the general lack of inns and taverns on their journey thus far.

"I thought on the Surface I'd be drinkin' meself arse-over-kettle every evening and in bed wi' a lovely lassie every night," he complained, picking a shred of bark from a nearby tree. "Rather than traipsin' around bandit country with not a female dwarf in sight."

Flora gave a mild shrug, handing another water-pouch to Sten.

"It's all for a good cause," she replied, watching the Qunari lean over to submerge the pouch in the rushing torrent. "Zevran says that in Antiva, they have fountains that produce wine."

"Ha! This is a sight I need to see for myself," declared Oghren, fiddling with the corner of his moustache. "I'd like to- "

The dwarf was cut off by a shriek, female and angry. Flora and Oghren gaped at one another in surprise; Sten was the first to move, grabbing his ax from a tree and lunging towards the source of the sound.

The scream had originated in the woods and so they reached it first. Erupting into a small clearing, they came across a scene of such startling incongruity that they came to an abrupt halt.

A half-dozen men were in the clearing, dressed in a distinctive yellow and brown livery. They were heavily armed, and the stench of desperation hung over their heads as thick as the miasma over the Blighted fields. Two of them were dragging the corpse of an emaciated man between them, his fustian tunic saturated with blood around the abdomen. The other four were clustered around Leliana, her bow thrown to one side. She was kneeling on the damp leaves, struggling; but utterly unable to resist. Oghren gaped at the incapacitated bard, his jaw dropping in shock.

"What  _is that_?!"

"It's a mage cage," breathed Flora, having first-hand experience of them. "Why have they put her in one?"

Leliana's upper torso and head were confined within a silverite cage, artfully designed to encompass the body; the metal had been runed and inscribed with Templar bonding charms. It included a set of manacles, inside which Leliana's wrists were already fastened; and a horizontal metal bar designed to insert within the mouth, forcing the jaw open and preventing the speaking of incantations. The man beside the unfortunate bard was in the process of fastening a dangling leather blindfold over her eyes. The purpose of the mage cage was to deprive the prisoner of all motion and sense, theoretically preventing them from being able to cast magic.

Bann Teagan, who had been hunting in the area and had been the first to respond to the scream, called to the men from the trees.

"On what grounds are you arresting her? And on whose authority?" he demanded, as recognition dawned in his eyes. "I recognise that livery – are you Howe's men?"

" _Teyrn_ Howe to you," snarled back the group's leader, approaching the mage cage. "And not a step closer, or the Warden here will pay the price!"

He gestured to the mage cage's ultimate guarantee of control – several suspended lyrium pins, positioned strategically at the base of the spine, the back of the neck and the skull. With a single motion, the pins could be plunged into a prisoner's flesh, to either incapacitate or kill.

Leliana attempted to call out, but the metal bar between her teeth only allowed for the most basic of vocalisations.

At that moment, Alistair, Wynne and Zevran arrived at the opposite side of the clearing. They too stopped abruptly, staring in shocked silence at the scene before them. So used to the threat of the Darkspawn, many of them had forgotten the danger that could be posed by desperate men.

"Not a single movement," warned the man with his hand on the pins, a cloying smile on his face as he caressed the back of a grimacing Leliana's neck. "Or this goes straight into her spine and she never walks or talks again."

Flora cleared her throat then raised her hand tentatively, by inches. "She's not a Warden."

The man looked at her, nonplussed.

"What? She's the redheaded female, are you blind?"

Flora picked up the end of her untidy braid, and waved it at them,  _greetings._ The man gaped, turning angrily on his subordinates with lips drawn back in a snarl.

"You fucking idiots! You got the wrong redhead!"

Everyone froze for a moment, the silence broken by Zevran's slow clapping.

"A spectacular display of idiocy," he commented, face leisurely but eyes keen as a hawk. "Congratulations."

Howe's man stared at Flora, then gripped at the pin's controls. Leliana gave a little gasp of pain, the sound muffled by the metal bar.

"Alright – Warden – you'd better come with us. Or this goes further into your friend's neck. Drop the weapon."

Flora, ignoring Oghren's frantic hiss, let go of her staff and stepped forward into the clearing. The desperate men watched her like snakes eyeing a field mouse, albeit a potentially rather  _dangerous_ field mouse. She kept her gaze on them, aware that Alistair was mouthing frantically at her from the trees,  _no._

"And no funny business," snarled the man with his hands on Leliana's cage. "Or I hurt your friend even more."

"No fireballs, I promise," replied Flora warily, holding out her palms in a show of submission. "Why am I being arrested?"

"You're going to Aeonar," the man snarled, a blade at the ready as Leliana's bindings were loosened. Flora's jaw dropped; she had heard of the infamous mage prison. It was an idle threat made by the Templars to misbehaving young mages at the Tower:  _stop, or I'll have you sent to Aeonar._

"You can't just arrest me for no reason- " she started. Suddenly, the retainer's fist came out of nowhere and punched her full-force in the jaw.

It was the first time Flora had been properly  _hit_ by another human; her vision fractured into colourful stars and shards, then narrowed to a pinprick. She fell backwards and landed hard on her rear in the dirt, a hand rising to her surprised face. In the background she could vaguely hear Alistair bellowing and Wynne trying to restrain him; but the sounds were muffled, as though she was submerged in several feet of seawater. After a few seconds, she realised that the man was gripping her shoulders and yelling into her face; roaring in a way that no one had ever done before.

"You mage bitch, don't you understand ?!  _You have no rights! Now get in the cage_ or we sever her spine."

His saliva speckled her face, she gaped at him in shock as her jaw began to swell. She could taste the metallic tang of blood under her tongue, and wondered vaguely if he had broken any of her teeth. Still stunned at his vitriol, dimly aware of several blades being held at a grimacing Leliana's throat and gut, Flora allowed herself to be manhandled into the newly vacated mage cage. Someone grabbed her arms and wrenched them behind her back, clamping the manacles around her wrists.

"Open your mouth," she heard someone say, and when she did not obey immediately, fingers grabbed at her jaw and wrenched it open. There was blood filling her mouth, and she realised that she must have bitten through her lip. She felt as though the root of her brain had been pulled free and her thoughts were loose and disassociated fragments, slippery as fish.

_How has it all gone so wrong so quickly?_

The rest of the companions were still frozen at the edge of the clearing, like figures in some grotesque tableau. Alistair made a sudden motion as if to rush forward; Zevran clasped his elbow.

"Hold," hissed the man, his second nudging the serrated blade against Leliana's stomach. "I suggest none of you move, 'less you want her guts spilled over the leaves."

Then Flora felt the metal bar slide over her tongue, forcing her jaw down. The runed silverite made her mouth go numb, as though she had sunk her teeth into ice. She felt them tightening the cage, her arms pulled behind her back; one bar clamping across her chest and the other across her abdomen. At the base of her spine and at the back of her neck, she felt the dull prick of the pins. Wherever the inscribed metal came into contact with her body, she felt the skin prickle and burn. Finally, the leather blindfold was bound around her eyes.

"How shall we take her?" she heard a strong eastern accent enquire "I ain't carrying that back to the hold."

"Drag her by the legs," came the callous reply. The next moment, a boot struck the side of the cage and Flora, still encased within the metal structure, toppled sideways. She lay there, stunned, feeling damp earth pressed against her cheek.

_Can I summon the barrier? Should I try? This isn't a pair of iron handcuffs you can snap open, like in Orzammar. This is runed silverite, a proper Templar mage cage. Your hands are restrained, your mouth stopped and your eyes bound._

_**But your mind is still free.** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: This is the first time in my story that Leliana has been caught unawares and come off worse in a fight, she's kicked arse for about fifty chapters, so it's about time lol. Thank you very much to everyone who's read, and everyone who has left a review! I love writing the dynamic between Finian and Florence – Finian seems to have made a big impression! I do feel increasingly sorry for him – he's always been the second son, viewed as more 'lightweight' than heir to the teyrnir Fergus. A bit like the younger Henry Tudor was to older brother Arthur, really, never expecting to take any serious role or responsibility. He had spent half a decade having fun in Orlais, when he gets a letter that changes his entire life – older brother missing, presumed dead, parents murdered and family seat usurped by some traitorous wanker.
> 
> thelionandthelight at tumblr dot com


	83. Cailan's Incriminating Letters

Chapter 83: Cailan's Incriminating Letters

"Now, we'll be leaving," said the man who had ordered Flora to be dragged. "Follow us, and your mage will get a lyrium spike in her skull."

Just then, there came a deep and throaty growl from the bushes. The Mabari hound Jethro lunged forward with a bark, only to be restrained at the collar by a confused Finian. He held a brace of rabbits in one hand and a bow in the other; bearing a frown upon his refined features.

"What's going on here?" he asked, staring at a horrified Teagan. "Why is your sword out?"

Leliana took full advantage of the momentary distraction. Driving her elbow into her captor's stomach hard enough to force the air from his lungs, she whipped around and relieved him of his serrated blade. The next moment, the bard had pressed it against his throat, digging in the vicious edge.

"You think to best  _me?!"_  the bard snarled, drawing a faint scarlet line across the man's quivering throat. "The Maker guides my blade!"

The leader of Howe's men made a rough gesture over his shoulder, his eyes dark with sudden panic.

"Stick the pins in!"

" _I can't!"_

"Why-?!" Howe's man spun around, then his words trailed off and his jaw dropped. Flora was clambering awkwardly to her feet, mouth bloodied and the blindfold still wrapped around her eyes. The silverite cage lay mangled on the grass at her feet, the metal itself warped beyond recognition. A golden skin pulsed around her for a moment, then rapidly contracted; retreating back into her body with a soft effervescent hum.

"Oh, shit!"

"Leliana, to Flora!  _Flora!"_ bellowed Wynne, raising her staff; and there was an implicit instruction in her tone that the junior apprentice recognised.

Flora blindly held out her hand, Leliana flung herself towards it. As soon as Flora felt the bard's fingers grasp her own, she gave a tug and pulled. The moment that Leliana's body collided against hers, Flora brought up a gleaming sheath around them both.

Seconds later, a cyclone of flame engulfed the clearing; setting the overhead branches aflame and scorching the earth beneath their feet. It was so hot that those on the edge of the clearing cringed backwards, sudden raw heat blasting the skin of their faces. Howe's six men died near-instantly, charred to the bone by the arcane flame.

As quickly as it had manifested, the fire vaporised. The branches smouldered overhead, the dried leaves reduced to their fragile skeletons. Wynne lowered her staff, slightly red in the face from the heat and expenditure of energy. Zevran let out a low whistle, shooting her an impressed glance.

"Remind me never to get on  _your_  bad side."

Flora, still blindfolded, sensed that the inferno had passed. Protected within a golden shell, she and Leliana had felt only a faint rush of heat. Exhaling, she released Leliana's sweaty fingers and dropped the barrier. The next moment, she felt the blindfold being lifted from her face; then her grateful companion kissed her on both cheeks in the Orlesian manner.

" _Merci, merci,"_ enthused the bard. Flora smiled rather dazedly, weak-kneed with relief.

Then Leliana, with a little smile, drew to one side to make way for Alistair. Brother-warden gripped sister-warden hard by the elbows; she could feel his fingers shaking as they dug into her skin. His face was greyish-white in an unnatural pallor that she hadn't seen since the dark days after Ostagar.

"I'thine," Flora tried to reassure him through her swollen and split lip. Her jaw felt oddly limp, as though the knight's fist had knocked something loose. Alistair groaned with mingled despair and relief, lifting her chin gently. When she flinched away from him, he let out a hiss.

"Oh,  _Flo,_ " he breathed, and there were unspoken volumes in the single word. She stared up at him and gave a little helpless shrug; it was as good as a conversation.

_How could I have forgotten how much mages were hated?_

Meanwhile, Sten had stalked off into the woodland to see if there were any more of Howe's men lurking in the shadowed trees. Wynne and Oghren had gone over to inspect the mangled silverite cage. The manacles had been split in half, the bars themselves bent outwards as if hit by some massive force.

"Impressive," murmured Wynne, running her finger over the binding runes to confirm that they had been active. "Her repertoire might be limited to two things; but she does those two things  _very_  well."

"Eh, I'm more interested in your flamethrowin' trick," retorted Oghren, leering at the older woman. "Very impressive.  _Flashy._  I like that!"

Flora reached up to touch her split lip tentatively, her fingers and mouth still bloodied. Alistair, for whom moments of pure rage were few and far between, felt a pulse of white-hot hatred towards the man who had stuck her. If there had been anything remaining of the assailant other than a charred skeleton; he would have driven his sword into it.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asked softy, and she shook her head.

"Nnn-uht  _mouf_."

Her words were mangled by the swollen lip and chin; she reached up with a little irritated grunt. Groping her jaw and mouth, she repaired the split lip and cracked bone with several strokes of her fingers. Alistair watched her anxiously, his eyes searching her face; so reluctant to draw away that he was almost treading on her toes.

Teagan approached the corpse of the unfortunate individual that Howe's men had dragged into the clearing. From its supine position on the earth, it had escaped mutilation from the flames; the corners of the gold and scarlet tunic only slightly charred.

"I know this livery," the Bann murmured, turning the man's body over to reveal a hollow, sunken visage. "These are House Theirin's colours."

Alistair looked over reflexively, then inwardly cursed himself for reacting. Returning his gaze to Flora, he brushed his hand over the top of her head affectionately.

Zevran had been shooting Leliana barbed little dart-like looks, and the bard finally tired of it.

"I overheard some interesting information before they caught me," she retorted defiantly, with a toss of her short, braided hair. " _Very_ interesting, and valuable to our cause."

"No information is worth getting yourself in that situation," the elf retorted, rolling his rich, cocoa-dark eyes at her. "Some gambles don't amount to the risk."

Alistair, Wynne and Flora converged on Teagan and the slumped body. Flora looked down at the man's gaunt face and a chime of recognition rung in her mind, simple and pure as a bell. She knelt down on the charred grass and carefully peeled back the bottom of his stained crimson and gold tunic. Across the man's hip was a ragged white scar; running horizontally across his sunken abdomen.

"I know who this is," Flora whispered, drawing up the specific memory from the murky pre-Ostagar depths of her mind. When she looked up, she not saw not the blackened woods, but the damp, sallow undergrowth of the Korcari Wilds. The memory was so potent that she could almost taste the acrid humidity under her tongue.

_Cailan shifting from foot to foot impatiently, his burnished golden armour standing out like a struck match against the gloomy swamp. Slain Darkspawn surrounded the patrol; their swords were black and stinking with coagulated blood. Flora, rolling up the sleeves of her ill-fitting striped uniform, crouched over a groaning man clad in the attire of the Kingsguard. A Hurlock had attempted to disembowel him, before being brutally bisected by Duncan from behind._

" _Hold, Your Majesty," the Warden-Commander said, with a sharp edge of warning. "This man can be saved if you give my healer a moment."_

" _But they're getting away!" replied the King, and there was a petulance to his tone as he jabbed a finger after the fleeing Darkspawn. Duncan signed under his breath, dropping a hand onto Flora's shoulder as she exhaled over the wounded man's torso._

" _Try and be quick, young sister."_

_As commanded, Flora did a quick and ugly repair job on the man's wound; sealing the skin with little thought for appearance. The corners of Duncan's mouth twitched slightly as he saw her disgruntled expression, and his fingers pressed her shoulder in a gentle squeeze._

" _The man's life is saved; he will not mind the scar. Come, child, before our king gets himself into any more trouble."_

Flora ended the recollection abruptly before she dwelt too much on her Warden-Commander; nodding slowly as she fingered the corpse's stained tunic.

"He was a member of the King's personal guard," she said, feeling a twinge of sadness as she gazed at her own rushed, ultimately futile attempt to save the man's life. "He came on those scouting patrols I used to go on with the King."

_Cailan viewed them more as hunts; he rode out to kill, not to observe movements._

Later, gathered around the campfire with Arl Eamon, Leliana recanted the information that she had heard the men discussing from the trees. Even Morrigan, fascinated by this new turn of events, had ventured from her hide. They listened silently as the bard explained how Cailan's guard had been a prisoner of Howe's men for months, captured after fleeing the carnage at Ostagar. Both Wardens flinched simultaneously, as though the word carried a physical weight.

"Howe's men were discussing some documents that their prisoner had told them about. Cailan's letters. They may have had some incriminating content in them."

" _Incriminating?!"_ interrupted Alistair, shaking his head in disbelief. "What do you mean?"

Leliana shook her head, holding her hands before the fire to warm them. An owl gave a long, lonely hoot somewhere in the canopy of the trees above.

"I don't know. From what I gathered, they tortured this man and all he could say was that the King had locked them away tight in his tent. That Cailan had wanted them to remain private at all costs."

"Whatever the content of these documents, Howe clearly wants to get his hands on them," mused Wynne thoughtfully, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders.

"And by extension, Loghain," added Eamon, his face sombre. "If he obtains them, he may be able to use them at the Landsmeet."

" _A sword may kill ten men, but a piece of paper can kill ten thousand, if used correctly_ ," said Finian suddenly, then blushed as all eyes moved towards him. "Feyren Chernal, an Exalted Age philosopher. I studied him at university."

"Clearly," said Wynne eventually, a shadow falling over her face as the firelight shifted. "We need to find these incriminating papers before our enemy. In the wrong hands, they could prove fatal to our cause."

There was a long and heavy silence, broken only by the splitting of logs in the fire. Sparks flew joyfully towards the skies, each one blazing for a brief moment before being swept sideways by the breeze.

"Ostagar is only a day's ride south," murmured Eamon, Ferelden's geography indelibly inked in his mind. "From there, the southern reaches of the Brecilian Forests are easily accessible. A diversion is theoretically possible."

The Arl looked up, and his grey-green eyes met Flora's own through the darkness. The firelight gave her cheeks artificial colour; but he could tell that she was pale, her expression still and solemn as a carved statue. Meanwhile Alistair stood in a sudden, violent recoil, physically distancing himself from the suggestion. A muscle twitched in his distinctive Theirin jaw as he shook his head.

"No," he said vehemently, his voice holding outrage and pain in equal measures. "I won't go back there. Three hundred Wardens died there.  _Duncan_ died there. For  _nothing!"_

He threw down his empty plate and stalked off into the shadowed trees like a young lion; the Arl sighed heavily, returning his gaze to Flora's. In an instant, he knew that she- with the simple rationale of a girl raised on practicality – had grasped the significance of the situation.

"Would you speak to him?"

Flora looked at the Arl and thought for a long moment, leaning forward to feel the heat of the fire on her face.

_The smouldering braziers at Ostagar. Torches lining the route on the way to the Joining._

_Daveth, Jory. I'd almost forgotten; I'm sorry. So much has happened._

"I'll talk to him," she said eventually, propelling herself up using Oghren's shoulder as her knee gave a twinge of pain. "But I won't tell him what to do. He has to make his own decision."

Flora caught up to her brother-warden in the trees at the edge of the camp. He was leaning against the trunk of a vast oak, his fist pressed into the bark and his face against the back of his hand; lips drawn back in a half-snarl. Flora could feel the waves of anger and visceral grief radiating from him. He knew that she was there, had felt the corner of his brain give a little tug as she approached, but did not turn to look at her.

"Alistair," Flora said, very quietly. "You don't have to go to Ostagar."

He stiffened, caught by surprise, then turned around and stared at her. His eyes were shadowed, his handsome face made gaunt and old by sadness.

"What? I thought you'd come here to relay the Arl's instruction," he said, and there was a bitterness to his tone. Flora shook her head, sadly.

"No instructions, Alistair," she replied, reaching up to smooth the rumpled hair on top of his head. "I'm just telling you what I plan to do."

"What…  _you're_  doing?"

"Yes. You don't need to come with me. I'll go to Ostagar, you go to the forest. We'll meet up there."

Alistair still did not understand, his eyes searching hers as though an answer could be found there.

"But why? Why would you want to go back there, Flo? It's where the Wardens were murdered. Where… where Duncan  _died."_

"I don't want to go back there, but it needs to be done," Flora replied, staring back up at him in earnest. "My dad says there's no point in putting off an unpleasant task; it'll linger like a bad smell until it's dealt with."

She gave a slightly self-conscious shrug. "He was actually talking about disposing of fish entrails, but… it's the same principle. There's a job that needs to be done; I can do it, so I will."

Alistair heaved a sigh from the bottom of his boots.

"Coming with you," he said, nearly stumbling over the words in his reluctance to say them. "It's the right thing to do, isn't it?"

Flora did not reply, directing her stare somewhere above his tufted gold hair. Alistair gave a tired sigh, putting a hand to his head and slumping.

"I know. I know it is. I'll come. I'll not let you go back alone. We stay together, whatever happens."

He looked down at her, and she saw that his hazel eyes were bruised, like fallen fruits. For a moment, she fancied that she could see straight through the hollow points of his pupils into the skull, seeing the dark and indelible stain that Ostagar had left on his mind.

Up until that point Flora had not said it because she did not want to influence him or subvert his decision in any way; but when she saw a gleam in the corner of his eye, compassion overcame her reason. She reached out and brushed her thumb beneath his eyelashes, very gently, catching the tear before it fell. He gave her a wan smile, leaves rustling under his feet as he stepped away from the tree.

"I suppose we'd better get back. I know the road south from here, as long as the Darkspawn haven't taken it, it's a sound path."

He walked several paces away from her, heading back towards the blaze of the campfire through the trees.

"Alistair?" Flora said suddenly to the back of his head. Her voice was measured, as though she had weighed the words in her mind, turned them over and tested their soundness, then found them to be true. "I love you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I know in-game, the start of the Return to Ostagar DLC takes place in Bann Loren's lands, but story-wise, that's located right at the top of Lake Calenhad. I couldn't see a way to make it fit in terms of geography, so this is how I've interpreted it! At least Flora has said I love you back to Alistair, finally, only eight chapters later lol. One of my favourite bits of this chapter was writing the flashback with Duncan and Cailan – I definitely have to come up with a way to incorporate more reminiscing.


	84. Return to Ostagar

Chapter 84: Return to Ostagar

Alistair stopped abruptly, as though his ankle had been clamped in some sort of trap. He stared at the bright flames of the campfire ahead; the silhouettes of their companions stark against the burning backdrop. His eyes blurred and Zevran's laughing outline merged with Oghren's. The once-Templar blinked hard, turning around as if in a dream; and when his vision returned it was in a narrow scope. Wynne's voice, the rest of the woods, even the world itself, had all faded away to irrelevance. All that Alistair saw was the dozen paces of earth that lay between himself and his sister-warden.

Flora didn't look her best; she was tired, her skin pallid, and her clothing was travel-stained and grubby. Her breeches were rolled awkwardly up around one leg, linen bound tightly around her bad knee. She had restrained her hair on top of her head in a rather strange and lopsided knot, trailing loose strands like the fronds of a plant. Yet to Alistair, she was the most beautiful creature in Thedas.

He stepped forward, closing the space between them in just a few seconds. Taking her face between calloused palms, he pressed his mouth to hers, pushing her back against the bark of the great oak. Vaguely aware that their companions were only yards away, close enough that they could hear Leliana's voice rising in consternation at Zevran, he did not attempt anything more intimate; simply kissed her until he had stolen the breath from her lungs and left her gasping for air, like a fish plucked from the sea.

"Do you really?  _Love_ me?" he asked as they walked back towards the campfire. Flora nodded solemnly, linking her arm through his to take some of the pressure from her knee.

"Yes, I think so," she replied, thoughtfully.

"I can't believe it," he said, wondering at how now even the thought of returning to Ostagar did not weigh quite so heavily on his mind. "I mean- I  _hoped_  you did, but I didn't know for certain. I'm going to ask you every day just so I know I didn't imagine this."

Flora snorted as they emerged back into the clearing, their companions looking up expectantly from the campfire. Eamon rose to his feet, his grey-green eyes searching their faces. Alistair cleared his throat, feeling Flora's arm tucked through his own, solid and warm.

_If a fisherman's daughter can give speeches like a general; so can a stable boy issue orders like a prince._

"Eamon, you and the nobles head to Denerim; Flora and I will go to Ostagar – with anyone else who wishes to accompany us," he added, seeing Finian's earnest face and pointedly raised eyebrows. "Then we'll go to see the elves. Once we've secured their support, we'll meet you in the city."

It was the first time that Alistair had spoken to the Arl as though he were the man's equal rather than merely his humble ward; and Eamon was gratified to hear it. His tone was strong and unwavering, a thread of steely authority running through the words. Only those sitting nearby – Wynne and Leliana – saw the quick darting of hazel eyes over to Flora; her brief, reassuring smile of response.

"An excellent plan," Wynne declared, slamming the book in her lap shut. "And now, I think, to bed."

As they retired towards the tents, Zevran glanced over at Oghren, raising his eyebrows.

"So how  _do_ you think she managed to persuade our bastard prince to adopt the  _complete opposite_  stance in the span of mere minutes?"

Oghren leered, making a crude gesture involving his fist and a mouth. Zevran gave a wicked little chuckle, brushing slender fingers through the damp foliage of a nearby mulberry bush, as if he were caressing a woman's silken hair.

"As much as I would love for that to be true," he mused, plucking a leaf and rubbing it between finger and thumb to smell the scent. "The Chantry boy was  _far_  too composed when he returned to us."

Later, Oghren- excited at the prospect of witnessing more of Flora's 'persuasion' - feigned drunkenness and crashed into the Wardens' tent; pretending to pass out at the foot of their bedrolls. To his great disappointment both an exhausted Alistair and Flora were sprawled chastely side by side, fingers alone entwined, snoring in unison. All that the dwarf earned for his nosiness was a restless night and a sore stomach, kicked repeatedly by a terrified, half-asleep Flora when she woke just before dawn.

"Sorry," she mumbled drowsily, rubbing her eyes and squinting at him in confusion. "I thought you were a bear come to steal my sandwiches."

" _Nothing_ the whole night!" complained Oghren bitterly to Zevran later that morning, as the supplies were being split for the three separate parties. "Just lyin' side by side like a pair of Chantry mice. Then again, he ain't had her yet."

"Whaaaat?!"

"Heard it from the man himself."

The Wardens and their chosen companions took the fastest horses and the bare minimum. Leliana, Morrigan and Oghren would take the rest of their supplies and meet them at the southern entrance to the Brecilian Forest. Wynne, Sten, Zevran and Finian would accompany the Wardens to Ostagar. Alistair had tactfully warned the older woman that they would be riding  _fast and hard_ ; at which Zevran let out a delighted squeal. Alistair had shot him a baleful stare, willing himself not to blush.

Wynne turned her pale blue eyes on the uncomfortable Warden, mounting her horse with far more grace than Flora had just done.

"Young man," the senior enchanter retorted, scathingly. "I am no stranger to riding fast and hard."

There was a sudden thud from behind them; Flora had crashed off the saddle in shock. Alistair gaped, only his excellent horsemanship preventing him from doing the same.

"I… see," he breathed, clutching the reins hard enough to force the blood from his fingers. Beside him, Zevran's squeal had extended into a manic cackle of glee.

True to Alistair's word, the southern road to Ostagar was sound. It had escaped the Darkspawn taint- the horde tended to swarm over the landscape like locusts rather than follow the roadways – and they were able to push the horses to their fastest gallop. They were the best from Eamon's stables – many were birthed from the mares that Alistair had taken care of as a child – and they savoured the opportunity to show off their true speed. Finian's horse, purchased with Cousland coin, had the best pedigree of all.

The violet Southron mountains reared up before them, lower and less forbidding than their Frostback cousins. These mountains had been inhabited for over a millennium, by the Tevinter Imperium, scattered Dalish tribes and the occasional determined farmer; eking out a living from the gorse and scrubland. The temperature dropped with every mile travelled, patches of lingering snow nestling at the side of the road.

The Antivan elf spent the majority of the day brooding over Oghren's revelation that Alistair and Flora had not yet consummated their relationship. When they had made a brief pause for lunch alongside a crumbled stone hut; Zevran sidled over to Alistair with carefully arranged features.

"So, my dear Alistair, a little bird tells me that you have not actually engaged in  _amorous congress_ with your lovely sister-warden yet."

Zevran flicked a finger towards Flora, who was throwing sticks for Jethro to fetch.

"Don't  _eat_  it!" she said indignantly. "You're supposed to bring it back to me. Why doesn't your dog know how to  _dog?"_

This was directed at Finian, who gave a helpless shrug. Alistair let out a small groan, tossing the core of his apple into a nearby bush.

"A little bird? Let me guess – Morrigan" then, when Zevran shook his head, "Oghren? I knew he couldn't keep his mouth shut." Alistair hoped that he wasn't flushing too heavily.

Zevran assumed an expression of caring concern, placing slender fingers on the Warden's elbow.

"I have many concoctions, potions and pills from Antiva, all designed for a different purpose in the bedroom. Some will increase your confidence and make you feel like the boldest man in Thedas. Others will give you stamina, enough to last until dawn."

"I have  _plenty_  of stamina, thank you," snapped back Alistair, inwardly thanking the Maker that Flora was preoccupied trying to extract the end of her staff from Jethro's jaws.

"Yes, the infamous Grey Warden stamina." Wynne inserted herself into the conversation, after blatantly eavesdropping on the previous exchange.

"Useful on battlefield and in bedchamber," murmured Zevran; and for the first time the squirming Alistair was grateful to see an unamused Sten approaching.

"We are squandering time; let us move on," stated the dispassionate Qunari. Alistair had never mounted the saddle so quickly.

"Let's go!" he called down to Flora, who was gloomily inspecting the Mabari tooth marks on the end of her staff.

They rode their horses to exhaustion, the miles melting away beneath their hooves. The road meandered its way through low, rolling foothills; the surrounding landscape bleak and uncultivated. The temperature continued to drop while ominous grey clouds gathered in the sky overhead. The patches of snow became wider; until eventually a thin layer of white covered the rough scrubland. Fortunately the path was not icy and they were able to continue at their breakneck pace.

Midway through the afternoon Alistair drew the horse to a sudden stop, his face very still. The others let their horses pause, waiting for him to speak. He didn't say a word; but the grim expression on his face was eloquent enough. Flora followed the direction of his stare and felt a hard knot of dread rising in her throat.

Silhouetted in the distance between two sharply sloping violet peaks, a shadowed tower stood out like a finger pointed skywards. A narrow bridge spanned the valley; an architectural marvel which could only be of Tevinter origin.

_Ostagar._

At once she was transported back six months prior; hunched behind Duncan and wrapped in First Enchanter Irving's own travel cloak, hungry and exhausted. Alistair had been riding alongside them, grinning at her expression.

" _Impressive, eh?"_

" _It's even taller than the Circle Tower."_

" _It was built by the Tevinter Imperium centuries ago. Wait, have you heard of them?"_

" _No."_

She had learnt, later, who the Tevinter were and why their vast, crumbling marble structures stretched across Thedas like the bones of some ancient creature.

Now, in the present moment, it was eerie how unchanged Ostagar appeared to be; albeit from several miles away.

"Ishal is still standing, then," said Alistair eventually, gesturing towards the tower's dark, elongated outline. Flora nodded, the sadness sour beneath her tongue. She reached out for Alistair's hand in the space between them, clasping it tightly in an imitation of their nightly fish rope ritual.

"I trained several Circle mages who journeyed here," Wynne mused to herself, shielding her eyes from the glare of a low afternoon sun. "I am glad to have seen where they fought."

"This is where Fergus went," said Finian very quietly, his horse shifting impatiently beneath him. "With two hundred Cousland retainers."

Flora looked across at the young man, his face an uncanny reflection of her own.

"Fergus… the oldest brother?" she asked tentatively, while Sten gave a hiss of impatience at the delay. Finian nodded, spending an inordinately long time adjusting the strap of his stirrup to avoid looking up.

"Perhaps it would be kinder if he did die here," the Cousland said, gaze still averted from the silhouetted fortress. "His wife and child were murdered by Howe's men."

Flora stared at him, her eyes wide and mournful, clearly unsure how to react. Alistair gave her fingers a small squeeze and she returned the pressure, her face still melancholy.

"If he does live," Wynne said, in a measured and careful tone. "It may be of some comfort to know that his little sister has returned."

The little sister herself swallowed the lump in her throat, thinking on all the journeys that had ended in the fortified valley ahead; Cailan from Denerim, the mages from the Circle Tower, the Wardens from all over Ferelden. She envisioned their travels as inked lines on a map, converging on the dark blot of Ostagar and ending there.

_Except for Alistair and I; our line continues._

"Alright," Flora said eventually, hearing a low rumble of impatience in the Qunari's throat. "Let's see if we can reach Ostagar by dark."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: The first line of this chapter was inspired by the fact that in my game, Alistair ALWAYS seems to be the one who gets blown up in traps! He seems to make a beeline for them! Anyway, I couldn't resist a little diversion on the way to the Brecilian Forest, and it's about time for some actual in-game content again (say halloooo twenty chapters of FILLER, oops). Although it was such a grim DLC, I actually felt bad putting poor Alistair and Flora through it, lol. POOR DUNC! Also, f-ing ha ha at the conversation I heard between Zevran and Alistair in game! Where basically Zevran suggested that Alistair was a MINUTE MAN. I altered it slightly to reflect the fact that Alistair and Flora are both still virgins at this point. Not for much longer, though...


	85. The Duc and the Golden Dishes

Chapter 85: The Duc and the Golden Dishes

Ostagar's stark silhouette swelled before them on the horizon as they approached; the high decrepit walls were no less forbidding for their ultimate failure to defy the Darkspawn horde. The forested slopes below were covered in a thin veil of snow, the encroaching dusk preventing them from gaining a view of the valley floor. The ancient fortress itself seemed to have a visceral sentience; the crumbled gaps in the stonework staring down like accusatory eyes.

_My walls held all manner of enemies at bay for a thousand years; then by one man's folly, I was taken._

The sun dipped below the horizon, though no amber glow seemed to touch Ostagar, shrouded in shadows. Their horses stopped on the snow-covered plains that led to the main gate; these rolling grassy slopes had once been the main training grounds for the forces housed in the fortress above. Wardens, mages and soldiers had sparred and drilled for hours every day in preparation for the Darkspawn assault. Alistair glanced over at Flora to see that she was doing the same thing as he; reaching out tentatively with her mind to see if she could feel the presence of Darkspawn.

"There's a few," he ventured, and she gave a little nod of agreement, patting the neck of her horse. "But the main forces have moved out."

"They're west of Gwaren," Flora said, suddenly recalling the dream that she'd had several nights previously. "Miles away. Sorry, I forgot to mention it."

Alistair eyed her as his own horse shifted uncomfortably, perhaps able to detect their undercurrent of mutual anxiety.

"You didn't wake me?"

"I didn't need to, I was fine," she said honestly, realising that she had almost become accustomed to the Archdemon's vast horned head and malevolent golden stare. It still made the blood run cold in her veins; but she no longer was reduced to a quivering mass of inaction in its presence.

"I suggest we wait until tomorrow morning to search the fortress for Cailan's property," suggested Wynne, sliding expertly from the saddle. "If there are Darkspawn inside, we should be well-rested before we take them on."

For expediency's sake they had packed only the bare essentials; two tents and rudimentary cooking equipment. Finian, as befitting a young noble, had plenty of experience in hunting. He took a bow and Jethro into the nearby trees, determined to prove his worth by obtaining dinner. Wynne was weary from the fast, unrelenting pace of their journey, although she was far too proud to admit it. She busied herself with her pack, shuffling parchment and making a show of searching for a quill.

While Alistair settled the horses and made sure that they were well-secured and fed, Zevran helped Flora to construct the two tents. Sten had at first suggested that he would hunt for food; then at their incredulous looks, blankly stated that he would obtain wood for a fire instead.

"I'd pay much coin to see that Qunari crashing through the trees, commanding the rabbits to stand still and accept their fate," Zevran breathed, holding the second tent frame in place while Flora threw the canvas over it. "Can you imagine him hunting? Or fishing quietly on a riverbank?"

Flora, disappearing beneath the mass of canvas to fasten it to the pole, let out a muffled cackle.

"He'd whip the water with his rod and then punch the fish," she said, emerging from the canvas and dropping to her knees. " _Accept the Qun and die with honour, you scaly heathen!_ "

She pretended to assault an imaginary fish with a tent peg for a moment, face contorted like a gargoyle. Zevran cackled, pulling the canvas taut on the opposite side as she began to drive the pegs into the snow-dusted earth; using the heel of her hand to drive them into the soil.

When they had finished, the elf came around to Flora's side to help her to her feet, considerate of her travel-wearied knee. She thanked him; the joint had been throbbing dully for several hours.

"It is no problem, my Rialto lily," he replied smoothly, pressing a fleeting kiss to the back of her hand before releasing it. "I am ready and willing to assist with any of your needs.  _Any_ of them," he said significantly, raising his eyebrows.

Flora, still unused to being on the receiving end of such blatant advances, eyed him with mild suspicion. Zevran snorted, slinging his arm over her shoulders companionably.

"Ah, even the best players know when to fold. I see your heart is elsewhere."

They both looked over to where Alistair was still with the horses. Aware that they were unsettled by their surroundings; he had remained at their side, talking to them in soft and calming tones, rubbing their velvet noses expertly with his calloused fingers. Soothed by his presence, they were soon nudging each other out of the way in order to receive his attentions.

"He's very good with them," Zevran admitted, admiring the muscles moving beneath Alistair's thin linen undershirt. "He's a gentle soul, for one trained to be a tool of brute force for the Chantry."

"Alistair worked in Arl Eamon's stables," Flora replied, deliberately averting her eyes from Ostagar's crumbling walls. "They've always liked him."

She remembered Alistair helping her to clamber onto a horse for the first time on the shore of Lake Calenhad; when she had left the Circle with Duncan.

_How long ago? I was never good with dates and months. Herring folk keep time through longer measures. Spawning season; harvest season; rain season; storm season._

"I was raised in a brothel, among many beautiful women and men," replied Zevran, curling his fingers against her shirt sleeve. "So, if I learnt pleasure in a whorehouse and Alistair gentleness in a stable, what did you gain from your childhood in Mackerel?"

"Herring," replied Flora, automatically. "And… how to fish."

Zevran scowled at her deliberately vague answer, but was diverted by a triumphant Finian emerging from the woods with a brace of rabbits.

"Would you mind if I demonstrated some of my whorehouse tricks for your brother later?" he leered, hastily retracting his arm from Flora's shoulders and distancing himself from her. She shrugged, indifferent.

"You can try, but I'm not sure if he'd be interested," she warned, remembering the youth named  _Tommaso,_ with his curling dark hair and wicked dancing eyes.

"Excellent: I adore a challenge."

After Sten had returned with wood, they built a fire and gathered in a small huddle around it; turning their backs on the desolate parapets of Ostagar. The heat burnt through the thin layer of snow, creating a damp circle of grass for them to sit in.

In his efforts to seduce the young Cousland lord, Zevran was on top glittering form. Barely touching his rabbit, he told a string of increasingly unbelievable stories about his adolescence in Antiva. Wynne was listening with a small smile, her finger keeping place in the book she was half-reading.

Sten had pointedly taken his rabbit several feet away, standing and staring up at the menacing fortress face. Finian was listening in slight bewilderment; absentmindedly scratching a yawning Jethro's head.

"I know that in the Orlesian court they play something called the 'game'" he responded, after Zevran had regaled them with a tale of Antivan inter-factional politicking. "I never got too involved, I think they mostly saw me – a Fereldan noble – as a novelty."

"Pfft," replied the elf dismissively, waving his long-fingered hand. "Orlais is like a beautiful, vacuous female - nice to look at, but quickly becomes tiresome. Antiva is thrilling, unpredictable, capricious – she reminds me of a certain pirate queen I know."

His rich, cocoa-dark eyes misted over in memory for a few moments, before his lips crept up in a small smile.

"Give me Ferelden any day," retorted Alistair, his fingers skilfully working into Flora's knee. His sister-warden lay sprawled on her back beside him, her legs resting across his lap. Zevran tossed aside a small bone that he had been using to pick his teeth, letting out a little derisive snort.

"Ferelden! Land of freezing rain, horses and dogs!"

"Nowhere else in the whole of Thedas I'd rather be," continued an impassioned Alistair, resting his palm on Flora's knee. "It's my home."

"I have a story about Orlais now," chimed in Finian, taking another swig of ale and planting the bottle in the grass. "About the Duc du Carnasse. He held a party for the great and good of Val Royeaux, and the banquet was served on a dinner service made of solid gold. When it was finished, to save the washing up, the Duc tossed all the plates, cups, goblets out of the window into the  _Miroir du M_ _è_ _re._  The guests laughed and followed suit."

Flora sat up, her mouth dropping open in incredulity.

"Why?!" she demanded, outraged, strands of damp grass sticking out from her hair like some kind of Dalish ornamentation. Wynne closed the book, shaking her head.

"To improve his own standing," she said softly, casting her pale blue gaze over at Finian. In the blurred, softening light of the flames he looked even more like his sister, the high cheekbones and colouring near-identical.

"For the impression it gave. I'm sure the Duc vastly rose in his guests' estimations afterwards."

Flora looked unconvinced, as Alistair plucked a strand of grass from behind her ear. Finian shook his head; the Mabari giving a soft grunt beside him.

"Ah, but this is the best part," the young Cousland said, eyes sparkling. "The Duc had put nets out into the lake beforehand. As soon as all his guests had departed, he had his servants out dredging up all of the golden plates and goblets. His  _commissaire_ ticked each one off a list to make sure nothing was missed."

Zevran snorted, inclining his head to acknowledge the Duc's cleverness.

"Well played," he conceded. Both Wardens, however, wore matching unconvinced expressions.

"All Orlesians are insane," muttered Alistair eventually, jabbing the red-veined embers with the end of his sword.

"Leliana was raised in Orlais!" interjected Wynne, which only caused Alistair to nod, warming to his theory.

"Point proven!"

Zevran's attempted seduction of the young Cousland was sabotaged by their sleeping arrangements. With only two tents the six of them – plus the Mabari - were required to share. Even with a rotating watch, there was still no chance of privacy.

"Maker, you're joking," muttered Alistair, as Sten ducked between the canvas folds. The Qunari shot him a baleful stare, settling down on the bedroll and turning his back ostensibly on the two Wardens.

"Do not engage in intercourse in my presence," Sten instructed a moment later. Flora tried unsuccessfully to hide her cackle against Alistair's tunic, while he let out a groan.

Flora had the earlier watch; Wynne woke her up in the darkest part of the night by jabbing her in the gut with the end of her staff. Yawning and untangling her fingers from Alistair's, Flora swapped places with the senior enchanter, dragging her own staff behind her.

There had been a light snowfall; a sprinkling of white powder covered the tents. Wynne had kept the campfire burning throughout the flurries through arcane means; Flora had to resort to more primitive methods. She spent the next half-hour frantically shoving damp wood into the base of the flames, then had a sudden idea.

Recalling the many afternoons she had spent on these training ground, Flora made her solitary way through the shadows to the lower corner of the field and located the three scarecrows she had once practised her shielding on.  _Morris, Boris and Doris,_ she thought to herself, spotting their slumped sacking bodies. They had been knocked from their posts, and were covered with a thin veil of snow, but the straw inside them was still crisp and dry. Taking their 'legs' in hand, she dragged them back over to the campfire, leaving ragged trails in the snow.

Feeling irrationally guilty, Flora began to disembowel the scarecrows and use their interiors to fuel the flames. As she did so, she remembered how Warden Stene had taken Boris' head and kicked it across the training field.

"You could call me a one trick pony as much as you liked, if you were here," she said out loud, tossing another handful of straw into the fire. "I wouldn't even mind."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So the Duc du Carnasse story is based on a real historical event – Agostino Chigi, famous Roman banker in the early sixteenth century, had his guests throw their used gold and silver dinner service into the Tiber to gain social standing. I just thought it seemed exactly like something an Orlesian noble would do! Also, it's too late to go back and edit it now, but seriously- STENE? What was I thinking? A grumpy and unfriendly Warden warrior named Stene?! Clearly I put zero thought into that original character name, lol. Also "After Sten had emerged with wood" ahaha I am juvenile


	86. The Ghosts of Ostagar

Chapter 86: The Ghosts of Ostagar

After the last remnants of the scarecrows had burnt down to charred ashes, Flora went to rouse Finian, whose turn it was to take watch. The young Cousland was sharing a tent with Zevran, albeit with Jethro snoring away between them. From Zevran's irritated face, it was clear that his mission had been unsuccessful.

Flora settled down on the bedroll alongside Zevran; the Mabari following his bleary-eyed master out to the campfire. Zevran shot her a glittering smile in the darkness, eyes gleaming as he propped himself up on an elbow.

"At last," he murmured, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "You and I, alone together. How should we spend these precious moments, my flower?"

Flora, preoccupied with her own thoughts, barely heard him. She was staring up at the canvas with her brow furrowed in concentration.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" she asked abruptly, turning her head to face him.

"Well, there's a mood killer," muttered Zevran, abandoning all hope of  _liaisons passionales_ with either Cousland sibling. "Personally, I have never seen a ghost; but I am open to the possibility that they exist. After all, if the bodies of the dead can walk, why not their spirits?"

"If ghosts do exist, this place should be full of them," she whispered back, her eyes solemn and thoughtful. "I wonder if they do haunt the old fortress?"

For a moment Flora fancied that she could hear the distant clash of swords as ethereal men and women sparred on the training ground around them. She envisioned ghostly Wardens relating gallows humour around a campfire of Veil flame; preparing themselves for the upcoming battle without realising that it had come and gone, and that their remains were scattered across the valley floor. She thought of Duncan and Cailan standing around an intangible war table, arguing over tactics for all eternity. For a few moments, the phantasms of the dead seemed to crowd around the tent, pressing their mournful faces against the canvas.

"Do  _you_  believe in ghosts, my flower?" asked Zevran, watching her stare anxiously up at the ceiling. Flora paused, then gave a little nod.

"Everyone in Herring does," she replied, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. "Fishermen are very superstitious."

Zevran leered at her, reaching out a single finger to touch the high plane of her cheekbone.

"Let us distract ourselves from the cold fingers of corpses, my darling," he murmured, tracing a path between the freckles. Then the elf scowled as Flora leaned over and placed her staff between the two bedrolls.

"This is the impenetrable wall of Minrathous," she said sternly. "Impossible to cross."

"Bah, you're no fun."

Some time later Finian went to wake Alistair, taking his position next to Sten and Wynne. The Warden completed his watch with his back turned deliberately on the looming fortress walls. After waking Sten, Alistair ducked his way inside the second tent. The Antivan elf was curled sulkily on his side of the interior space, his back turned on the staff marking the border of the divided territory.

Alistair settled down within Flora's dominion; she opened a wary eye to confirm that it was him and not an opportunistic Zevran. He stretched out an arm and she settled herself against him, grateful for his presence. She had not slept well in the company of Ostagar's ghosts and the solid muscle of her brother-warden's chest felt reassuring against her cheek.

"Ali-stair?" she whispered, yawning partway through the name. He cupped the back of her head with his palm, letting his fingers run through the loose mass of hair.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Do you believe in ghosts?"

Alistair thought for a moment, then shook his head firmly.

"No; I believe all souls go to the Maker. They don't linger with us."

Flora shifted slightly; he could tell that she was unconvinced. In fact, he could read her thoughts as clearly as if they were inscribed on the outside of her skull, carved into the milk-white bone with a sculptor's tool. She looked up at him and his guess was proved true – there was apprehension in her eyes.

Alistair reached out and pulled the blankets over their heads, encasing them both beneath the woven fabric. In the hollow cavern below he embraced her, kissing the top of her head fiercely.

"There's nothing out there that will hurt you, love," he murmured, sliding a palm beneath her shirt to stroke the small of her back. "They'll have to come through me first. For once, eh?"

Despite her anxiety Flora smiled, recognising the reversal of their usual roles; on the battlefield, it was her undertaking the majority of the protecting with her glimmering arcane barriers.

"How can you stop a ghost? They can walk through walls," she asked; practical even in her irrational fears. Alistair thought for a moment, his hand reaching up to caress her shoulder blades.

"I'll order it to go away," he said finally, a thread of humour running through his words. "From my position of authority as a bastard prince."

Flora raised her head to look at him thoughtfully, a sliver of moonlight penetrating beneath the blanket. He gazed back at her, eyes warm with affection.

"Did you just make a joke?" she whispered, with slight incredulity.

"It wasn't a very good one."

"No, but…" She cast about for the right words. "You would never have been able to joke about it before. Someone would mention about your being a prince and you'd stick your fingers in your ears and go  _la la la, not listening!"_

Alistair sighed, running his thumb down her naked spine from the nape of her neck to the small of her back.

"I suppose I… saw how you dealt with the truth about your family," he said slowly, absentmindedly tracing a swirling pattern onto her skin. "You weren't happy, but you… accepted it."

"Not right away," she pointed out, gloomily. "I jumped into Lake Calenhad, remember?"

"That was from the initial shock, though. I remember when Eamon told me who my father was; I broke a pedestal and tore down all the tapestries in the upper hall."

Flora blinked, trying to reconcile this image with the even-tempered, compassionate man beside her.

"That's when Isolde made me sleep in the stables. But, Flo- seeing you act with… with  _grace_ , about it all. It's made me realise – maybe I could try and act the same way. Rather than just being angry about it and wishing things were different."

"It's because I know it's true," Flora replied, with a sad little shrug. "There's no use being in denial. It won't change anything."

Alistair exhaled, absentmindedly edging his fingers beneath the waistband of her breeches to caress her bare hip.

"I suppose I've come to the same realisation," he said reluctantly, distracted by his own thoughts. "Like it or not, I am Maric's son."

Flora gave him a little rueful smile, just as he realised where his fingers had ventured and withdrew his hand hastily. Just then, Zevran made a noise of disbelief from outside the blanket.

"I am not surprised you are both still virgins, if all you do is  _talk_ beneath the blankets," the Antivan hissed, incredulous. "How am I supposed to pleasure myself to the sound of your mutual identity crises?!"

The next morning dawned grey and overcast; the previous night's snowfall covering the crumbling grey stone like a dusting of sugar. They left the horses tied out of sight in the thickest part of the trees; piling their packs together and covering them with a blanket. The Mabari hound was left to guard their possessions, whining disconsolately at his master's retreating back.

"Not that we're likely to see anyone else up here," Wynne had said, acknowledging the fortress' isolation. "But still, better safe than sorry."

Alistair had not said a word since he had awoken; he wore a grimace as though pained by some increasingly uncomfortable abdominal ache. Zevran had asked if he was suffering from indigestion, but Flora knew that her brother-warden was dreading the moment that they would step foot inside the fortress itself. She had shored up her own resolve over breakfast, determined that she would demonstrate sufficient strength for both of them. Not for the first timed Flora was grateful that apprehension translated as solemnity on her face; many had mistaken fear for mere stoicism in the past.

"Do you remember where the king's tent was? It seems probable that he would have kept his correspondence there," Wynne murmured, directing her question to both Wardens as they approached the main gate. Alistair wore a greyish pallor beneath the olive tan of his skin; his fingers compulsively tightening on the pommel of his sword.

"Yes, I remember," Flora replied, staring up at the two tattered banners suspended from the ruined gatehouse. One depicted the crimson and gold lions of the House of Theirin, and the other bore a single silver griffon. Both had been torn ragged by the wind, hanging limp against the stone as if in mourning. The drawbridge itself was up, a steeply shelving moat preventing access to the fortress interior.

The fleet-footed Zevran darted across the rusting chain, light as a cat, clambering up the crumbled wall into the gatehouse. A moment later, they heard him release the mechanism. The chain unwound more rapidly than anyone was expecting, the wooden drawbridge crashing with a thud onto the snow-covered earth.

"Well, now the Darkspawn know we're here," murmured Wynne as Zevran appeared at the other end of the drawbridge, a slender figure framed between Ostagar's forbidding walls.

"They'd know anyway", Flora replied, feeling their presence tugging at the corner of her mind, like tiny fishhooks embedded in her brain.

_If we can feel them, they can feel us._

They ventured across the drawbridge and Flora gave a little shiver; recalling how she had first come to Loghain's attention here when healing the injured recruit. For a moment she thought that she could still see the bloodstain on the wood-  _there had been so much blood –_ but told herself it was merely a trick of the strange half-light.

Finian looked almost as unwell as Alistair as they entered the main encampment, enclosed within the decrepit ramparts. To the west loomed the Tower of Ishal, its wooden door half open to reveal the creeping shadows within.

"My brother might have died here," he said, voice hollow, as their boots made fresh footprints in the snow.

"You won't find his body, if that is what ails you," retorted Sten, unimpressed with the slender youth's lack of constitution. "The Darkspawn take all corpses for meat."

The remaining colour drained from Finian's already wan face. Alistair had known this but had tried not to think about it, not wanting to imagine Duncan's remains defiled in such a manner.

Flora was finding it hard to reconcile the desolate, snowy courtyard with the busting encampment from her memory. It was akin to seeing a friend returning from war with a disfiguring injury- familiar, yet somehow wholly changed. She could see the mages' camp to one side; their proud violet tents reduced to charred skeletons. The ruins of the makeshift Chantry had been scattered over the earth; Andraste's statue lay toppled facedown. The remains of the campfires, where the Grey Wardens had gathered to drink and reminisce, lay half-buried beneath the snow. Even the Mabari cages had been torn apart, the metal bars mangled. The occasional Darkspawn corpse lay on the ground, but there was no sign of movement. The whole fortress had an air of funereal desolation.

Alistair stared around at the devastated camp, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Flora, solemn-faced, reached out and touched his elbow gently. Even through his mail Alistair was able to feel the brush of her fingers; he glanced sideways at her, unable to smile but grateful for her effort.

"The king's camp is up the ramp at the end," she said eventually, realising that her brother-warden was lost for words.

The upper courtyard lay at the southern end of the fortress, accessible by a stone ramp. Once it had been watched over by members of Cailan's retinue; Flora remembered how they had once eyed the staff on her back with suspicion and ordered her back to the mage camp. Now the entrance lay unguarded, the King who had drank and feasted within having no further need of protection.

Sten led the way up the ramp, striding forward with intent purpose, eyes fixed on the tattered remains of the tents.

Suddenly something lunged clumsily at him from within a charred tent. Unbelievably, it appeared to be a desiccated skeleton - devoid of muscle or flesh, yet possessing some crude sentence, it flailed an iron blade towards the Qunari.

" _Ebost issala!"_

Sten easily shoved the skeleton away, thrusting it to the snowy dirt. Lifting his greatsword, he brought the edge down with a roar and shattered the skeleton's ribcage. Shards of fragmented bone sprung outwards in all directions, like some macabre firework. The next moment, six more ossified corpses staggered towards them from behind half-crumbled walls and ruined pillars. Some had remnants of withered flesh clinging to their bones, but most had been reduced to skeletons.

Zevran's knives caught the light brilliantly as they wove through the air, colliding with the solid bone of the enemy and glancing sideways. His victim recoiled, a knife wedged into its sternum; then returned the attack, lunging forward with a hooked blade. Zevran darted to the side, with a cry of disgust.

"What kills these things?!" he yelled, before launching a string of Antivan curses.

"Pulverising them," replied Sten, who had abandoned his weapon and was using his bulk to slam skeletons against walls and broken pillars; bones crumbling beneath his weight.

Flora, Finian and Alistair had been stunned into inaction by the macabre nature of their foe. Wynne's shout roused them; Flora brought up a hand to shield the senior enchanter from a clumsy sword-thrust, then slammed her staff down with a crash onto the offending skeleton's head. The decaying skull split in half, dropping to the snow with a gaping, broken jaw.

Finian, whose slender arrows proved ineffectual against the undead foe, instead used the wooden haft of the bow as a primitive club, knocking another foe to the ground. Alistair shoved his shield into its ribcage, shattering it; then lunged after a second.

Between them, Sten and Alistair quickly dispatched the remainder of the skeletons; brute strength proving more effective a weapon than blade or bow. As the last skull went rolling across the flagstones, Wynne exhaled, lowering her staff.

"There must be a necromancer here," she murmured, while Alistair brushed bone fragments from his shield.

Flora and Finian wore similar expressions of almost comical dismay.

"Maker!" demanded the incredulous Cousland lord, stooping to retrieve one of the useless arrows. "Raising the dead? Animating them to fight? What foul magic is this?"

"The dark arts of summoning the dead are taught in no Circle; it is usually attempted only by maleficar," replied the senior enchanter.

"Or by a Darkspawn caster," replied Alistair grimly, slinging the shield over his back once again.

"Skeletons are just one step away from ghosts," muttered an increasingly-nauseous Flora. "I hope we don't see any  _ghosts."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: As a historian who goes on many overseas trips as part of work, I spend a lot of time sleeping either within or immediately next to places which have seen great tragedy. I've stayed in inns next to concentration camps, slept in tents on the fields of the Somme. Although personally I don't believe in ghosts, it's hard not to envision that there could be some remnant or imprint left by the sheer volume of people who died there, and I can't help but feel affected by it whenever I stay there. I suppose that's really what was on my mind when I was writing this chapter, with the Wardens and their company returning to the graveyard of Ostagar.
> 
> On a lighter note, I loved reading up on old fisherman superstitions – ironically, one tradition is that redheads are unlucky, lol! It makes me laugh to envision Flora as being afraid of ghosts, when she's facing Archdemons, ogres, assorted Darkspawn…!
> 
> And finally with regard to Zevran's comment about both Wardens being virgins – that's not going to be true for much longer, lol


	87. The Ogre

Chapter 87: The Ogre

Sadness hung over the upper camp like a widow's veil; as though mourning the death of the foolhardy king who had dared to challenge the Darkspawn. The Southron Hills could not challenge the Frostbacks in height, yet despite their comparatively low altitude, the air felt heavy and stifling.

Alistair was somewhat gratified to see that Loghain's tent had not escaped the devastation of the rest of the encampment. All that remained were poles sticking from the snow at haphazard angles, trailing forlorn fragments of navy material. Various detritus lay scattered randomly about the camp; cooking utensils rested alongside leather boots, a surprisingly intact lute nestled against an overturned end table. Finian was relieved that he could see no green-laurel Cousland banner lying tattered among the king's own abandoned colours.

Since the debris of the tents was spread across a great swathe of flagstones; they split up and began to search for anything that could resemble a king's private lockbox.

Flora, swallowing a hard knot in her throat, began to pick through a tangle of discarded possessions that lay against a toppled pillar. With increasing melancholy, she set aside a broken hair comb and a rotting handwritten copy of the Chant; using her bare hands to dig into the snow. It had occurred to her that she could have used her staff to sift through the mound, yet to do such seemed oddly disrespectful.

_These once belonged to people,_ she thought,  _and now they're gone and nothing remains of them but this odd collection of objects._  Gently she laid aside a gilt-backed mirror, catching a brief glimpse of her own pale reflection in the cracked surface.

"Here!" shouted Alistair suddenly, from the far side of the courtyard. "I've found it, I think."

The others converged on him from all directions. He was holding a small rectangular case, made from polished walnut and bound with silverite. As he turned it over in his hands; it made a strange, liquid noise.

"Let us smash it, retrieve the contents and be gone," announced Sten, as Wynne quickly shook her head.

"No, do you hear the sound it makes? I've seen boxes like this before. If you try to force it open, glass vials of liquid lyrium will open and dissolve the contents."

"Tevinter design," chimed in Zevran, an air of expertise in his voice as he produced a slender metallic tool from a pouch on his belt. "Fortunately, I'm an expert in prying my way into places I shouldn't. Hand it over, darling."

A slightly unnerved Alistair passed him the box, then retreated hastily. The elf took it, feeling the joins in the wood with practised fingers, lifting the lock to his eye. As he inserted the slender tool carefully into the keyhole, the others settled down to wait. Wynne sat down on a discarded stool, her eyes moving around the ancient fortress as though wanting to fix every detail in memory. Sten began to pace the edge of the camp, nostrils flaring at the delay.

"I didn't see any Cousland livery," offered Finian tentatively, shooting a little glance at Flora. She was leaning against a toppled pillar, Alistair at her side; their elbows just touching.

"Your older brother would have been up here, then?" said Flora after a moment, then realised that technically, Fergus Cousland was also  _her_ older brother. Finian nodded, the freckles on his nose standing out sharply against his pallid skin.

"Do you- either of you – remember seeing him at all? He's not as tall as me, but he's stocky – he was always good at fighting, sport, things like that. His hair was brownish red, and he had a short beard."

Finian realised that he was switching between the past and present tense when talking about his brother; but since he had no idea what had happened to Fergus, this seemed oddly appropriate. Both Flora and Alistair shook their heads after sharing a glance, each seeing the shadows of Ostagar reflected in the other's eyes.

"I'm just going to look around to see if I can find anything," the teyrn's son said suddenly, gesturing to the far end of the courtyard. Rows of pillars denoted pathways to various smaller courtyards and training grounds, branching off from the main encampment.

"Don't wander too far," replied Wynne, distracted by Zevran's careful manipulation of the King's lockbox. Finian nodded, then began to head down the centre of the snowy courtyard.

He was halted in his tracks by an odd noise in the distance, a guttural grunt that echoed between the crumbling stone walls. At the same moment, Flora felt the fishhook of the Darkspawn call in the corner of her mind; she found her head swivelling towards the pillars as surely as though someone had taken her chin and turned it.

Yet beside her, Alistair had not reacted, his pensive gaze still directed at the snow-covered flagstones. For a fleeting moment Flora wondered if she was imagining the pull of the taint. She took a step towards Finian and then Alistair looked up, his eyes widening and fingers grasping at the straps of his shield.

"Darkspawn," he breathed, then repeated the warning as a yell. Sten drew his great sword and Zevran placed the box to one side, reaching for his knives.

Finian had stopped abruptly in the centre of the upper courtyard. His face was turned towards the row of pillars, when they seemed to shatter outwards in an explosion of dust and rock. He put up his arm to shield his face from the fragments of stone with a yell; and when he looked back, a behemoth creature was crouched in the dust and debris. Several times taller than a man, two vast horns protruded from a thick and low skull. Its entire body seemed to be made up of knotted muscle and sinew. Small, partially clouded eyes, focused slowly on the upper courtyard and on the teyrn's son standing before it. With a roar that seemed to shake the foundations of the Tower of Ishal itself, it began to charge on all fours; loping with gathering speed towards Finian.

Having never seen an ogre before Finian gaped for several seconds, bow dangling limply from his hand. Then he turned around and ran, almost colliding with his sister, who had scuttled down the centre of the courtyard to reach him. She thrust up her staff and a yellow gleaming barrier materialised between them and the massive Darkspawn. The ogre charged into the shield and staggered back; Flora would have fallen herself if not for Finian grabbing her shoulders to steady her.

The rest of the party had gathered at their back, weapons raised. Flora kept the shield up, waiting for the ogre to make a second assault. Yet, once it had lumbered to its feet, it merely stood there, quivering with barely restrained rage.

"Why does it not attack?" demanded Sten and Alistair shook his head in confusion. The sharp-eyed Wynne narrowed her gaze, then raised her voice in a shout of warning.

"It's undead! It's being controlled by the necromancer. Stay alert!"

Now that it was frozen in hulking inaction, the differences were obvious between it and the ogres that they had fought in the past. This one was covered in mottled greyish-green flesh, which appeared to be partially rotting in places. It's movements were lumbering and spasmodic; no sentience flickered in the dull, glassy eyes. Two raw wounds over its heart indicated its cause of death, something silver and gleaming still protruded from one wound.

Then a second creature appeared in the tangled remains of the pillars, manifesting in a cloud of blighted miasma. It was clad in some twisted mockery of a mage robe, and clutched a staff that Wynne recognised as standard Circle issue. A malevolent intelligence gleamed in its dark, insect-like gaze as it raised its staff. The head of the weapon began to pulsate with a dark violet light.

"Alistair, do you remember any of your Templar training?" hissed Wynne under her breath. Alistair grunted in assent, half-distracted by the metallic glint embedded within the ogre's chest. "Flora, can you divert the ogre while we handle the necromancer?"

Flora gave a little nod, leaning on her weak knee to ensure that it was still strapped up tightly.

"How long will you need?" she breathed, staring the ogre directly in its glassy eyes. It returned her gaze, mouth dropping open to reveal several rows of broken and bloodied teeth.

Wynne glanced at Alistair, who roused himself from his reverie and nodded.

"Two hundred beats," he replied, glancing over at Flora and feeling a knot of fear twist in his stomach. "Be careful, Flo."

"I can't count to _two hundred_!" hissed back Flora, watching the Darkspawn necromancer glide across the snowy earth towards them. "I forget everything past twenty!"

"Count to twenty ten times, then," retorted Wynne. "Ready, Alistair?"

On hearing her brother-warden's confirmation, Flora lowered her staff. The barrier dematerialised and she darted forwards, weaving past the creature. As she ran, she let the head of her staff clatter over several upended weapon racks, issuing a jangled metallic clatter.

Provoked by the noise and her earlier stare, the ogre turned and began to lumber after her. She clambered over a pillar and disappeared towards the old Warden camp. The last thing they saw was the ogre making a clumsy lunge, and a sudden gleaming expansion of golden light.

"Will- will she be alright?!" hissed Finian in slight incredulity, as the necromancer lifted its staff and Wynne raised her own in response. The senior enchanter gave a slight nod, glancing to Alistair to ensure that he too was ready.

"She'll be fine," breathed Wynne, as the necromancer began to chant. Alistair closed his eyes, recalling the silencing and suppressing incantations taught by his Templar instructors.

A sudden gout of flame erupted from the necromancer's staff, countered by an arc of lightning from Wynne's own weapon. Zevran had crept around to the side and launched himself at the creature's back, while Finian fumbled to fit an arrow to the string, fingers trembling. Both Sten and Alistair flanked the necromancer, drawing its attention away from Wynne as she continued to deflect and neutralise its spells.

Zevran managed to knock the creature's staff from its hand with a quick strike of his blade; the blackwood weapon fell to the flagstones and the creature let out a shriek of rage. Seeing its momentary distraction, Alistair lunged forward and thrust his sword into its stomach. The necromancer howled, the thin wail echoing between the crumbled stone walls, and tried to pull away. The Warden held fast, driving his sword deeper. Blackened guts spewed forth and the Darkspawn staggered, then crumpled to the ground. Tainted blood began to pool around the ragged body, the creature's wizened fingers twitching spasmodically in its death throes.

They backed away from the noxious liquid as it seeped between the flagstones, oozing and already partially coagulated. Pulling his sword free, Alistair released an anxious breath, then glanced to the rear of the courtyard.

"Where is she?" he asked fretfully, squinting beyond the ruined pillars. Zevran raised his fingers to his mouth and gave a loud whistle. Each second that followed with no response seemed to drag like an hour.

"Could she be hurt?" chimed in Finian, his finely-boned face pale as he fitted another arrow to the bowstring. Wynne let out a minute sigh of exasperation, readying her staff once more.

"You young men worry too much," she replied easily, avoiding the expanding pool of thick Darkspawn blood. "She'll be fine."

Just as the senior enchanter finished her sentence, Flora appeared in the stone archway with staff in hand. She seemed slightly out of breath and favoured one leg over the other, but was otherwise unharmed. Seeing them, she gave a little wave, cupping her fingers around her mouth.

" _Sorry; I lost count after the third time I counted to twenty!"_ Flora bellowed across the flagstones. "Am I late- "

She cut herself off abruptly; turning around and thrusting her staff into the air. The golden barrier materialised as the wall behind her burst outwards, the stone blocks fragmenting mid-air as the ogre barrelled into them. The debris hit the gleaming shield and fell to the flagstones and the undead ogre let out a strangled roar of rage.

Focusing on her, it's eyes now a clouded maroon, it began to rain down blows upon the shield in a frenzy. Caught off-guard as the creature entered a berserker rage; Flora fell over onto her rear, the barrier dissipating as the staff dropped from her hand. With a yelp of alarm, she rolled to the side just as the ogre slammed its fists down, pulverising the flagstones where she had been sprawled mere seconds before.

When it brought down its arms once more she was prepared, flinging up her hands to meet it. The creature's decaying fists met the golden barrier, sliding ineffectually to the side.

Suddenly the ogre gave a guttural cry of rage as an arrow embedded itself in its shoulder, sinking several inches into the flesh.

"Leave my sister alone!" howled Finian, hooking another arrow into the bowstring. Then Sten had barrelled into the ogre, greatsword raised, bellowing something foreign in his native tongue. Zevran, using his natural catlike agility to his advantage, sprang from one of the broken pillars and latched himself to the creature's back.

Alistair, who had begun moving towards the ogre as soon as it had appeared, reached Flora and helped to haul her upright. Only then did he turn his attention to the Darkspawn behemoth, clattering his shield to draw its ire from Zevran. Retrieving her staff, Flora focused on shielding the three of them as they engaged the creature in melee combat.

The ogre was slow to respond without the fortifying magic of the necromancer; and before long it was bleeding from a half-dozen wounds. Zevran delivered the killing blow by thrusting his knife into the side of the creature's neck, creating a gaping wound that disgorged tainted blood in gouts over the decaying flesh. As he sprung down, the ogre stumbled backwards and fell shuddering onto the flagstones.

There was silence for several long moments; a buzzard gave a piercing cry from somewhere in the grey cloud. Ostagar itself seemed to exhale around them, as though the crumbling stone had witnessed the fight.

"Clear?" enquired Wynne after a brief pause, Flora nodded mutedly, swallowing. She could feel her heart beating frantically against her ribcage, as though it were trying to escape.

"I don't think there's anything else up here," she whispered. "But, I- I saw…  _something_  when I was leading the ogre around the lower courtyard."

"Something?" asked Wynne, fixing Flora with her pale blue stare. The young healer shifted from foot to foot, uneasily.

"I just saw it for a second," she replied quietly, her face solemn. "On the bridge that spans the valley. There was – something – there. I don't know what it was."

"I am intrigued. Let us see what this  _something_ is," replied the older mage, arching a curious eyebrow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So of course this is the ogre that killed Cailan! Sadly, IC-ly Alistair and Flora were several hundred feet above the valley in the Tower of Ishal when that went down so… there's not really any way for them to know that! They haven't even noticed the glint of silver protruding from its chest – yet. In other words, this chapter is all fight fight fight fight fight, lol. No prizes for guessing what the strange something is on the bridge, though.


	88. A Crucified King

Chapter 88: A Crucified King

Together, they headed towards the high stone bridge that connected the eastern reaches of the fortress to their western counterparts. The valley floor lay below; thankfully all signs of past battle had been covered with a thin veil of snow. The wind was more noticeable on the exposed stone span, a few flecks of rain fell as cloud massed overhead.

Nobody spoke as they ventured across the bridge, heading towards the strange  _something_ that Flora had glimpsed as she led the ogre on a merry dance of distraction. As they neared the centre of the arch, Wynne inhaled unsteadily, grip tightening on her staff.

"Oh, Maker,  _no._ "

A wooden structure had been erected at the halfway point, its cruel and twisted shape reminiscent of the strange constructions found in Darkspawn-infested areas of the Deep Roads. A bloodied body hung from the wood, impaled by several crude iron bars. Clad only in smallclothes, dozens of wounds covered its torso and limbs; yet the killing blow was obvious – the ribcage had been crushed, shards of bone distending the swollen flesh.

The corpse itself had been preserved by the cold and the wind, keeping the features intact but giving the skin a leather-like appearance. Strands of pale blond hair, matted and clumped with blood, hung from a partially crushed skull; the features contorted in a horrific grimace. Even from a distance, the Theirin jawline was unmistakable.

Alistair let out a small, strangulated sound under his breath, colour draining from the face that bore such unmistakeable similarity to the crucified corpse. Within seconds, his skin was almost the same shade as the grey, mummified flesh of his half-brother.

"Oh, Cailan," breathed Wynne, shaking her head slowly as she gazed up at the withered body, the once-muscular frame dwindled to papery skin and fragile bone. "You deserved better than this."

Finian, who had never seen the King of Ferelden in person, recognised him based on his similarity to Alistair. He too was struck dumb, clutching his bow hard enough to leave the imprint of the wood on his fingertips.

"They just left him there? Left his body on display?"

The drizzle had turned into faint flakes of snow, drifting down from the clouds like powdered sugar. Feeling a hard lump of sadness in her throat, Flora remembered that she had been sitting on this bridge, eating a sandwich, when Cailan had first approached her.

_Loghain tells me that you're an excellent barrier mage. I'd like you to accompany me on scouting patrols._

She had flung her sandwich to oblivion in the valley below, Flora recalled, then prostrated herself before him.

_I'm sorry that I couldn't protect you in the end,_ she thought to herself, staring up at the dead king's contorted face.  _I hope that it was quick and you didn't suffer._

Alistair had still not uttered a word, struck dumb with disbelief and horror; Wynne reached out to put a steadying hand on his elbow. Flora looked over at her warden-brother, then swallowed a hard lump of fear and sadness. She propped her staff against the stone parapet and rolled up her shirt sleeves.

"Well, we won't leave him here," she said, finally. "He deserves better."

Inwardly steeling herself, Flora approached the base of the wooden structure, finding a foothold and hoisting herself up. The withered body of the King brushed against her own; she felt no revulsion, only the taste of bittersweet pity under her tongue. Careful not to dislodge the iron bars piercing Cailan's corpse, she clambered up to where his arms had been roped to the twisted wood.

As a fisherman's daughter she knew knots intimately, and was able to disentangle them as easily as create them. Her slender fingers began to work themselves into the bindings that kept the king suspended.

"Sten, could you help me?" she asked, letting one of the ropes slither to the stone. The Qunari inclined his head wordlessly, his expression unreadable, then approached the base of the makeshift cruciform.

They worked together for a time in silence, Flora untangling the ropes binding the king's limbs to the wood and Sten carefully removing the rods that impaled his flesh. The others watched them silently; Wynne still had her hand on Alistair's arm and he appeared to be grateful for the contact.

Finally, Cailan's body shifted slightly and Flora reached for his bloodied shoulder in alarm.

"Hold,  _kadan,"_ the Qunari said, in a tone softer than any she had previously heard. "I will not let him fall."

Flora clambered from the structure with shaking hands, her legs trembling beneath her. A small corner of her mind hoped that  _kadan_ did not mean 'imbecile', or 'moron'.

Sten lifted the body down, then looked to her. Flora swallowed, putting a hand to her head as she thought.

_We can't take him back to Denerim. He'll rot like a fish left on the dock._

_It seems wrong to bury him in an unmarked grave. He was the king of us all._

"Let's build him a pyre," she said suddenly, gazing at the limp, bloodied figure in the Qunari's arms. "Then they'll never have him again even if they do return."

Alistair, Zevran and Finian went to gather fuel from the surrounding courtyards; retrieving broken furniture and tent poles to use as fuel. Sten built the pyre itself, methodologically arranging the wood in tapering layers, his face devoid of expression.

Flora was kneeling on the flagstones, beside Cailan's shrivelled body. She looked down at his face, feeling a sharp twinge of sadness as she remembered his boisterous confidence; his grand proclamations that he would be known to history as the  _king who triumphed over the Darkspawn._

_I'm sorry,_ Flora thought miserably as she stared at Cailan's dried, pallid remains, the wind-blasted skin puckered and distended. Blood was dried in small, leathery patches over the body and hair. Impulsively, she reached into her sleeve and retrieved one of the handkerchiefs that Bodahn had donated to her cause when she was suffering with the cold. Crumpling it into a ball, she thrust it into a nearby patch of snow, waiting until the linen was fully saturated. Wringing the excess water from the cloth, she began to clean the coagulated blood from his face and neck.

"The family resemblance is startling," murmured Wynne, her eyes following the distinctive line of the king's jaw and mentally comparing it to Alistair's own. "I knew when Alistair arrived at the Tower with the Warden-Commander that he seemed familiar."

Flora was only half-listening, concentrating on cleaning the coagulated blood from Cailan's neck. The injury which had led to his death was clear –his ribcage had been cracked, flesh distended by broken bone and skin discoloured from pooled blood. The organs within had been crushed; death would have been almost instantaneous.

_Did he live long enough to see his men dying around him, the Wardens overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of Darkspawn? Did he realise that Loghain had betrayed him, his own queen's father? Would Duncan have been there with him at the end?_

_Yes, I think he would have been. Where else would he be?_

Flora felt sudden tears burning at the corners of her vision, and blinked them back fiercely. She could see Alistair helping Sten and Finian to build the pyre, his shoulders hunched and hands trembling. It reminded her of the dark days after Ostagar, when he had been so tense and brittle that she thought he might break under the strain of it all.

As she worried about her brother-warden, Flora realised that the tears were no longer prickling against her eyes. She took a deep breath and brought her adoptive father's mantra to mind once again.

_Deep breath, chin up, eyes straight._

She dropped the smeared linen handkerchief and slid her fingers into Cailan's matted hair, gently pulling them through to comb out the tangles.

_You wanted Ferelden to remember you as a great hero,_ she thought, smoothing the hair over his shoulders.  _I'm not sure they will sing of you such, but we can at least send your body to the Maker looking as a warrior king should._

Flora took a deep breath and summoned the golden mist; she felt warmth spreading up her fingers and thick, smoky tendrils of amber spilled out from beneath her bitten fingernails. She leaned over Cailan's limp body and spread her palms over the crushed ribcage. The cool silver of the amulet hung against her collarbone, solid and reassuring.

"I hate to break it to you, my Rialto lily," murmured Zevran as he approached them. "But I think he may be beyond saving."

Flora shot him an irritated look over her shoulder. Her eyes were backlit by gold; as though there was a burning candle lodged within her skull.

"Zevran," she mumbled thickly, feeling excess energy rising beneath her to her tongue. "I am aware."

She turned back to the king's crumpled body and closed her eyes; the energy seeping through the wizened flesh.

In her mind's eyes Flora could see the punctured heart, the lungs shrivelled like empty water pouches, the dark and coagulated blood. The fragmented bones of the ribcage, evenly severed with a single blow. Spreading her palms over the man's necrotic flesh, she was reminded of one of Wynne's stories; about the  _Mortalitisi_ of Nevarra, who spent their lives in the company of the dead.

As the hollow bones shifted into place, fusing together like liquid metal in a forge; Flora imagined the lingering echo of Cailan standing behind her, staring over her shoulder as she repaired the damage to his body. Strangely, although she had been wary of ghosts clinging to Ostagar's remnants, the thought did not scare her.

_This is my final duty to you as your healer, King Cailan._

His chest restored to fullness, Flora tended next to the discolouration of the skin, blurring the purple-black bruising with her fingertips and smoothing it away.

_You saved my life when you told me to go with Alistair to the Tower, to shield him rather than you._

For a moment, eyes blurred with golden mist, she almost fancied that she could see him there; bright as a flame in his burnished armour, standing out against Ostagar's wan grey stone.

_I promise I won't let anything happen to Alistair, my King. I swear to you; may the Waking Sea take me and my body buried in shallow sand if I fail._

_**There: it is done.** _

When she drew back, the light fading from her eyes, Wynne let out a slow breath.

"Ah, child," the senior enchanter murmured, reaching down to help Flora unsteadily to her feet. "He looks as though he passed peacefully in sleep. Well done."

Flora nodded, then on a whim took the gold ring from Cailan's mummified finger; slipping it into her pocket. She hoped that there might be some opportunity to return it to Anora when they returned to Denerim.

Sten carried the King's body to the pyre, placing him carefully on top of the stacked wood. Finian gave one of his strange, half-Orlesian bows, his face shadowed.

"If you see Fergus, say hello to him from me," he said quietly, ducking his head and stepping back. "At least he'll be with his wife and Oren."

Alistair had said nothing when he saw Cailan's restored body but his hazel eyes darkened to an inscrutable black, his jaw set stiff and quivering. He glanced at sideways at Flora, who was as still and solemn-faced as a Chantry statue. Her chin was raised, her gaze clear and grey; and her sadness was reinforced by steely veins of determination.

"Cailan," Alistair said finally, reaching for his belt. "You were a good man and this was a fate you didn't deserve."

Withdrawing his sword, he stepped forward and placed it on Cailan's chest. He lifted the dead man's hands and arranged them carefully on the hilt.

"Meet the Maker as a warrior, brother."

Stepping back, Alistair's own fingers groped blindly in the air; he felt Flora's hand close around his own and grip it tightly. He clung to her like a drowning man, or two fish tied together at the tail to stop the tide from parting them.

As Wynne stepped forward to light the pyre with the head of her staff, Alistair felt his sister-warden's warm fingers against his, her bitten nails pressing into his skin. The arcane-fuelled flames sprung up in spite of the damp wood, burning hot and scarlet; Cailan's body was consumed in the very heart of the blaze.

Smoke rose from the centre of the conflagration and Flora imagined the echo of Cailan casting off the chains of Ostagar and soaring upwards to the heavens.

_Goodbye, my King; let us finish what you started._

Ash mingled with dampness on her cheeks and she realised that she was crying. Then she felt Alistair's arm around her shoulders, heavy and comforting as a blanket on a chill night. She shuffled closer to him, putting her own arm around his waist. The two last remaining Grey Wardens in Ferelden clung to one another as their King burned; while the shadows of Ostagar shifted around them like a shroud.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: This part of the game was actually horrendous! Especially when you remember going there at the very start of the game, or seventy-odd chapters ago for my story. I wanted to include the physicality of removing Cailan from his makeshift cruciform; I thought it was a good place to have Sten contribute.


	89. Know Me

Chapter 89: Know Me

The six of them stood in silence until the wood had burned down to ash and embers; the twisted remains of the sword lay half-buried among the smouldering cinders. It was midday, yet a veil of cloud cast the old ruins in a strange half-light. When Wynne suggested that they return to the camp and make further attempts on the lockbox there, nobody argued. Even the Qunari seemed keen to leave the fortress and its ghostly occupants behind.

They headed back towards the upper encampment, passing between the ruined pillars and past the corpse of the Darkspawn necromancer. When they came across the risen ogre, the same metallic glint that had caught Alistair's eye earlier distracted him once again. Two ragged wounds marked the creature's bloodied chest; and there was something gleaming and silver protruding from one. A faint chime of recognition sounded in the back of Alistair's mind, a pull of familiarity that prompted him to investigate more closely.

The others paused as Alistair reached down to grip the sword's handle, pulling it free slowly as though in a dream. Almost immediately he knew it, knew it  _intimately;_ he had spent many evenings with a whetstone honing this particular blade. He could draw from memory the delicate engraved pattern of whorls and curlicues on the grip, knew that there was a slight nick partway down the shaft. His fingers ran down the blade gently, settling into the indentation exactly where he had known it would be.

"Ah, strange how things work out," commented Zevran, forcing lightness into his tone. "You needed a replacement sword, and now you have one."

Alistair barely heard the elf speak; he looked at Flora, who was staring at the sword rather stupidly with her mouth hanging open. She raised her gaze to him, a silent question in her eyes.

"It's Duncan's sword," he said, confirming it. "I'd know it anywhere."

Immediately the hurt came back like a reopened wound, a cruel and visceral pain deep within his stomach. It took him three attempts to slide the sword into his belt; finally a silent Finian stepped forward and helped to guide it into place. Alistair allowed himself to be led out of the ruins, barely aware of Flora's fingers clasping his, lost in renewed rage and despair.

Jethro greeted them with a bark as they returned to the camp. The Mabari seemed confused when Alistair walked past him as if in a trance; usually, the male Warden was the first to stoop and pet the eager hound.

The grey dreariness of the afternoon prompted Wynne to light the campfire; they settled around the flames as Zevran brought out the king's lockbox once more. Although they had retrieved what they had come for, nobody suggested packing up the tents and leaving.

A light drizzle began to fall as the watery sun eased itself towards the distant Frostbacks. Sten, who would never admit how much he despised rain, went to meditate in one of the tents. Finian and Wynne conducted a half-hearted conversation about his studies at the University of Orlais; neither of them bothering to feign much enthusiasm. Flora, aware of Alistair's despondency, practised the formation of letters, using her finger to scribe in the damp earth. Her brother warden was sitting beside her, staring down at the sword as it rested on the ground before him.

Glancing across at Finian, Flora absentmindedly tried to deduce the spelling of  _Highever._ She got as far as  _H, I-_ and then stopped, pondering what came next.

_People back in Herring used to call it 'Hiver'._

"H, I, G, H, E, V, E, R, " supplied Finian, having caught sight of the movements of her finger. Flora eyed him, somewhat sceptically.

"G?  _Guh?"_ she asked, doubt running through her tone. He nodded, raising eyebrows that had quite possibly become acquainted with tweezers at some point in their lifespan.

"It's a silent  _G."_

"If it's silent, why is it there at all?"

"I don't know, it just is. Ask a linguist."

Flora's derisively flared nostrils indicated her stance on these so-called  _silent letters_. Not wanting to admit that she did not know what a linguist was, she dutifully added the  _G_  to her traced letters in the dirt.

Suddenly, there came a metallic click and Zevran let out a crow of triumph.

"Aha! There is no lock that can vanquish me."

Even Alistair was temporarily roused from his melancholy as the elf lifted the lid of the lockbox carefully, his dark eyes gleaming like polished pieces of coal.

"Let's see what we have here," he murmured, lifting out something gold and gleaming. It was a gold band, stamped with the mark of House Theirin. Wynne took it hastily from the covetous elf, tucking it away in her satchel.

"This should be returned to Denerim," the senior enchanter said reproachfully. "Not pawned in some Antivan back alley."

Zevran gave a lugubrious roll of the eyes before withdrawing a sheaf of letters.

"Ah, perhaps these are love letters," he grinned, rubbing his hands together in delight. "Some erotic poetry, perhaps? What else could be such a vital secret that Loghain was desperate to obtain it?"

The elf read the first sheet of parchment, and his eyebrows shot upwards.

"It's from Empress Celene of Orlais," the Antivan breathed, as Alistair frowned in confusion. Wynne's brow also furrowed, and she let her book drop to her lap.

"Why would the King of Ferelden be corresponding with the Orlesian Empress?" she wondered out loud, holding her hand out for the letter. "They are known to be sworn enemies."

Zevran, having scanned the first of the three letters, handed it to her wordlessly.

"What does it say?" begged the illiterate Flora as the senior enchanter read it.

"The Empress proposed to send Orlesian troops to Ferelden to assist in the defence against the Blight," said Wynne, passing the letter across to Alistair for him to read. "She must have been waiting on Cailan's word to send them."

"Which clearly never came," replied Finian, slowly, his own eyebrows shooting skywards. "Maker, I cannot imagine that my peers would tolerate the Orlesian army crossing the borders once more, even in these desperate times."

Meanwhile, Zevran was reading the second letter, shaking his head slowly. Once finished, he handed it straight to Alistair.

"Your Arl Eamon appears to have been trying to persuade Cailan to put Anora aside, for the sake of an heir," the elf said lightly, as Alistair clutched the edges of the parchment in slight disbelief. "I wonder that he kept the letter. Ah, but this third one is the most interesting of all."

He read the message out loud in warm, caressing tones; reflecting the intimate tone of the words. Written in Celene's personal hand, it tenderly suggested at the possibility of a  _permanent alliance_ between their countries once the Blight had been dealt with.

"The nobles would never accept the Empress of Orlais as their queen," breathed Finian, half-appalled and half in awe at the audacity of the plan. "What was Cailan  _thinking_?"

"I wonder if Loghain knew of Cailan's intention to put his daughter aside in favour of an Orlesian?" mused Wynne thoughtfully, nudging the base of the fire with the head of her staff. "Perhaps  _that_  is why he is so keen to get his hands on them; to further discredit the King."

Finian nodded slowly; the only one present who had prolonged experience in the complex political dynamic of Denerim.

"Fereldan nobles still hate Orlais, even though the war was decades ago," he said frankly, smoothing his hand over the top of Jethro's velvet skull. "If these letters came to light during the Landsmeet, it would win many to Loghain's cause."

Flora was only half-listening; she both despised and did not understand political manoeuvring. As far as she was concerned, they had obtained the letters before Howe's men, and therefore their mission was a success. Alistair had also slipped back into melancholy, his face shadowed and the customary kindness in his eyes replaced by a hollow misery.

Wynne sighed, looking up to see the edge of the anaemic sun coming to settle upon the western horizon, as though it too was weary of the day.

"We'll have to remain here tonight," she said eventually, and the dog Jethro let out a whine. "The pass is too dangerous to cross in the dark."

Nobody looked enthusiastic about spending another night in the shrouded shadows of Ostagar; but it was Alistair who looked as though he had been struck a mortal blow. Flora put her hand on his knee; his face was as still as marble, and grey beneath the olive-hued skin.

They still had some jointed rabbit left over from the previous night's hunting; Finian and Zevran replenished the firewood while Wynne retrieved the cooking utensils from the horses. Twilight crept in like a thief, shadow subtly infusing itself with watery light until the whole world seemed to dissolve into darkness around them.

The meat was only half-cooked when Alistair stood up suddenly, letting Duncan's sword drop to the earth. Without a word to anyone, he strode off towards the lower ruins; lit like a golden brand by the last sliver of sunlight.

"Where's he going?" demanded Zevran, gesturing to Alistair's discarded armour beside the fire. "That tunic will offer him no protection, and he's left his weapon."

Wynne looked at Flora, who was staring mournfully after her brother-warden with the sad eyes of a kicked Mabari.

"I think I know where he's going," she whispered, darting a quick look across at the senior enchanter. "I haven't seen him so upset for months. Not since," she paused, raising her eyes to the forbidding stone walls. "Since Ostagar."

"A healing wound torn open can be as painful as the original blow," replied Wynne, her voice soft and regretful. "My dear, you must go after him."

Flora nodded, using her staff to awkwardly push herself to her feet. Her knee gave a twinge of protest, still recovering from the earlier exertions with the ogre. Finian looked up at her and the two siblings shared a glance, the elder's brow furrowing in concern.

"I don't know what to say to him," Flora whispered, shivering more from sadness than from cold. The drizzle began to come down harder, compounding the miserableness of the situation. Zevran let out a soft laugh under his breath, turning the rabbit over to let the other side gain the heat.

"My Rialto lily," he murmured, catching her pale irises with his own richly dark ones. "You need not  _say_  anything."

_You know what it is you must do,_ his eyes told her.  _There is only so much comfort words can offer._

There was quiet for a long moment, the only sound being Jethro's jaws snapping as he attempted to catch the raindrops. Flora felt the heat of their stares on her; she could hear Wynne issue a heavy sigh.

Finally, she turned and began to make her way back towards the decaying fortress, igniting the head of her staff as a makeshift torch. The others watched her disappear into the shadows; the golden blaze of light standing out long after the rest of her had vanished. It was the lower entrance that she had approached, the one leading to the larger courtyards that held the troop accommodation.

By the time that Flora had reached the remains of the barracks, she was limping. Leaning heavily on the staff, she surveyed the area before her. Fortunately, the rows of tents seemed to have escaped the Darkspawn's attention; many were torn and half-collapsed, but this appeared to be the product of the elements rather than the enemy. She made her way between the rows, retracing the route that she had once followed so frequently. Although the tents were identical battered canvas, she could remember the occupants of each one.

_The archers' tent. The dwarven tents, they've not collapsed; probably reinforced. The senior Wardens._

She averted her eyes from Duncan's tent as she passed it, heading instead for a large grey structure at the end of the row. The entrance porch was lopsided, but the tent itself remained standing.

_The junior Wardens._

There were no traces of Darkspawn presence lurking at the back of her mind but she paused anyway, listening. The only sound was the gentle drumming of rain against canvas; the drizzle was now a steady downpour.

Taking a deep breath, Flora reached out to lift the sodden entrance flap, ducking her way inside the shadowed tent. Raising her staff, she cast a gleaming swathe of light around the interior. It appeared much the same as she remembered; rows of bunks and bedrolls, compete with mouldering personal possessions. Flora felt her heart give a single, painful throb at the thought of these men and women, who would now never return to collect their scant belongings.

Averting her eyes from a rotting cameo portrait depicting a small child, Flora made her way between the rows of bunks. She did not announce herself, knowing that Alistair would have sensed her presence as she approached; just as she had felt him on first entering the tent.

He was kneeling on his own bedroll, hunched over with his fists clenched against his golden-haired head, trembling with a nausea-inducing combination of anger and despair. Awkwardly lowering herself to her own bedroll, Flora rested the staff to one side on the damp rush matting. The golden glow illuminated them in a muted pool of shifting yellow light, as though they were suspended in a bead of amber.

Flora reached out to her brother-warden, placing her hand gently in the centre of his broad, muscled back. Alistair turned his face to her, eyes wild and lost, irises blown to black with despair.

"Alistair," Flora said, her voice small against the damp canvas. "How can I help you? Please tell me."

"I don't know – I don't know," he muttered, adrift on a distant sea of panic; she saw conflicted emotions jostling for precedence in his stare. "I don't know  _how_  to overcome – to move on from this. What with Cailan's letters – and Loghain – I don't know. I'm not certain of anything anymore. "

Flora reached out, took his hand. His fingers felt as familiar to her as her own and she brought his palm up to her cheek. The fire of compassion blazed brightly inside her, lending warmth to his chilled skin.

"Know me, then," she whispered, bringing her mouth against his calloused fingers to kiss them. "Know me."

_Take me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Poor Alistair has had a grim few chapters; and now he's got Duncan's sword to deal with too?! I know in game you get both sword and long dagger (I assume so that two classes get a weapon), but in my canon I chose to have one weapon lost. Is Duncan even ICly a warrior or a rogue? I know characters don't have to fit perfectly into specific classes – lol I should know that, bearing Flo the non-traditional mage in mind! Incidentally, I think it's progress that she took it upon her own initiative to learn how to spell Highever. It's quite weird that I'm writing about these characters as if they have their own motives and impulses, lol, but that's what it feels like!
> 
> From a historical point of view, the possible Orlesian-Ferelden marriage alliance is fascinating to me. Since Orlais is quite blatantly based on France, and Ferelden reminds me a little of England; it brings to mind the sporadic war-neutrality-temporary alliance cycle that those two countries were locked in for centuries. Funnily enough, although several tentative marriage betrothals were made between them, ultimately they rarely worked out – no child of third-rate power England was good enough for the powerhouse of France, lol.
> 
> Finally, it's almost time for the two last remaining Wardens to engage in some illicit hugging in the Potions cupboard, haha


	90. Making Love in the Company of Ghosts

Chapter 90: Making Love in the Company of Ghosts

For the first time since Redcliffe Alistair and Flora were alone, huddled in the shadowed alcove of the junior wardens' tent. Yet additional layers of presence also seemed to linger within the confines of the dank canvas, similar to the incalculable skins of an onion.

Its ruddy, vibrant shell: prince and Cousland side by side, Templar and mage, stable boy and fisherman's daughter, layers within layers. Yet ethereal remnants seemed to manifest beneath the living: the dull gleam of armour in motion, soft harried voices, murmured fragments of gallows humour. Duncan's stern, desaturated face, his Rivaini features cast in muted shades of grey, hovered in a distant corner. The bitter white meat of the onion; emitting an acidic scent that burned eyes and throats and lingering far beyond its natural time.

_A riddle: we were here; now we are gone; yet here we stay. What are we?_

Alistair turned to look at Flora, and she stared back at him, rain-soaked shirt clinging to her skin and hair half-fallen from its loose braid. He moved his free hand to her cheek, sliding his palm down to cup her chin. There was nothing intangible about his sister-warden; her expression solemn and sure, her fingers sturdy in their grip. A smudge of ash from Cailan's pyre was daubed beneath her eye; he brushed it away with a thumb, his own pupils flaring with sudden desire.

"Know  _me_ ," Flora whispered, and although her tone was yielding, there was no weakness in it.

Then Alistair's mouth was crashing against hers, snatching her breath away with a passion fueled by grief and anger. There was nothing gentle about her kind brother-warden as he pushed her down against the bedroll and maneuvered himself on top of her. She could feel him already hard and straining against her thigh; his raw desire for her driving everything else from his mind. Alistair groaned against her ear as her lips parted against his neck, tasting salt on his flushed skin.

Urgency made him clumsy, and there came the tear of fabric as he yanked her smallclothes down around her knees, while simultaneously pulling at his own breeches. His breathing was hot and erratic against her ear; Flora felt his weight pressing against her shoulder as he positioned himself between her bare thighs, fumbling in his haste.

When she reached down blindly and took him in her guiding hand, a growl broke free from his chest. Driven by instinct alone, he thrust forwards; she felt building pressure between her legs and then a sharp and sudden pain. She gasped, bitten fingernails digging into his shoulder blades as he pushed himself into her, letting out a guttural sound such as she had never heard.

Her exclamation of pain punctured the haze of lust like an arrow shot through morning mist; Alistair paused and stared down at her, his pupils huge with need. She reached up to touch the side of his face; thus reassured, he began to move within her.

Then it was all impact and heated, percussive pants; her shoulders pressed against the damp mattress, his hips moving against hers in an instinct-driven rhythm whose origins far predated the Chant. Their coupling was primal, driven by desperation as much as desire; they were still mostly clothed, and illuminated only by the glowing head of her discarded staff. Around them the ghostly Wardens sighed in their sleep; intangible bodies creating imprints on mouldering bedrolls and half-rotted bunks.

It was only a few minutes before Alistair felt his lower abdomen twist and constrict, tight as an over-wound lute string. Then it was if a finger came and plucked the tautened length, and unable to stop himself, he spent himself deep between her thighs, while letting out a strangled cry. For several moments he could do nothing but pant erratically against her hair, feeling his heart wild and racing within his chest. Finally he withdrew from her, raising himself up on his elbows and staring down in wonder at his sister-warden's face.

Flora gazed back up at him, wide-eyed, her dishevelled hair spread around her head in a tangled mess. He reached down and stroked his thumb down her cheekbone, as tender as his previous actions had been forceful. She was gratified to see that the hollowness had gone from his eyes, the tension drained from his distinctive royal jawline.

"Well," she whispered eventually, gazing over his shoulder to the mouldy canvas ceiling overhead. "We didn't need a Potions cupboard after all."

Alistair let out a half-laugh, sinking back onto the bedroll and pulling her onto his chest. He slid his hands beneath her torn shirt to find the bare skin below, tracing the silhouette of the  _Peraquialus_ freckles from memory with a finger.

"I love you," he whispered, his breath warm against her collarbone. "I love you so much, Flo. I don't think anyone on Thedas has ever loved anyone as much as I, Alistair Theirin, love you."

Flora smiled down at him, resting her cheek against the top of his chest. For several minutes they lay there, listening to the rain pattering against the sodden canvas. The drizzle continued to patter against the sodden material; but the downpour from earlier appeared to have eased. All around them their ghostly companions lay still, temporarily exorcised.

"Do you remember, you made a barricade out of your armour the first night we slept here together?" Flora recalled Alistair's arm colliding with the metal breastplate as he reached out to check her for signs of possession, while the other Wardens snarled muffled curses through the dark. Alistair nodded, letting out a small snort as he recalled his months-prior self.

"This wasn't very  _romantic_ , a damp bedroll in the shadow of Ostagar," he said, anxiously; but the distress in his tone was on her behalf, rather than on account of their surroundings. "I should have waited until we had a proper bed, a room."

Flora gave a little shrug against his chest, his arm heavy around her shoulders.

"Alistair," she replied honestly. "There's no other way that I would have wanted it to happen."

"Well, I don't know about that," her brother-warden murmured, voice thickening as his hands slid down to cup her naked rear. "I can think of other ways I want it to happen."

Flora felt herself flush, but retained enough wit to smile insouciantly back at him.

"Then you'll have to be quick," she whispered back, feeling him hardening against her inner thigh. "They'll come to look for us."

In a swift movement Alistair had rolled her over and was on top once more, the infamous Warden stamina rising to the fore. Without preamble he took himself in hand and pushed himself inside her, no longer requiring her guiding fingers to steer him sound. He began to move almost immediately, thrusting his pelvis against hers and letting out hoarse grunts of arousal.

It hurt less the second time, and soon little gasps began to escape her lips too, mingling with his erratic panting. Their hips quickly found a mutually pleasurable rhythm; and the sounds of damp flesh slapping together began to fill the tent. Alistair's hand reached out clumsily to pull at her shirt; buttons flew beneath his impatient fingers and her bare breasts lay exposed before him.

The sight was too much for the inexperienced Warden; he spilled his seed inside her for a second time, uttering a strangled plea to the Maker as he did so.

They lay together for several moments, Alistair unable to resist one or two more languid thrusts before he slipped from her.

"Alright, I can see why Zevran keeps going on about this now," he murmured, and Flora laughed, her cheeks flushed. Alistair grinned down at her in delight, then lowered his mouth to her nipple. Hearing her inhale unsteadily, he began to grind his hips into hers insistently once again.

"We have to get back," she whispered, as he let out a little sound of reluctance against her breast. "They'll be wondering where we- "

She was cut off by him sliding slowly into her for a third time, savouring every heated inch of the penetration. As he sunk his full length inside her, she half-recalled Leliana's comments about Templar longswords, and let out a little groan. He grinned at the sound of her pleasure, keeping himself buried within her.

" _Sten_  might come looking for us," Flora said hoarsely; which had the desired effect. Alistair gaped down at her, eyes bulging in horror at the ghastliness of this scenario.

"Maker's Breath, Flo," he complained, deflating as rapidly as a punctured water pouch. "That's going to fuel my nightmares for the next week."

Flora grinned up at him as he rolled off her, pulling up his breeches hastily in case the Qunari  _did_  make an ill-timed appearance. After adjusting her own trousers, she gave a soft hiss of dismay at seeing her buttons scattered across the bedroll.

"How am I going to close my shirt?" she demanded indignantly, and he had the grace to look embarrassed. "You've ripped it to…. to smithereens and back!"

"Just say… you outgrew it," Alistair suggested blithely, and she pulled a gargoyle-like face at him, tying the loose corners of the shirt in a knot over her abdomen.

" _Outgrew it?_  In the half-candle since dinner?" she replied incredulously, retrieving her staff and following him back between the rows of bunks. "I didn't eat  _that_ much!"

It was fully dark now, the stars dotting the night sky like pinpricks through a blanket. As they walked, she glanced sideways at her brother-warden and noticed that the shadow had fallen from his face; that his chin was held high and his stride confident. Conversely, Alistair noticed that Flora was leaning heavily on one leg, and helpfully offered to carry her back to the campfire. She shook her head, the stiffness not entirely caused by her knee.

"There's going to be stares enough," she replied as they headed back towards the orange glow of the fire. They could see the shapes of their companions huddled around it, deeper silhouettes against the shadow. Alistair glanced sideways at her, his brow furrowed at her in confusion.

"What? Why?"

"They know," she muttered back, attempting to flatten her hair to her skull. The defiant whorls and erratic strands seemed determined to communicate what they had been up to.

_Those tangles could only have been made against a mattress. Or, a bedroll._

"Whaaaat?" hissed Alistair, eyes widening at her. "How?"

"Trust me," Flora said, remembering Zevran's lascivious suggestion and Wynne's little sigh. "They all know."

" _Your brother_ is there!" Alistair continued fretfully, as the shapes around the fire shifted and sat upright on hearing them approach. "What if he… challenges me to a duel, or something? They do that sort of ridiculous thing in Orlais."

Flora looked at her brother-warden's well-honed and muscular bulk, mentally comparing it to Finian's slender physique.

"I think you'd be fine," she replied honestly, taking a deep breath and checking that her shirt was properly secured.

As they came up to the fire, each head turned to look at them. Zevran's expression was gleeful, Finian's was strained. Thankfully, Sten still appeared to be meditating in his tent.

Flora sat down with a little grimace; Alistair - praying to the Maker that he was not blushing - lowered himself beside her.

"Are you feeling better, Alistair?" inquired Zevran evilly, his dark eyes liquid in the amber glow of the fire. "You seemed very tense earlier, but now you appear quite different. Much more  _relaxed."_

The corners of Finian's mouth twitched; for all of his Orlesian education in social etiquette, he had not been taught protocol for how to react when one's sister had blatantly just lain with a prince of the realm. Wynne looked over at Flora, an odd expression of concern on her face. She reached out, handed the girl her own water pouch.

"Are you alright, child?" The senior enchanter appeared somewhat relieved when Flora smiled back at her, appearing none the worse for wear.

"I hope you don't mind, my dear friend," continued Zevran, gaining some twisted pleasure out of seeing Alistair squirm in front of him. "I enlightened our companions as to the outcome of the game of  _Strip Grace_ that we played on the way to Redcliffe."

_Built like a young bull in more ways than one, Warden._

Flora, whom it did not take much to amuse, let out a snicker. Alistair looked at his sister-warden, saw that she was not embarrassed, and decided to emulate her assurance. He slung an arm around her shoulders, planting an affectionate kiss against the top of her head.

"I'm sorry that we can't all be built like elves, Zevran."

Said elf let out a squeal of outrage as Finian laughed out loud; the assassin leapt to his feet and began to fumble with his belt.

"I'll show you _,_ shem!" he half-squawked, eyes alight with indignance. "We elves have  _nothing_  to be ashamed of in that area!"

Alistair, immediately regretting his bravado, clapped his hands over his eyes.

"I'm sorry!" he moaned, as Flora cackled like a fishwife. "Put it away, I take it back."

"Behold!  _The Pride of Antiva!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So, it's only taken ninety chapters for this to happen – and about forty chapters since they first kissed. I think there's a phrase for this, and I think it's slow burn, lol. I wanted the chapter to end on a humorous note because it starts out so miserable; copulating amidst the lingering echoes of their dead companions...! I know that in game, it happens after a very sweet proposition in camp, with romantic music and soft lighting and cuddling, but I wanted to interpret it in a slightly more grim way. It was an act of compassion as well as an exorcism of sorts – a way to purge the ghosts of Ostagar from Alistair's mind; and I think it was true to both of their characters.
> 
> On a lighter note, I'm a twenty eight year old married woman now; but I dimly remember that after you first have sex, you want to do it LITERALLY ALL THE TIME, lol. So there is going to be a lot of less angst-ridden, more lust-driven copulation in store for our Wardens in the future, hahaha. While keeping an eye out for Sten and Wynne, of course.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and reviewed this so far! I had no idea that anyone would actually be interested in it, I didn't originally start writing for the purpose of posting it online, more as a way to develop my own underused creative muscle.
> 
> Honourable mentions for chapter names were "Grey Wardens Get It On", "Penetrating the Deep Roads" and finally "Return to Cockstagar". JOKING! (mostly).


	91. Fero's Way

Chapter 91: Fero's Way

In spite of the great tragedy that had occurred in the valley below, their campfire seemed to keep the worst of the lingering ghosts at bay. In the face of their laughter and temporary distraction, even the imperious façade of Ostagar behind them seemed a little less severe. Zevran told increasingly unbelievable stories about his apprenticeship with the Crows; while Alistair set to sharpening Duncan's blade with a whetstone, cleaning away the coagulated blood and polishing it until it gleamed.

"So the Dowager's daughter caught me as I was leaving her mother's bedchamber. I was forced to retreat to the balcony and use the vines to clamber onto the roof. Just as I was clambering over the tiles, who should appear?  _Her husband's lover!"_

Having changed into her last functional shirt Flora remained quiet, plaiting several strands of grass absentmindedly as she listened to Zevran's outlandish tales. Every so often she looked up to catch Alistair looking at her, his hazel eyes bright with tender affection.

"I thought I'd feel different," she wondered out loud and the others fell silent; the sparks of the fire aspiring to reach the heavens between them. "But I feel the same. Do  _you_  feel different?"

This was directed at Alistair, who thought for a moment then shook his head, flushing slightly. Finian finally grasped the meaning of her spoken thought, his jaw dropping.

"Wait, you'd never lain with anyone until –  _just now?_ " he asked incredulously, eyebrows ascending to his hairline. "I thought that Circles were centres of debauchery. You know, all those pent-up adolescents."

Flora thought for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"I think _some_  people did…. do that kind of thing. With each other," she replied carefully, shooting a sideways glance at the senior enchanter. Wynne snorted, waving a casual hand in dismissal.

"Don't think we're not aware," she replied beadily, raising her eyebrows. "It's an inevitable part of Circle life."

"But my dad told me to eat well and avoid boys," replied Flora, earnestly. "So I never did that kind of thing. I just spent a lot of time in the kitchen. A  _lot."_

"Until now," murmured Zevran, folding his fingers beneath his chin. "Better late than never, my Rialto lily."

"Still, caution should be taken," warned Wynne, reaching out to jab at the base of the fire with her staff. "You can't afford to get with child." Then, as both Flora and Alistair opened their mouths to protest, she shook her head impatiently.

"Yes, yes, I am aware- the taint prevents two Wardens from conceiving. But, Flora, you  _know_  your body reacts strangely to the Blight. Just be careful, my dear."

Flora smiled at the older woman, recalling how in the not too distant past, the senior enchanter had dragged her from the tent and berated her loudly for merely  _kissing_ her brother-warden. Conversely, Wynne had a very different image in the forefront of her mind.

_She breathes the Blight in; she coughs; she looks as though she might be sick and sometimes she is. But then in the span of a few heartbeats her body neutralises it and the Blight is gone, and she is fine._

"Thank you, Wynne," Flora said, interrupting the senior enchanter's reverie. Wynne bestowed a slightly distracted smile upon her in return, patting her knee.

As they prepared to retire for the night, Finian volunteered to take the first watch. The sky was shrouded in cloud and the moon hidden beneath a grey veil; as if it too was in mourning for those lost in the valley below. Zevran, eyes lighting up, slipped into the tent with the two Wardens.

"Don't let my presence disturb you," he purred, propping himself up on an elbow expectantly. "I'll be as quiet as a Chantry mouse over here, _do_  carry on."

To his immense disappointment within minutes both Alistair and Flora were fast asleep and snoring in quiet unison; their arms wrapped chastely around one another. The Antivan elf gave a small sniff of disgust, turning his back on them.

A candle-length later Finian was relieved by Sten, who later woke Flora by grabbing her ankle and dragging her forcibly from the tent. After the initial shock, she was grateful for the interruption; having been immersed in a banal yet terrifying nightmare involving giant, sentient pastries. After regaling the dream in meticulous detail to an increasingly infuriated Sten, Flora took his place beside the fire.

The woods were quiet around them, the horses whickering softly to one another beside the trees. A bat beat its leathery wings against the damp air, wheeling above the campfire for a brief, dizzied moment. Flora watched it flap away; stifling a yawn. To prevent herself from falling asleep, she used the light radiating from the head of her staff to project a soft golden glow over the earth before her. Using her finger, she etched letters in the dirt, slow and careful.

Naturally  _Herring_ came first; she remembered to make the first letter bigger and to add the extra  _r._ After a brief pause, she smoothed her palm over the dirt and carefully wrote  _Highever_ in her neat, rounded hand.

* * *

 

In the darkest hour before dawn, Flora returned to the tent and patted Zevran; who gave a catlike yawn and relieved her watch. She settled back down against the damp bedroll, trying not to disturb her brother-warden as she curled her cold feet beneath the blanket.

Turning over to face Alistair, she was startled by hazel eyes boring into her own, his expression hidden by the shadows. He reached out and touched her cheek gently, stroking his thumb along the high arch of the bone. The simple gesture was innocent enough, yet there was now something far more intimate about the touch of his finger against her skin.

"Did you know that  _Highever_ has a silent  _G_ in it?" she whispered inanely as he traced his thumb slowly over her lower lip. "What's the point of a  _silent_ letter?"

Alistair shook his head in a quick back-forth, his fingers sliding down the defined angle of her chin. It was too dark for her to discern his face as a whole; Flora was only aware of individual features moving through the shadow. She felt his breath hot against her neck and the press of his lips just to the side of her mouth. A glimpse of the strong Theirin jaw, near identical to that of his half-brother. Finally, she caught a flash of his eyes, kind hazel irises darkened with desire.

"Speaking of  _silence_ ," he murmured in her ear, and she felt the brush of stubble over her cheek. "How quiet do you think we can be?"

Alistair's fingers slid down her neck and caressed the triangle of exposed skin at her clavicle. Flora stifled a giggle, recalling a series of increasingly angry Circle tutors.

_Apprentice, it is not enough that you cannot cast a single offensive spell; apparently it is also beyond your capability to keep quiet. Leave this classroom and continue with your chores._

"I'm not very good at keeping my voice down," she whispered, as her brother-warden slowly unfastened the buttons of her shirt, using touch rather than sight to guide his hand. His fingers brushed against the cool metal of the Chantry amulet, resting against the hollow of her throat. Once the shirt had been fully undone, he lowered his mouth to her neck, following a meandering path down to her collarbone. As his lips reached the small swell of her breast and moved on to her nipple, Flora put her arm over her mouth to muffle the whimper that threatened to escape.

From outside they could hear Zevran humming a foreign folktune to himself, preparing to oil his daggers. As the elf caressed his blades and used the discarded whetstone to hone the edge, Alistair manoeuvred himself into position above his sister-warden. There was no time for further caresses or even to fully disrobe. Flora wriggled out of her breeches hastily and Alistair sufficed with shoving down the top of his trousers. He reached between her legs to determine whether she was ready; his fingers came back slick. She made a little noise of impatience and he grinned down at her, lowering his mouth to her ear to whisper.

" _Shh,_ " he murmured, taking himself in hand to guide himself within her thighs. "Silent letters, remember?"

Alistair savoured entering her inch by slow inch, watching with amusement as she pressed the blankets against her face to muffle her mouth. Wasting no time, aware of dawn's steady advancement, he began to move his pelvis against hers in measured, driven thrusts. Stifling her sounds of pleasure with his lips; he gripped the underside of her thighs and rocked into her.

"There have been no sign of Darkspawn. I undertook a morning patrol and established that there were none in the area."

Sten's flat, unamused voice came from directly beside them, mere inches away through the canvas. They heard Zevran acknowledge this with a grunt; then Wynne's voice also chimed in.

"I've been consulting the map, I suggest that we attempt to reach Fero's Way before sundown."

Alistair looked down at Flora, his jaw dropping slowly. She was now holding the blankets over her face, shoulders shaking, trying desperately to stifle her laughter. Catching his gaze, she crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him. Alistair let out a sudden bark of laughter, rolling off her and groaning.

"What's so  _funny?!"_ demanded Zevran from outside the tent, flicking his fingers impatiently against the damp canvas and splattering them with a shower of cold drops.

"I made up a joke and told it to Alistair," said Flora after a moment, and the elf let out a bark of disbelief.

" _You?!_ A joke? No offense,  _cara mia,_ but you're not the sharpest dagger in the armoury."

By the time Zevran had thrust his head and shoulders inside the tent, Flora was fully dressed and smiling at him.

"So," demanded the elf, eyebrows rising. "Let me hear this  _joke_  that had you both in such fits of hilarity."

"What did the Warden say to the Archdemon?" improvised Flora, as Alistair looked down to hide his grin. Zevran narrowed his eyes at her.

"I don't know - what?"

Flora's eyes flickered from side to side.

"He said…  _I'm going to kill you!"_

The elf shot her a deadpan stare; she gazed back at him innocently, then gave a winning smile.

"Do you like it?"

"My lily, you  _do_ know that a joke is supposed to have a  _punchline?_  A witty rejoinder? That its purpose is for humour?"

"No, I did not know that," replied Flora, wondering if her shirt was fastened correctly. Zevran rolled his eyes, retracting his head and shoulders.

"Wynne wants to leave as soon as possible. Oh, and Alistair, your breeches are still undone."

* * *

 

Everyone was quietly relieved when they mounted their horses and turned their backs on the desolate fortress. With Cailan's letters safely tucked away and Duncan's sword in Alistair's belt, Ostagar shrunk behind them until it was a vague smudge on the horizon. They could see the Blight-scar on the land as the horde swarmed north after their victory, leaving poisoned soil and stinking miasma in their wake.

They followed the Tevinter highway north, avoiding the blighted land as far as was possible. After consulting the map, Wynne had decided that the quickest way to the southern reaches of Brecilian was via the old trading road of Fero's Way. As the oldest route connecting east and west Ferelden, this had once been a bustling trail of commerce. Now it was half-overgrown and deserted, merchants preferring to take their caravans down the better-maintained King's Road.

They made good time in the morning; the watery sun making a tentative appearance before vanishing behind a veil of cloud. It was cold, but still as the surface of an undisturbed pond, dampness hanging heavy in the air. Skirting the blighted land, the Southron hills swelled up before them in a rolling, dark green mass. Wynne had estimated that it would take just under a week to meet up with the rest of the company.

Fero's Way meandered lazily through the low, undulating slopes of south-eastern Ferelden. On occasion it passed through a valley or a small wood, but their surroundings were for the most part unchanged – miles of hilly moorland, dotted with patches of purple heather. Fortunately, there was no sign of the encroaching Blight, nor any trace that the Darkspawn had encroached upon the hills themselves.

For two days, there was little other sign of civilisation other than the occasional farmstead. The stone buildings had an air of desolation about them, and when they called up at the windows; it became obvious that the occupants had fled, taking their animals with them. On the third day of travelling, they met a small company of farmers travelling north in a caravan; a herd of cows following obediently in their wake. They were heading to the capital, believing that they would find the best protection within the city walls.

"Are they planning on bringing their livestock with them?" asked Zevran incredulously as they drew their horses to one side, allowing the procession to pass. Wynne snorted and shook her head, envisioning cows wandering the streets of Denerim and eating the castle grass.

On the fifth day, they met another cluster of refugees fleeing the Blight. There were several families, on foot and frightened; with no set destination other than  _not Ferelden_. They had originally intended to seek Gwaren, one woman said with fear clinging to her features, but had heard rumours that it had fallen to the Darkspawn. As Wynne confirmed this with a tight nod, Alistair realised that he was gripping the reins of his horse so tightly that the tips of his fingers were turning white.

"If you go north," the senior enchanter suggested, sweeping her gaze over the ragged group. "There's another port at Amaranthine. You may be able to seek passage there, if you have sufficient coin."

Finian had scowled, recalling that this region was controlled by the treacherous Arl Howe; usurper of the Cousland family seat.

Whenever they encountered groups of frightened refugees, Flora had occupied herself healing the inevitable illness and injury that accompanied long travel. She cured several cases of frost-cough and mended a broken ankle that had fallen foul of a cartwheel. Two children were feverish with ague, the parents watched Flora with suspicion as she bent over them. Even when the little boy and girl were on their feet once again, bright-eyed and lively, the father continued to cast dark looks of mistrust in her direction.

"It's not right," muttered Alistair to himself as they watched the families continue on foot over the gorse-speckled hills. "Loghain is doing nothing to help these people. His lands are being laid waste, while he… tries on the crown of Ferelden to see how it fits!"

" _Someone_ must rebuild the south," murmured Wynne, watching Flora scramble back up into the saddle. Alistair fell into silence once more, his eyes searching the desperate faces of the families as they gathered their possessions and began to move on. When he raised his eyes, they met Wynne's pale blue stare.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So how much privacy is there in camp? HMMM! Well speaking as a seasoned veteran of many holidays under canvas, I can testify that there is literally none, lol. Which is unfortunate for Alistair and Flora, who are still in the initial post-virginity sex-crazed-haze. I swear in some of the actual game cut-scenes, you can actually SEE other party members in the background during the sex scenes! Ha! Also, Flora is pretty shit at coming up with jokes. Although Zevran's 'not the sharpest dagger in the armoury' comment was a little under the belt!


	92. A Counting Game

Chapter 92: A Counting Game

There was little in the way of landmarks or distinguishing features within their surroundings; fortunately the beaten track of Fero's Way was relatively undisturbed and easy to follow. They moved in the opposition direction to the sun; which rose ahead of them and set at their backs each day.

Zevran entertained them all with several unsavoury stories from his time as a Crow, while Oghren attempted to out-do him with tales from the glory days of his youth. The dwarf spent an hour describing, in meticulous detail, the drinking contest in which he had first caught Branka's attention. This then prompted a prolonged period of melancholic introspection on where he had gone wrong with his errant wife. Sten had pointed out, with his usual bluntness, that Branka had become obsessed with power beyond her station; ultimately leading to her demise.

"Please, Oghren, no more soul-searching," begged Wynne as they paused to let the horses drink from a roadside spring. "Nobody can take responsibly for Branka's actions, save for Branka herself."

The Antivan elf nodded, rolling dark eyes as he leaned down to refill his water pouch.

"Aye, I think I'd rather listen to our resident intellectual continually fail to progress beyond thirty," he muttered darkly.

Flora had set herself the goal of learning to count to fifty before they reached the Brecilian Forest. To that end she had borrowed the small quill and inkwell that Wynne kept in her pack, rolled up her sleeves and made twenty five small black dashes on the soft underside of each forearm. The trail of angular flecks began at the inside of her elbow, meandering in a ragged line down to her wrists. Unfortunately, shortly after she had transitioned from one arm to the other, she would lose count.

"Twenty _ten_ , twenty ten  _one_ , twenty ten  _two_ …" she chanted tunelessly, as Zevran let out an impassioned groan. Finian, who had been studying at the University of Orlais since the age of seventeen, was quietly appalled at her lack of formal education; but knew better than to state this out loud.

As usual, it was the dutiful Alistair who came to his sister-warden's aid.

"Not quite, my dear," he murmured, drawing his horse alongside her. "After twenty nine, then it's  _thirty_."

"Why not  _threety_?" retorted a belligerent Flora, crossing her eyes at a scowling Zevran.

"Well, it's not two-ty either, is it?" countered Finian, earning himself a glare.

* * *

 

They followed a path that wound down into a low valley, the loose flagstones half-covered with creeping moss. Waiting her turn to cross a shallow ford, Flora turned her arm over and began to count the ink-marks meticulously once again. Alistair, his horse shifting impatiently beneath him, leaned across the space between them and caught her hand. Keeping his hazel stare fixed on her own grey gaze, he kissed the inside of her wrist softly.

Flora smiled at him, feeling a slight flush rise to her cheeks; he grinned, delighted at provoking such a response. They had not been intimate since Ostagar; having had alternately Zevran and Wynne as a sleeping companion in their tent for the past few nights. The Antivan elf was beginning to grow frustrated at his inability to seduce the elder Cousland, who remained stubbornly loyal to his dark-haired manservant with the laughing eyes.

From the front of the party, Finian himself gave a shout. He had spotted a low stone building at the base of the valley. On first sight it appeared a farm; but on closer inspection, it lacked any evidence of surrounding agricultural cultivation. Instead, they saw several vast metallic vats positioned at the side of the building; then the sharp-eyed Zevran spotted a wooden sign swinging above the door.

"An inn!" enthused Oghren, eyeing the rapidly descending sun. "And one that brews its own booze, from the look of it. I suggest that we rest here for the night."

After they had stabled the horses, met the dwarven innkeepers and sampled the local ale, Oghren amended his suggestion to a  _week._ The proprietors, a male and female dwarf, were alike enough that the company could not discern whether they were brother and sister, or man and wife. At first unusually reticent for dwarves, they soon became more sociable in the face of Oghren's boundless enthusiasm – and Wynne's coin.

Sten quickly vanished within his assigned room to meditate, silently grateful for the chance of privacy. Wynne was taking the opportunity to scribe several missives to Pether and the Circle; ecstatic at the roaring fire, smooth writing surface and lack of draught. The roll of parchment began to drape down her knees as she continued to transcribe the events that had transpired at Ostagar.

The male innkeeper, a stout dwarf in his middle years, apologised for his earlier frostiness as he brought out several handwritten menus for them to peruse.

"Lot of troubled folk on the roads recently," he explained, sliding tankards across the bar. "Bandits, ruffians. Refugees. Some eastern Arl from Amaranthine, throwin' his retainers about. Ordered my best soup an' refused to pay."

Finian immediately stiffened, recognising the family seat of Rendon Howe.

"When was the last time you saw the Arl's men?" Flora asked, fiddling with the edge of the menu. The dwarf thought for a moment, glancing over at his sister-wife for confirmation.

"'Bout a week ago, I'd say. Just over."

"Ah, the fools who attempted to capture our bard," said Zevran lightly, though the edges of his tone were laced with steel. "The ones roasted in Wynne's firestorm."

Despite the warmth radiating from the stone fireplace, Flora shivered. She remembered the cold bite of the silverite cage, the feel of the lyrium spike positioned at the back of her neck. It had reminded her unpleasantly of when the Templars arrived in Herring to take her away to the Circle Tower.

_They clamped me in the mage cage, then shut me inside a larger cage; taking no chances. It was Jowan who persuaded them to let me into the carriage._

_Jowan, I've not spared you much thought. I'm sorry, it's been hectic._

_Daveth; Jory. I haven't forgotten you either. Or Niall. Or the sad pale faced Ruck, from the caverns._

_So many dead to carry with me. I can feel them crowding my shoulder sometimes, their cold breath on the back of my neck._

They played several rounds of Wicked Grace, which – as would be expected of one who had spent the past five years in Orlais – Finian excelled at. Oghren downed five tankards in rapid succession, then passed out halfway across the tavern.

While a crouching Flora checked that the dwarf was still alive, Zevran made a final attempt to assault her brother's unassailable defences; only to be met with a gentle, but firm rebuff. Zevran scowled, turning his charms on the buxom dwarven barmaid instead.

The inn was not overlarge, and their rooms were clustered on either side of a cold stone corridor. Each candlelit chamber was small and austere; and in dire need of structural repairs. A wooden bucket stood in the corner of Flora and Alistair's room, collecting sporadic drips from the ceiling.

"It's nice to have a roof again," mused Flora, after the party had broken up for the evening. "I keep looking up expecting to see the sky."

She was sitting on the lumpen, several-times-patched mattress in her smallclothes and shirt, combing through tangled hair with her fingers. Alistair, having already removed the external layers of his armour, gazed at her across the bed and thought  _I'm more grateful for the walls, and the door._

Reaching out, he slid his fingers over her bare knee, cradling the sore, reddened joint. The swelling had substantially reduced since she had begun to strap it at Sten's suggestion; but the long days of riding had still taken their toll.

By the meagre light of the candle on the nightstand, Flora inspected the remnants of the ink marks on her forearms. Most of them had not survived her evening wash, leaving faint bruise-like smudges in their wake.

"I'll redo these tomorrow," she said eventually, leaning back against the headboard as Alistair pulled the cambric tunic over his head. "I think they're helping."

Flora's attention was caught by the flexing broadness of her brother-warden's shoulders, the muscle standing out clear and defined. She averted her eyes quickly back to the smudged ink, sliding down the pillows. " _One_ ty,  _two_ ty, makes a lot more sense. I can never remember what comes after threety –  _thirty."_

In a swift motion Alistair was on top of her and straddling her hips; using the strength of his powerful thighs to hold his own weight. He stared down at her, raw and naked desire shadowed in his dark irises.

"Allow me to assist, my dear," he murmured, leaning forward to let his lips brush against her ear. He first pressed his mouth gently against her neck, then to the hollow of her throat. As he kissed her, his fingers moved to the fastenings of her shirt; pushing the buttons through the holes to loosen the collar. He heard her breath catch as he moved his lips back up to her ear.

"Count," he commanded quietly, and she obeyed in a small whisper.

"One, two, three…"

Alistair spent the next six kisses on her neck, before opening the sides of her shirt gently and lowering his mouth to her collarbone. He spent the next minute meandering over her clavicle, waiting to see if she would stumble at the first hurdle. Flora hesitated, and he paused with his lips hovering over her chest.

" _Twenty,"_ she said eventually and he smiled; pressing his mouth against the soft curve of her right breast as reward. Hesitantly, she counted the next nine numbers; for each correct utterance, he dropped a kiss onto the warm swell of flesh, lips lingering around her nipple.

Flora passed the perilous milestone of  _thirty_  with a squeak of triumph; Alistair undid the final few buttons of her shirt and pulled the folds of cotton aside. His mouth wandered down her stomach, kissing a trail around her navel as she continued to count. There was a raw edge to her voice now, her words not altogether steady as she spoke.

"Thirty six, thirty seven, thirty eight," she whispered, watching Alistair drop back between her slender legs. Eyes shadowed with desire, he parted her thighs, fingers stroking the edge of her smallclothes. He pressed his lips against the side of her knee, then raised his forge-heated gaze to her expectantly.

" _Forty,"_ Flora offered after a moment, her voice hoarse. A lazy, desirous grin spread over her brother-warden's face, and he began to move his lips in a meandering pattern up her inner thigh. As he cupped her knee with an intimate hand, she paused in her counting.

"Forty five, forty six, forty seven….is this meant to  _help_ me focus?" she whispered, catching a glimpse of a grin as Alistair withdrew his mouth from the soft skin near the juncture of her legs.

" _Keep counting,"_  he ordered, lust clinging to his words like honey. Flora swallowed, sinking back onto the mattress as her fingers curled into the edge of the tattered blanket.

"Forty eight, forty nine…  _fifty,"_ she whispered, feeling Alistair's large gentle hands at her smallclothes, carefully sliding them down her thighs.

The bedside candle guttered in a sudden draught, dripping beads of cheap tallow-wax into the tarnished holster. The next moment it had blown out, leaving the room bathed in shadows of bruised violet and ink, a voyeuristic moon peering around the threadbare curtain.

It did not matter that Flora could not count beyond fifty; by this point, numbers were the furthest things from both of their minds. She could only see the top of Alistair's rumpled head between her thighs, his gold-burnished hair cast almost silver by the moonlight. Her brother-warden's raw desire compensated for his inexperience, firm hands gripping her hips as he tentatively used lips and tongue for purposes that neither of them could have previously imagined. Her fingers reached out blindly for something to cling to; at last they found trembling purchase in the wooden slats of the headboard. With each gentle caress of his mouth the desire came in rolling waves, relentless as the incoming tide. All cares and concerns were driven from her mind by convulsions of increasing pleasure.

Finally, she reached wordlessly for him and he responded instinctually to her imploring fingers; reaching down to take himself in hand. Without hesitation he sheathed himself inside her, a guttural groan escaping his chest. Their bodies seemed to mould against one another, separating only so he could thrust himself more deeply back into her. The bed, unused to the vigour of two Wardens engaged in coitus, began to let out alarmed creaks of protest.

The friction of heated skin against skin was lessened by sweat; he gripped her thigh and held it, she clung more tightly to the headboard, as a drowning man would clutch at a rope. For a panting, heaving, gasp-filled candle length, neither Warden spared a thought for the Archdemon, Loghain or the Blight itself.

Finally, hearing a ragged whimper escape from his sister-warden's throat, Alistair abandoned all self-control and spent himself inside her with a strangled moan. Exhaling unsteadily, he collapsed on his back next to Flora on the lumpen mattress. They lay there for several minutes, regaining their breath; flushed and bleary-eyed with post-coital fatigue.

After a few moments, Flora reached over to press a finger against the finely-hewn plane of her brother jaw, feeling the heat beneath the cool olive skin.

"I lost count," she whispered, giving a little roll of her eyes. He let out an exhausted bark of laughter, pushing several sweaty strands of hair away from his face.

"That's alright, my dear. You did very well."

Alistair reached out to draw her against him, the inches between their bodies too great a distance. She settled into his chest, familiar with each hard plane of muscle and sinew.

"How many numbers are there in the world?" she asked eventually, watching his fingers edge around the corner of her breast. "If there are twenty six letters."

"Eh?" He paused in his gentle thumbing of her nipple, watching in awe as it responded reflexively to his ministrations. "A lot. Millions."

"Why are there so many more numbers than there are letters?" Flora wondered, her breath catching as he stroked her gently with the flat of his calloused finger.

"I don't know," he replied, distracted by his own renewed desire. "I suppose there's a limit on the words we have, but not on the amount of things that can exist."

As she thought about this, Alistair leaned forward to kiss the hollow of her neck, sliding his lips along the collarbone he had dreamed about since first glimpsing it in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. When he raised his lust-darkened eyes to hers, they contained a question. Flora smiled; and her brother-warden rolled back on top of her, already ready for a second round.

"There's not a number in existence that could measure how much I love you though, Flo," he murmured in her ear, and Flora beamed up at him.

_See that you do not get distracted._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I'm not sure if those are some approved educational tactics that Alistair is using to help Flora learn her numbers, lol. I wanted to talk a little bit on Flora's actual education in my OOC note today, since I don't want her lack of literacy or numeracy skills to imply that she's "stupid", in any way. She would have had some education in her first five years as a Cousland, but the spell that the mage performed on her to erase her memories at five blocked all that out. Then in her ten years living in Herring, numeracy and literacy skills were not as desirable as learning how to mend nets and gut fish! I mentioned in an earlier chapter that there was only one person in Herring who even knew how to read. Then in the four years at the Circle, she mostly went under the radar – her lack of offensive ability got her sent out of the classroom and straight onto chores more often than not.


	93. Magic Tricks

Chapter 93: Magic Tricks

The next morning dawned bright and almost spring-like, the sun mounting the rolling Southron hills with a pale golden optimism. The wind seemed to have blown itself eastwards over the sea to Par Vollen; and for the first time in many months, those resting in the dwarven inn were woken by birdsong.

Their companions reacted differently to the audible and blatant exertions of the Wardens from the previous night. Sten's initial disapproval was somewhat alleviated by the fact that both Flora and Alistair had risen early, he preparing the horses for travel and she settling the bill and purchasing supplies. Wynne, in frighteningly good spirits, looked somewhat misty-eyed and threatened to regale them with stories of her own youthful shenanigans, to the alarm of all. Finian had spent the night with the pillows clamped over his ears, gaping in horror at the ceiling.

Zevran, however, had danced into the tavern with a cackle. His dark, wicked gaze settled immediately on Alistair, knowing that brother-warden was far easier prey.

"My dear Alistair, aren't you  _terribly_  exhausted from your long journey?" he breathed, while the male Warden eyed him with open wariness. Flora, who had her suspicions about what was coming, hid her grin in her porridge.

"I know I'm going to regret this," muttered Alistair darkly, hunching his shoulders as Wynne raised her pale blue gaze. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you've travelled  _such_  a long way," replied Zevran, a malicious smile twisting over his face. "This morning you're here in the south, but last night you were in  _Herring!_ "

Flora dropped her spoon and spat a mouthful of porridge over the counter, letting out a shriek of laughter as Alistair's jaw dropped. Finian let out a groan, his face equally appalled.

"Elf, please!" he begged, averting his eyes as Flora slithered off the bench to retrieve her dropped utensil. "It's bad enough that I was subjected to it for half the night. That's my  _little sister."_

They set off once more, following a rarely-used route through a low valley. The land here had gone uncultivated for months, the previous occupants long-fled in the face of the Blight. The earthen path itself was submerged within overgrown foliage, damp green branches reaching up to their knees as they rode. The Mabari was near hidden in the bushes; only the tips of his erect ears visible above the leaves and waist-high weeds.

Finian's horse shied at a grass snake as it slithered near its hoof; fortunately, the young Cousland was an expert rider and kept his seat. Jethro lunged for the snake, shaking it vigorously between his jaws with a muffled growl.

"I hate snakes," whispered Flora to Alistair, feeling his breath warm against her ear. "They don't even have any  _fur_."

He snorted, kissing the top of her ear. Wynne's horse had gone lame the previous night, they had sold it to the dwarves and Flora had offered her own mount for the senior enchanter's use. Alistair was secretly delighted at having his sister-warden ride with him again; they had not shared a saddle since the frenzied journey from Kinloch Hold back to Redcliffe.

" _Loghain_  is a snake," he murmured against her hair as they continued onwards. "I'd not be surprised if he were a shapeshifter like the hedge witch and his true form was a reptile."

"Well, he'd better watch out for the dog, then," she replied, feeling his chest shake with laughter just behind her. She was also grateful for his proximity, recalling the oath that she had sworn to the dead king.

_I swear to keep him safe; may the Waking Sea take me and my body be buried in shallow sand if I fail._

* * *

 

They made camp in the base of the valley, in one of the few clear patches within the scrub. Fortunately they had purchased fresh supplies from the dwarven innkeeper; finding game in such tangled undergrowth would have been like finding a needle in a field of haystacks, as Wynne had so eloquently put it.

"Like finding a virgin in Antiva City," murmured Zevran, adding several more branches to the fire.

Wynne snapped her fingers and a small flame sprang to life within the base of the kindling. She lowered herself to sit with a small grimace, plucking up the hem of her damp, grass-stained robe.

"We should reach the southern reaches of the Brecilian Forest by tomorrow evening." The senior enchanter weighted the edges of the map down against the earth, gesturing to their location with a slender finger. "We meet up with the others just here, on Wyman's Yat. It's a bluff overlooking the forest."

Meanwhile a pensive Finian was looking around at the foliage, the creeping vines and wide-leafed ferns, drooping with dew. Despite the dampness, there was almost a sweaty feel to the air, a humid moistness underlying the evening chill.

"We're not far from the Korcari Wilds," he murmured, hurling a spare piece of kindling for Jethro to retrieve. "In Fergus' last letter to mother, he said that the King was asking him to scout the border of the Wilds to check for Darkspawn."

"The Chasind who dwell there are fascinating people," replied Wynne, sorting out the wrapped and salted meat into portions. "I'd love to learn more about their customs."

Alistair scowled, unpleasantly reminded of Morrigan.

While the others prepared the fire, Sten and Flora had ventured into the wilderness in search of water. Sten was striding ahead through the undergrowth, using his own barrel-like physique to barge the bushes and trailing vines aside.

"Keep up," he instructed Flora, who was scrambling behind him with an armful of water pouches. As he strode through the foliage, various fronds and branches snapped back into her face.

"Ouch," she said, spitting out a leaf as a thin twig slapped her in the mouth. "Ow, I'm trying. Ah!"

She nearly tripped over a half-submerged root, stumbling against Sten's back. Quick as a whip, he turned and gripped her elbow to prevent her from falling.

"Move with more caution,  _kadan_ ," he instructed, glowering down at her. "Injury causes delay."

Even more certain now that  _kadan_  meant moron, Flora followed glumly in the Qunari's wake.

Eventually, nostrils flaring, Sten kicked aside a clump of damp ferns to find a small spring bubbling up between the stones. He took a knee, lowering a hand to cup a palmful of water. Carefully he took a small sip, then nodded.

"It is not stagnant."

Flora crouched down beside him, feeling her own sore knee give a twinge of protest. Together they filled up the water pouches from the clear spring, as the evening drew in around them like a dusky cloak.

This far south the night sky appeared a deeper, inkier black; the constellations standing out in blazing pinpricks of light. Even the moon seemed closer, a vast milk-white globe veiled by thin wisps of cloud. From the tangled undergrowth surrounding the camp came the quiet rustlings of mice and rabbits, drawn to the orange glow of the fire.

Sten, who had twitched at every disturbed leaf, retired early to one of the tents to meditate. Zevran had also gone to set up traps at the only route in and out of the camp, grateful for the natural barrier of tangled undergrowth.

Jethro, sensing his master's melancholy, let out a soft whine and pushed the top of his head against Finian's knee. The young Cousland was ostensibly reading a small book of Orlesian poetry by the light of the flames; yet his eyes had remained on the same page for several minutes, staring blindly at the calligraphed letters.

"Master Cousland, are you alright?" enquired Wynne, rolling up the map after memorising the next day's route. Finian startled, looking up and focusing on the senior enchanter.

"Ah! Apologies… for not being the most entertaining company tonight," he murmured, as Flora raised her head from Alistair's knee. "I… was just thinking on Fergus, my brother. I don't know whether he died at Ostagar, or if he was captured as a prisoner, or if he somehow managed to escape. I think the uncertainty is the worst part of it. At least I know that my parents are dead."

"The Darkspawn don't tend to take prisoners," replied Alistair quietly, the young lord's grief striking a familiar note. "It won't help to brood over it, you'll drive yourself to madness with the  _not knowing."_

Finian fell into a dejected silence, his palm resting limply on Jethro's head. The Mabari let out a low whine, liquid-dark eyes gazing anxiously up at his master. Above them glowed the southern tip of the constellation  _Draconias;_ the individual stars glowing like suspended lamps in a shadowed room.

"Do you want to see some magic?" It was Flora's voice that had broken the silence, she was gazing across at her brother with wary sympathy. Finian blinked at her in confusion.

"Magic? I'm not injured," he started, watching her clamber awkwardly over Alistair's legs. Flora knelt before him, flexing her fingers experimentally and fixing his grey eyes with her own identical stare.

"Look," she whispered, reaching up a hand to the side of his head. "I'll show you something."

Reaching with finger and thumb behind his ear, Flora drew out a round silver coin from his russet curls. The metal winked in the moonlight like an eye as she held it up.

"Magic!" she declared triumphantly, while Finian let out a bark of surprised laughter.

"How did you do that? Do it again!"

Flora leaned forwards and pulled a coin from his other ear, widening her eyes for dramatic effect. She handed it to Finian, who took it from her and peered at it, as if to ascertain that it was no phantasmal conjuring.

"My dad taught me," she replied, with a little wry shrug. "Except it was with coppers, not silver. It's the only 'magic' that anyone's ever been able to teach me."

Wynne snorted, leaning forward to jab at the base of the campfire. The flames hissed and spat, sparks wheeling towards the tail of the  _dragon_ overhead.

"Show me how it's done!" demanded Finian, and Flora held out her palm. Letting the coin rest between her thumb and little finger, she tensed her hand fractionally; allowing the slight contraction of muscles to keep the coin in place as she lifted her hand. Showing him the coin still held there, she shuffled on her rear over the damp grass back over towards Alistair.

He gazed down at her, his eyes warm as the heated air rising from the fire. Flora reached up to his ear, fingers brushing against his hair; turning her palm so that Finian could see.

"You have to draw their attention with something," she went on to explain, glancing quickly over her shoulder to see that Finian was watching her in fascination. "So they don't watch your hand too closely."

She smiled up at her brother-warden, pale eyes reflecting the ochre and amber hues of the fire. Alistair was aware that he was being distracted, but could not stop himself from smiling back. As he did, she drew out the coin from behind his ear.

Finian grinned, clapping his hand together. "I'll have to learn it proficiently, it'll go down a storm at the next  _salon_ in Val Royeaux."

Only a momentary flicker across his face betrayed his fear that he might never return there; that even if Howe was usurped and Highever was returned to the Couslands, he, Finian, would need to take on the mantle of leadership.

_This would be my life: rain, wind, crumbling stone and the smell of wet hound. The relentless thunder of the Waking Sea, in all its unforgiving fury; battering itself unceasingly against the rocky cliffs. The people, northern and taciturn, grimly eking out a living from Ferelden's harshest coastline. No more seeing the bright contrasts of spring flowers against lapis lazuli walls; of waking up to the lustre of sunlight on the ripples of the Miroir de la Mère. Val Royeaux was full of music and laughter, issuing from every window and balcony. In contrast, the corridors of Highever rang with the barking of dogs and the rough-edged voices of weathered men. I journeyed to Orlais at the same time as my sister was being taken to the Tower. Yet I never mourned the loss as she did. She's a northerner to the bone; if I hadn't seen her bleed, I'd almost believe that seawater coursed through her veins._

With effort Finian roused himself from his melancholy, and removed the pack of Wicked Grace cards from his personal effects. He showed them several tricks learnt from his fellow students at the University, including a particularly deft one involving a vanishing Knight of Roses.

" _My_  father taught me that one," Finian said, after Alistair had confirmed that the Six of Snakes was  _indeed_ the card he had chosen. The bastard prince had tried to learn one of the tricks, but his handsome, open face was too honest for sleight-of-hand. The Couslands, with their shifting grey eyes like water, were far more adept at the art of disassembly.

Flora looked up from the cards, a flicker of curiosity at the back of her mind.

"The teyrn knew how to do things like that?" she asked, the question tentative on her tongue. Alistair, who understood all too well the sensitivity of parentage, took her slender fingers within his own and squeezed them gently.

"On occasion he would gamble with the local arls and banns, and I suppose he picked up a few tricks along the way," replied Finian, fiddling with the small gold ring on his little finger.

Wynne saw an opportunity and pounced, catlike.

"Flora, I've been musing over the nature of the spell used to tamper with your memory," the senior enchanter said, her tone deliberately calming. "I don't believe that it was a complete  _obliteration_ charm, since you mentioned that you retained the ability to speak."

Alistair felt Flora's fingers curl against his own, her hand tensing as though she had sensed approaching Darkspawn. He returned the pressure with his own calloused fingers, trying to communicate reassurance through their clasped palms.

"I believe that the mage created a mutable barrier preventing you from accessing certain memories. If those memories still exist, I could attempt to retrieve them for you. Your first five years at Highever, as a teyrn's daughter."

Flora gaped, unsure how to respond to the senior enchanter's offer. After a moment, she spun her head rapidly from side to side, as if physically shaking off the suggestion.

" _No_ ," she breathed in a shocked inhalation, then remembered her manners. "Thank you. But no.  _No._ "

Clambering awkwardly to her feet, Flora mumbled her goodnights and launched herself in the direction of the tents, despite her knee visibly paining her.

"Hm," observed Wynne archly, smoothing her skirts over her knees. "So eager to escape, she'd seek sanctuary with  _Sten."_

The Mabari let out a soft whine, sensing his master's renewed desolation.

"Why is the prospect of being a Cousland so repellent?" Finian murmured, watching Alistair rise to his feet. "Maker knows, there are few enough of us left. We ought to stick together."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So the last night you were in Herring is inspired by a quote ascribed to the 16 year old Arthur Tudor, son of Henry VII, when he married Catherine of Aragon in 1501. After his wedding night, he called for a drink and said (paraphrasing) that he was so thirsty because he'd spent last night in Spain. Teenage boys, lol. I wonder if Flora will ever find out what kadan means? After going through Orzammar and Ostagar together, the Qunari has developed a begrudging respect for Flora, who he definitely still sees a man, lol.


	94. The Journey to Brecilian

Chapter 94: The Journey to Brecilian

Inside the tent Alistair could see nothing for several moments, the lingering incandescence of the campfire blurring his vision. Then shapes emerged from the shadow; dark lines and edges coming together to form recognisable silhouettes. He could see Sten lying on his bedroll, face turned to the canvas. The Qunari slept so inert that the rise and fall of the chest indicating life was barely discernible.

Flora was slumped on the opposite side of the tent, having made no effort to ready herself for sleep. She had clearly flung herself down and remained prostrate where she fell, fully clothed and sulking.

Alistair removed his own boots and then hers, arranging them neatly beside Duncan's sword. His mentor's weapon lay on the damp grass next to the tent entrance, polished to a gleaming shine. Grateful that he had removed his armour earlier and did not need to risk arousing the Qunari; Alistair lay down on the bedroll beside Flora. She turned over to look him in the eye, obstinacy stiffening the corners of her mouth. He looked at her, and suddenly tried to restrain the urge to laugh. Immediately her eyes narrowed, and she flung herself over to face the tent wall once more.

"Why are you smiling?" she demanded of the damp canvas, and he muffled a smile against her hair, arcing his body around hers.

"Your expression just reminded me of a mule we used to have at the stables in Redcliffe," Alistair murmured, brushing strands of oxblood hair away from her neck and kissing the patch of exposed flesh. "His name was Brother Fedric, and he was the most stubborn creature in Thedas. He never did what you asked him, unless he willed it himself."

As he spoke, he edged his fingers within the buttons of her shirt, seeking the warm skin beneath the sweat-damp linen. Flora shifted against him, thinking solemnly on the comparison. Alistair, touch alone guiding his fingers, found a small breast; cupping the warm handful of flesh. He could feel her nipple against the calloused skin of his palm, responding involuntarily to his soft caresses.

"I like mules," Flora said at last, squirming as she felt a familiar pull within her gut. "They're sturdy and strong. I prefer them to horses, I think."

Alistair smiled against her hair, adjusting the angle of his pelvis slightly to accommodate his growing arousal.

"I know, my love," he murmured, his breath warm on the back of her neck. "Their spirit is second to none. I like them too."

He slid his hand down her stomach, pausing briefly at the top of her breeches. The next moment his fingers slid beneath her smallclothes, nestling themselves promptly between her thighs. Flora let out a squeak of mingled surprise and pleasure; and Sten released a warning snarl.

"Restrain your base urges,  _bas,"_ the Qunari hissed. "It was intolerable enough hearing the sounds of your intercourse last night through the walls; do not force me to render you incapable of further coitus."

Hastily retracting his hand from his sister-warden's breeches, Alistair's eyes bulged at the implication. Flora hid a cackle against the bedroll, sitting upright and reaching for her boots.

"What do you mean,  _render me incapable_?" bleated her brother-warden in mild panic. "What are you implying?"

"Alistair," Flora whispered, her words laden with meaning. "I want to get a snack, come with me?"

He followed her through the tent flap; she turned and put a finger to her lips, canting her chin towards the glow of the campfire,  _ssh._ There was a copse of trees just behind the tents, their branches tangled together to form a thick canopy. She shot him a heated look over her shoulder, he followed her into the trees, already unbuttoning his breeches.

As soon as they had rounded one large, squat tree; Alistair had her up against its trunk. He was already gripping himself in one hand, the other fumbling at her waist.

"We'll need to be quick and  _quiet_ ," he breathed in her ear, helping Flora to shove her smallclothes down around one leg. "I don't fancy Sten chopping my manhood off while your brother launches arrows at my rear."

Flora hid a muffled giggle against the firm muscle and sinew of his broad shoulder; then inhaled in sudden shock when her brother-warden picked her up by the thighs, pressing her back hard against the trunk.

As Alistair guided himself inside her, unable to stop a groan breaking free from his chest; he realised that quick would not be a problem, but  _quiet_ would be impossible.

The next morning dawned mild and almost spring-like, the surrounding foliage damp with dew. Zevran took one look at Flora as she emerged from the tent, and let out a bark of laughter.

"My Rialto lily, have you been wrestling Darkspawn in the night?"

Flora blinked at him in confusion as Alistair ducked through the canvas flap behind her. The campfire had burnt down to embers; to one side, Sten was readying the horses.

"What do you mean?" she asked, watching Zevran dig around in his pack. After a few moments, the elf triumphantly produced a small pocket mirror.

"Stole this from Leliana," he explained, passing it to her. "It's for her own good - a Chantry lay-sister should not be  _vain."_

Zevran let out a dark cackle, envisioning the bard's rage when she discovered the loss.

Flora gazed at her own reflection and nearly dropped the mirror in shock. As Alistair turned to look at her, his face contorted almost comically.

"Maker's Breath," he murmured, his eyes widening. "Flo, you'd better do something before your brother wakes up or he'll set his Mabari on me."

Her lower lip was swollen and red, as if it had been tugged none too gently between teeth. The corners of her mouth were sore, an inevitable product of excessive pressure from another's lusting mouth. Her neck and collarbone were scattered with purplish marks, a trail of bruises disappearing beneath the edge of her shirt. Red friction marks, from where stubble had made frequent and prolonged contact with skin, covered her cheeks.

Flora squawked, throwing the mirror towards Zevran and disappearing back inside the canvas flap. Zevran caught it with a single, agile hand and allowed a catlike grin to play over his features.

"My dear Alistair," he murmured, watching a yawning Wynne emerge from the other tent. "From what I saw, I'm not surprised that she appears in this…  _bruised_ condition. Fascinating to see such dominance erupt in you during lovemaking; who would have suspected sweet, gentle Alistair to take command so… completely?"

"From what you saw?" squawked Alistair, in slight disbelief.  _"From what you saw?"_

Zevran smiled archly as Wynne hit the side of the tent with her staff to rouse Finian. The elf sauntered towards the remains of the campfire, scooping up the cook-pot and tossing it towards Sten.

"I was returning through the trees after setting the traps," he murmured, an evil grin spreading over his tanned features as white teeth flashed in the morning sunlight. "When I happened across a most  _unusual_  sight."

The young Warden let out a groan, slapping a hand over his eyes as Flora emerged from the tent once more, her skin now clear and unmarked.

"Please tell me you left right away," Alistair begged, stepping back to help her dismantle the structure of dew-damp canvas and poles. Zevran raised his eyebrows, delighting in the bastard prince's obvious discomfort.

"Why, of course, my dear Alistair," he said, insincerely. "Would I allow myself to intrude upon such a  _private_  moment?"

"Yes," muttered Alistair darkly, slinging the canvas over his shoulder.

Zevran let out an intimate little cackle, watching a yawning Finian emerge from the second tent, russet curls rumpled. As Alistair suspected, the elf had not been entirely truthful with his confession. After stumbling upon brother-warden taking sister-warden roughly against a tree, the elf had melded silently into the shadows and proceeded to watch. After observing for nearly a candle-length – their intention of  _quick_ had fallen by the wayside – Zevran was forced to admit that what Alistair lacked in technique; he made up for in raw vigour and brute strength.

* * *

 

The company rode out of the foliage-filled valley, the wind assaulting them once more as they left the protection of its shallow basin. The horses struggled up the side of a gravelled ridge, the path long dislodged by subsidence.

Once they reached the top they were rewarded by a breath-taking vista over a great swathe of southern Ferelden. Miles of hilly grassland and rolling plains lay spread out before them like a patchwork quilt, the land uncultivated and growing wild. In the far distance, like a dark green stain creeping over the horizon, bristled an unrelenting spread of trees; stretching out as far as the eye could see in either direction. They all paused to stare out at the undulating expanse, but it was Alistair who looked the longest, tawny eyes taking in every ridge and furrow of the land before him.

Flora peered down at the map, which she had spread over the back of the obliging horse's neck. Stirred from his reverie, Alistair craned his neck to see over her shoulder.

" _Brecilian,_ " she said, pressing her fingers against the familiar inked letters in the south eastern corner. Her brow furrowed in mild dismay as she glanced up at the vast, sprawling expanse of trees dominating the horizon. "It's  _huge."_

"We're meeting the others at Wyman's Yat," called Wynne, her voice swept away by a sudden gust of wind. "If we make good time, we should be there by nightfall."

They rode for several hours, pausing only to let the horses drink from the shallow streams half-hidden in the undergrowth. Fero's Way followed an ancient Tevinter trade route, the mossy flagstones worn down by decades of hooves and tramping feet. The hills rose up around them in shallow heather-covered ridges; they saw no other sign of civilisation save for the occasional crumbling shepherd's hut. Of the occupants and their flocks, there was no sign.

The clouds drew together suddenly as if conspiring to block out the sun; greyish light the colour of stagnant water falling over the rolling grasslands. Their shadows seemed to lengthen and elongate, encompassing each other within an amorphous mass. A light drizzle began, sufficient to render them damp and despondent. Flora, who didn't seem to mind getting wet, was humming a tuneless and repetitive melody under her breath.

"If you don't stop that, my flower," hissed Zevran eventually, peeling a damp strand of hair away from his forehead. "I shall  _gag_  you."

She crossed her eyes at him and he snorted.

"That class will serve you well at the Landsmeet,  _Lady Cousland._ "

Flora stuck out her tongue at him in a manner reminiscent of the gargoyles adorning the Grand Chantry in Val Royeaux. Wynne opened her mouth, preparing to launch into a verbal admonishment; but she was interrupted by several things occurring, almost all at once.

A spear came launching from the top of the ridge, splintering itself in front of Finian's horse. The creature reared up in fright, sending Finian crashing to the mossy flagstones. The next moment two more spears came hurtling through the air, crude iron dagger-tips aimed towards them. One whistled past Zevran's shoulder, so close that he felt the wooden haft pass against his tunic. He let out a shout, diving from the saddle and withdrawing twin blades from his belt.

" _Ambush!"_

The third spear hurtled towards Sten, who issued a roar and raised a muscled arm to protect his face. A split-second later there was a crackle of arcane energy as a golden barrier tore through the air before him; materialising just in time to intercept the path of the spear. Sten looked round to see Flora half-falling from the frightened horse, her hand stretched towards him. Alistair was already on foot, shield and sword up, helmet pulled down over his face.

" _Tal-Vashoth!"_ Sten snarled, recognising the craftsmanship of the spear.

Three Qunari materialised on the ridge to one side, mirrored on the other. Their commander, red painted horns gleaming a wet scarlet in the watery light, gave a yell of command. The six Qunari streamed down the slope, wielding an assortment of curved and glittering blades. Despite their size and bulk, they moved exceptionally quickly; descending on the party in the span of a few heartbeats.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Alistair and Flora are still in the initial want to do it all the time phase of their relationship, lol. To the point where Alistair is trying it on next to STEN – WTF? CONTROL YOURSELF. Also, I realise this word might be unfamiliar to anyone who isn't British (or maybe from one particular region in Britain), but a Yat is a rocky outcrop – there's a famous one where I used to visit a lot as a child, called Symond's Yat Rock. According to urban dictionary, yat also means 'woman', haha


	95. Ambushed!

Chapter 95: Ambushed!

A gout of flame issued from Wynne's staff and engulfed two of the Qunari as they charged, bull-like. The first assassin collapsed with a howl as he writhed in the arcane fire; but the second barrelled straight through the blaze with a snarl and launched himself towards the senior enchanter. A moment later he barged into a gleaming golden barrier, letting out a howl of pain as charred skin slammed into the crackling field of energy. Zevran had clambered onto his horse's saddle and used the height to jettison himself through the air, landing on another Qunari warrior's back before drawing his blades in a dual slash across the creature's throat. Cold metal bit through flesh and sinew like unforgiving teeth; and he slumped to the mossy flagstones.

Finian had spent several panicked moments gasping for breath after falling from his frightened horse. As Zevran's victim fell beside his Orlesian leather boots, the young lord clambered upright and fumbled for his bow. Jethro had positioned himself before his master, snarling with baring fangs. As Finian fitted an arrow to the string with trembling fingers, Alistair's shield intercepted a blow meant for the young Cousland. There was no time for thanks; a curved scimitar sliced the air towards the Warden and he had to dodge quickly to one side. One Qunari had already fallen to Duncan's merciless sword, and a second quickly followed suit. Sten meanwhile had launched himself forward as a bodily weapon against his ostracised kin, bellowing insults in his native tongue.

Flora hovered at the side of the road, her heart racing but her mind still as the clear green surface of a rockpool. She had been using her hands to summon the gleaming shields that protected her companions; her staff two dozen useless yards away on the back of the frightened horse. Her gaze swivelled between two channelled barriers: one was shielding Zevran from a bleeding Qunari's enraged blows; the elf danced around him, blades whipping forward quicker than insect stings. The second was protecting her terrified brother, who had never killed anything greater than wild boar on Orlesian hunting parties. Blows rained down on the shimmering shield, yet the magical barrier stood firm as silverite.

The tide of the battle gradually yet irrevocably turned in favour of the Wardens and their companions. Four Qunari lay dead on the mossy flagstones; the remaining two spread out in a flanking manoeuvre. Each of them towered over six foot, barely armoured save for a spiked leather pauldron. One of the Qunari noticed Flora through the frothing red mists of battle, identifying her as the source of the magical barriers that deflected blows and frustrated blades. He raised a finger to point and gave a bellow of command.

" _Bas saarebas!"_

Sten, who alone understood the ominous meaning of the  _Qunlat,_ yelled a warning to Flora. She still had her hands extended, protecting her companions from the furious blows of the Tal-Vashoth. Hearing Sten yell, she swivelled her head in his direction; and then a small round projectile struck her squarely in the back of the skull. She dropped like a stone, face-down on the moss-covered flagstones, her barriers vanishing as abruptly as she had fallen.

Fortunately it was now five against two. Two rapidly became one after Alistair, Warden-fuelled strength mingling with rage and horror, shoved his sword into one Qunari's chest. It was a brutal, unclean wound; the man fell back with a choking gurgle and began to spasm on the side of the road. Finian dropped his bow and went to his sister's side, crouching beside her. He held the back of his hand over her mouth, and to his relief, saw her breath misting over the gold ring on his little finger.

The remaining four surrounded the final Qunari, who stood his ground like a cornered lion. When Zevran demanded that the assassin speak, the red-painted man let out an unamused bark. He opened his mouth only to let out some utterance in a foreign tongue before tossing back an inky liquid. Within seconds he was dead, slumped to the ground with a clear fluid seeping from his nostrils.

Alistair dropped his shield and Duncan's sword on the side of the road, hurrying to Finian's side. His face had the same pallor as the dead Qunari prostrate on the flagstones.

"She's knocked out cold," said Finian quickly, cradling his sister's head in his lap. "She took a blow to the back of her skull, I think from this."

He held up a small, angular stone, similar to the type launched from slingshots. Alistair looked down at Flora's grey, slack face. It held a different type of stillness from when she was merely sleeping, a single unwanted thought rushed to the forefront of his mind.

_This will be how she looks if she dies._

The horror of this realisation caused his stomach to physically curdle; he recoiled upright, staggered several steps to the side of the road and retched into the bushes.

Wynne came over, knelt beside Flora and tilted her head slightly. There was no blood on the back of her hair, but the senior enchanter's probing fingers were easily able to locate the prominent lump.

"I can reduce the swelling," she murmured to Finian, taking a deep breath to focus herself. "Not as quickly as she could, mind you. But it'll be sufficient for purpose."

As Wynne went to work on the unconscious Flora and Alistair heaved the remnants of his lunch onto the moss; Zevran and Sten searched the bodies of the assassins in the hope of finding any clues as to their client.

"So, I take it you don't know these Qunari?" Zevran commented lightly, rifling through one man's woven-leather pack. Sten shot him a baleful glare through ashen eyes, giving a single shake of the head.

"No, these are Tal-Vashoth. They have forsaken the Qun and are  _masrat._ They are not Qunari. No Qunari would take coin for his actions."

This was spat derisively, just as Zevran located a silver goblet stamped with a distinctive emblem of a bear. The elf sighed, rolling his eyes while rising elegantly to his feet.

"Arl Howe is getting desperate," he murmured, rubbing his finger over the tarnished metal.

* * *

 

They continued to follow Fero's Way, grateful when the half-buried road emerged into open grassland. The ground was undulating but flat enough to allow them to see for miles, preventing any further attempt at ambush. It had taken Alistair a long time to calm the horses; especially since they could detect his own raw anxiety, which throbbed like a plucked bowstring in the damp air.

Now brother-warden rode with sister-warden slumped against him, her face pressed to his chest. His arms encompassed her as he held the reins, preventing her from sliding off the saddle. It did not take long for Flora to stir; in no small part due to Wynne's healing combined with her body's own natural rejuvenative ability.

As Alistair felt her shift against him, he brought his horse to a stop and peered down at her, hazel eyes shadowed with worry. The rest of the company also came to a halt beside them.

"Flo?" he whispered, removing a strand of hair clinging to her cheek.

Flora grimaced as she instinctively put a hand to the back of her neck.

"Ow," she whispered, then coughed to clear her claggy throat. "What happened?"

Weak with relief Alistair lowered his face to her shoulder for a moment, exhaling unsteadily. It was Wynne who responded first, drawing her horse alongside them and offering Flora her water pouch.

"We were ambushed by more of Howe's men, you were knocked unconscious. Do you feel well?"

Flora nodded, realising that now the initial disorientation had passed, she felt almost normal. She took several gulps of the water before handing the pouch back; trying to avoid spilling any on Alistair's bowed head.

"I feel fine," she replied honestly, though storm clouds were gathering in her gaze, and when she continued, there was a growing anger in her tone. "Actually, no, I feel  _enraged._ Do you think that Arl Howe is working for the Archdemon? Why else would he be trying to kill the last Wardens in Ferelden?!"

"He's a treacherous snake," hissed Finian, relief at his sister's consciousness laced with loathing at the man who had betrayed his father.

They continued to ride towards the dark expanse of the Brecilian Forest; their shadows lengthening as the sun slowly slid towards the western horizon. The veil of cloud took on a spectrum of muted colour, rose pink mingling with burnt umber and deep veins of violet. Ahead of them rose Wyman's Yat, rising from the grassland like some subaquatic beast, its rocky cliff facing the edge of the ancient wood. Even as twilight crept over the plains and swallowed the half-buried flagstones, their route forward was clear. At the top of the Yat blazed several campfires, a scattering of bright points in the gathering darkness.

The path up to the top of the rocky protrusion was uneven and littered with loose stones; they ended up dismounting and leading up the horses on foot. Their companions had already set up camp, having arrived two days prior. It would be the first time that they had seen the others since before they journeyed to Ostagar.

As they ascended the Yat, the smell of roasting rabbit drifted towards them on a chill evening breeze. Approaching the bright glow of the fire, they could gradually pick out the orange-lined silhouettes of their companions huddled around it. Leliana was plucking idly at her lute, humming under her breath. Morrigan, her face contorted in an expression of distaste, was pointedly immersed in a leather-bound book. The dwarf was sat between them; and from the mound of bottles scattered about his position, he had done little more than drink for the past few days.

As they approached Oghren himself leapt up to greet them with a great roar of relief that startled the horses. The bottle in his lap dropped to the dirt as he lunged forward to clap Alistair awkwardly on the back.

"Thank the Ancestors you're here," he hissed, rolling red-rimmed eyes at Leliana and Morrigan. "These two ain't stopped snipin' at one another for the past three days. It's almost enough to detract from their loveliness.  _Almost."_

Chantry sister shot a subtle glare at witch of the wilds as she rose to her feet, before a brilliant smile lit up her face.

"I am very glad to see you," Leliana whispered, stepping forward to help unpack the horses. "The company has left  _much_  to be desired."

At this Morrigan let out a little snort, watching them lift down the tangle of canvas and poles. Alistair took charge of the horses while the others quickly constructed the other two tents. The ground was hard and rocky; unable to drive in the pegs, they had to weight down the canvas with small stones. Wynne scribed a quick note to Eamon, sending it off on the raven he had loaned them for the purpose of communication.

"We received a message from the Arl yesterday," the bard said, spreading her leather skirt over her bare knees as they returned to the fire. "He and the other nobles have made good progress through South Reach. They'll reach Denerim within the week."

Wynne nodded, stretching her saddle-stiff limbs with a little grimace. Morrigan exhaled loudly through her nose and slammed the book shut pointedly.

"Did you achieve any success with your own purpose?" she enquired acerbically, adjusting the scarlet cloth hanging over her breasts. "I assume there was a reason for making us linger on this wind-blown rock."

Flora, one foot pulled up into her lap, was busy massaging the journey from her knee. She paused, then gave a little nod.

"Yes," she replied, picturing the old King bent over the light of a candle; scribbling his secretive correspondence to the Empress while his rowdy companions drank and sang outside. She wondered if Loghain had intercepted Celene's reply, if he really  _had_ learnt of Cailan's intention to invite the Orlesian army across Ferelden's borders. She wondered if he had also read Eamon's suggestion that Cailan put Anora aside in favour of a more fruitful wife. Alistair had not brought this up, but Flora assumed that the ruthlessness of his old guardian must have troubled him.

Sten, who had worn a darkening scowl since their encounter with the  _Tal-Vashoth,_  retired to his tent without announcement. Finian, still shaken from the encounter with assassins sent by the man who murdered his parents, also claimed tiredness.

"The Qunari makes a wise choice," hissed Morrigan as Oghren let out a long and lingering belch, rising to head for her own tent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So we're at the border of the Brecilian Forest! Time to get the elves! I heard that in game, it's recommended that you do Brecilian before Orzammar? Well I did it the other way around! Geographically, it didn't make much sense to go Circle – Brecilian – Orzammar- Denerim – unless they're flying on Thedas Air, lol. In terms of this chapter, I wanted to insert a bit of action, and I also wanted to show that despite all her shielding, Flora is far from invulnerable. She can easily get caught out, even by something as minor as a stone flung from a slingshot!


	96. Wyman's Yat

Chapter 96: Wyman's Yat

Slender fingers drifting idly over the strings of her lute, Leliana glanced over to where Alistair was still tending to the horses. Coaxing them to lift their hooves, he was picking out small stones accrued from the journey; he had not yet sat down himself.

"You'll have to tell me what it was like to return to Ostagar," the bard said, idly strumming a traditional Orlesian chord progression. "I will need to add it to my epic."

Flora paused for a moment, her grey eyes reflecting the shifting orange hues of the flames.

"It was… full of ghosts," she said after a moment, her voice wistful. Alistair brushed his hand over her head as he lowered himself to the rock beside her.

"How's the patient?" he murmured, fingers sliding through the hair and probing the back of her skull to find where the lump had been. The swollen protrusion had vanished, giving no clue as to its former location.

"I'm fine."

"Honestly?"

Flora smiled at him and gave a little nod; he searched her face for any evidence to the contrary. Upon finding no deviation in her expression, he returned the smile.

As Alistair gazed at her his anxious stare softened, the travel-weariness draining from his eyes. He caught her fingers and brought them to his mouth, pressing a courtly kiss to the back of her hand while his gaze never left her face.

Zevran caught sight of Leliana watching them, and deliberately coughed to get her attention. Canting his chin towards the two Wardens, he raised his eyebrows and then made a little gesture involving a pointed finger and a circled thumb, nodding.

Leliana let out a little gasp, but Oghren had also caught sight of the gesture. He gave a loud exclamation that set Jethro barking and lifted Wynne's eyes from her missive. The only one who did not respond to the sudden noise was Alistair. He was gazing at his sister-warden as though the answers to all the world's questions lay in the defined angles of her face.

"The Archdemon itself could set half of Brecilian aflame and I don't think he'd spare it a glance," breathed Leliana in fascination, raising her voice slightly. " _Ah, greetings, Teyrn Loghain! What a surprise to see you here!"_

She paused expectantly; the silence stretched out like a yawn. Alistair did not flicker an eyelid in the bard's direction, focused instead on tracing the faint tan freckles dotting his sister-warden's nose with the ball of his thumb.

Zevran raised his eyebrows at Leliana,  _I told you so._ Flora leaned forward to take some of the roasted tuber from the cooking rack, taking a small bite before lifting her gaze to the red-haired bard.

"Have you been in the forest yet?" she asked, casting a slightly anxious glance over at the dark spread of trees, stretching out to cover the horizon. "I've never seen so many trees before."

Leliana inclined her head, ember-bright strands of hair desaturated by the shadows. The moon hung above them vast and impossibly close, a milk-white pearl set in the dark velvet sky.

"I've scoured the outer reaches," she replied, smoothing down the leather fringe of her skirt. Zevran's eyes tracked the movement of Leliana's fingers; lingering on the firm, corded muscle of her thighs. The bard noticed his gaze and scowled at him, pointedly inching away.

"I believe that I've located the Dalish camp, it's not far from the forest edge. From what I overheard, they are loathe to venture too deep into the woods."

"Why? What's in there?" asked Alistair, his head turning to join Flora's as she stared at the tangled forest canopy beneath them. Leliana gave a little shrug, sliding a knife from her boot and testing its edge against her finger.

"They say that it's haunted."

Flora let out a little hiss, averting her eyes away from the dark border of the trees. Instead, she raised her gaze upwards. This deep into the wilderness, there was no other light to detract from the gleaming swathe of stars above. They littered the night sky like a handful of crystal beads thrown onto a dark blanket; she raised her finger to one constellation to the west.

"Look,  _Peraquialus_ ," she whispered, pointing out the shape of the mast and sail.

_The view must be good from up there, Duncan._

* * *

 

It was decided that the watch would be shared between those who had arrived first at the Yat, allowing those who had travelled to rest. As Flora followed Alistair to their familiar, increasingly battered tent; Oghren gave a raw and lecherous cackle.

"Sleep well, Wardens," the dwarf intimated, openly leering. "Have a  _restful_  few hours."

Zevran let out a soft, rich cackle, raising an eyebrow at Leliana through the flames.

"Young love, eh?" the elf said, teeth standing out very white against his tan skin. The bard smiled, her fingers gripping a lute peg and twisting the string taut.

"Inevitable, really, considering their situation," she murmured lightly, watching tension ripple down the sinew. "The only surprise is that it's taken this long."

Flora caught the tail end of their conversation as she entered the tent, and felt a peculiar tug of sadness at her gut. Alistair cursed as he almost tripped over his discarded armour in the dark tent; while she pulled off her boots and breeches, lost in thought.

Lying back on the bedroll, Alistair lifted his arm and she settled reflexively against the crook of his broad shoulder, grateful for the weight of his muscled arm as he rested it against her. Several minutes passed, Flora cringed away from her own crawling, beetle-like thoughts.

"Flo?"

Flora realised that her brother-warden had asked her a question, and was now patiently waiting for her reply.

"Sorry," Flora replied into the shadows. "I- I was just thinking about something."

She told him about what the bard had said, her face tilted up towards him to see his reaction. The words emerged faltering and laced with anxiety.

"Do you think it's true?" she whispered, her pale grey eyes fixed on his. "That it was inevitable we would end up…you know?"

Flora trailed off, miserably. Alistair thought for a moment, then gave a little nod.

"Yes, I do."

She stared up at him in dismay and Alistair hastened to explain, pressing a kiss against her temple.

"I think that it was inevitable, but not because of the  _circumstances_ ," he said, his voice soft and low in the darkness. "If you were a fisherman's daughter in Herring and I a visiting blacksmith, I'd still want you. Or if I was  _Prince Alistair_  and you Lady Florence in Denerim; I'd be sending you flowers, or whatever passes for courting in the city. Even if our paths hadn't been diverted by Duncan and we were both in the Circle, I'd break all my Templar vows for you."

"Are you saying we'd have ended up in a Potions cupboard anyway?" Flora whispered, using humour to disguise how touched she felt. Alistair laughed, rubbing his finger around the top of her earlobe affectionately.

"I think so, Flo," he breathed, the words warm against the skin of her neck. "I think we  _were_  inevitable, but inevitable in any circumstances, not just the ones that we found ourselves in."

Irrationally pleased, Flora rolled over to straddle her brother-warden's waist; leaning forward to cup his cheeks within her slender fingers. He smiled up at her, running his palms down her back to settle on the curve of her rear. She lowered her face and he quickly claimed her lips; his tongue seeking out hers as though parched. Alistair's hand caressed her hip through her smallclothes and she rocked her pelvis deliberately into his, movements driven by instinct alone. Already she could feel him rigid against her bare thigh, parted only by the thin cloth of his breeches.

Their lips pulled at each other hungrily, Alistair could taste the faint afterglow of magic under her tongue. An inadvertent groan escaped his chest and he gripped her hips hard, insistent. Fat drops of rain began to bounce off the canvas above their heads; Leliana's muffled squeal of consternation was just audible.

Flora sat up, straddling his pelvis with her back to the tent entrance. Her shirt had slipped from one shoulder, the top several buttons come loose to reveal one small, bare breast. This was too much for Alistair, whose lust-clumsy fingers fumbled to pull aside the fabric keeping them apart. He entered her in a single awkward thrust, fingers clamped around her thighs hard enough to leave bruise. She gasped as he groaned, reflexively lifting his pelvis from the bedroll to collide with hers.

They moved together with a synergy first developed on the battlefield; like two undulating parts of a song, separating and coming together again in harmonious congress. There were no words, only impact and the sound of damp flesh against flesh, erratic, shallow breaths and nails digging into skin. For a precious half-candle length, Darkspawn and demon alike faded away to insignificance, all rational thought driven out by urgent need.

Finally Alistair rolled her over and pressed her into the bedroll; using the powerful muscle of his abdomen to drive himself between her thighs, thrusting wild and erratic to reach a desperate climax. He cried out against her shoulder as he spent himself inside her, his pupils wide and irises blown near-black.

Flora put her slender arm around his neck, feeling the frantic staccato of his pulse. Alistair slumped back onto the bedroll beside her, pulling her against him and encircling her with both arms. He kissed the top of her head fiercely, overcome by a surge of sudden affection.

"I love you, Flo," he whispered, sliding a palm down to the small of her bare back and cupping her hip.

"I love you too," Flora replied, wincing slightly as she shifted her sore pelvis against the bedroll. Alistair gazed at her flushed face, his eyes a forge of mingled affection and desire.

"I never want to do  _that_ with anybody other than you," he said earnestly, tracing the small swell of her breast with his thumb. "Does that sound silly?"

She shook her head, grimacing as she felt a cramp beginning in her thigh. Alistair yawned into her sweaty hair, overcome by post-coital lethargy.

"My legs are stiff," she replied, sitting upright and groping around in the darkness for her breeches. "I'm going to walk around."

"Want me to come with you?" her brother-warden asked, eyes already half-closing. Flora smiled and replied in the negative, leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek.

She emerged from the heated air of the tent into the chilled expanse of the night, the stars spread in a magnificent tableau against an inky backdrop. The raised bluff of Wyman's Yat offered excellent protection from ambush due to its elevation; on the other hand, there was no place to escape from the relentless wind. Wishing that she had one of the woollen fisherman's jumpers that she had lived in as a child, Flora wrapped her arms around her chest. Already, she regretted her decision to venture out in shirt and smallclothes. The sweat was rapidly cooling on her body, and she felt distinctly clammy.

The campfire had burnt down to embers, the other tents still and bathed in shadows. Flora hoped that their exertions had not overly disturbed any of their party; both she and Alistair were aware that privacy was going to be near-impossible in the circumstances.

"Come, Warden, sit beside me. I am watching the woods."

Morrigan's voice wove through the darkness like a strand of silk; Flora looked up to see a pair of golden eyes peering at her from the ridge overlooking the Forest. A moment later the rest of the witch's features came into view, her wicked curving mouth painted and her eyebrows drawn dark and fierce.

Obediently Flora went to sit beside the witch on the damp grass. The trees below them were unnaturally still and silent, issuing none of the usual nocturnal sounds of a forest. A pall of silence hung over the tangled canopy, and even the birds were muted.

Morrigan looked sideways at Flora, the witch's blackened lips arcing into a smile as she noticed the tousled hair and flushed skin.

"What a pair of matched fools," she said, a malicious edge to her tone. "Have you learnt to spell your own name yet?"

"Yes," retorted Flora, spelling out the individual letters. Morrigan smiled at her, catlike, feral.

"What about  _Florence?"_

"F, L, O, R- " Flora started then paused, the corners of her mouth turning down. She thought about it for a long moment, her hesitation drawn out against the long, sombre silence of the forest.

"…A?"

The witch made as if to laugh but then stopped herself. Instead, she cleared her throat and completed the name herself.

"E, N, C, E."

Flora repeated the spelling solemnly, staring at the dark wooded canopy below them. Morrigan fiddled with her necklace, the polished amber beads rattling.

"I assume he is pleasing enough in the bedchamber? Or whatever name you bestow upon our mouldering accommodation?"

Then, when Flora's mouth dropped open the witch gave a defensive shrug of the shoulders.

"'Tis the case, one would guess; based on the noises issuing from your tent," Morrigan continued, shooting her an arch smile, golden eyes intimate and knowing. "Ah well, it's all good sport. Ensure that you get sufficient rest in addition to your…  _exertions."_

Flora almost laughed, then remembered the others sleeping in the tents behind them. She settled for a quiet cackle, partially stifled against her shirtsleeve.

"I'm sorry that we disturbed you."

Morrigan snorted, tossing her dark head of hair with a rattle of beads.

"Oh, indulge away; it makes no difference to me. Sate your primitive carnal cravings with each other to your heart's content."

"Flo, are you- oh."

The hesitation was clear in Alistair's voice as he padded between the tents, obviously not expecting to see her sitting beside Morrigan. The witch turned around to survey him thoughtfully; the Warden was clad only in hastily donned boots and breeches. Alistair found himself wishing that he had also bothered to find a shirt. Morrigan's eyes swept over the honed musculature of his chest, then descended to the taut washboard of his stomach.

Flora smiled at her brother-warden, who was clearly attempting to ignore Morrigan's intrigued stare. He strode through the damp grass towards her, leaning down to caress the outer lobe of her ear.

"Come back to bed, my dear. Or  _bedroll,_ " he murmured, eyeing Morrigan warily out of the tail of his eye. "I don't like the look on her face, it's as though she wants to stuff and mount me. On the wall of her hut," he made the hasty addition.

Flora reached up her own fingers to touch the back of his hand, gazing down at the dark labyrinth of forest below. For a moment, she fancied that she saw lights moving between the trees; dancing golden pinpricks that appeared only for a fleeting moment.

The next moment Flora felt herself being lifted into the air, plucked with little exertion from the damp grass by her brother-warden. She beamed, sliding her arms around his neck as he gripped her beneath her bare thighs with strong, calloused hands.

"I remember the first time you smiled at me like that," Alistair breathed, his eyes wandering over her face as he held her with ease against him. "We were on our way to Ostagar from the Circle; you'd sulked for about three days straight. We restocked our supplies at this one village, and Duncan gave us each some of this Marches cheddar- "

Morrigan blew air rapidly from her nostrils, rolling her eyes

"And you ate yours in a heartbeat," Alistair continued, as Flora traced the distinctive Theirin jawline with her thumb. "I offered you the last few bites of mine. You smiled and it was like…the sun coming out."

"Unsurprising," hissed the witch, arranging her skirts over her tan knees. "I always said that she had  _hog_  in her ancestry."

"Oink," said Flora obligingly, and Alistair grinned, a sudden heat flaring in his eyes. He ducked his head to bury his lips against her neck, teasing the soft skin with the slowly moving tip of his tongue.

Morrigan watched as bastard prince carried teyrn's daughter back towards their tent; eager for the semblance of privacy offered by its thin canvas walls. She saw him lower her to the blankets, already reaching down to unbutton his breeches. The canvas flap dropped into place just as he bent over, broad shoulders rising in the half-light.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I thought it was an interesting point about the inevitability of ending up in a romance together. I mean, regardless of game mechanics, if you have two attractive young people in near-constant contact, is it inevitable that something happens between them? I liked the way that Alistair resolved that topic, though. Also Morrigan is finally warming up! Their conversation is roughly based around one that happened in game (!) Also, Alistair deffo needs to hone his technique; he has slight adolescent hammering syndrome at the moment, oh dear


	97. Into the Woods

Chapter 97: Into the Woods

The next day dawned clear and bright, the sky an uninterrupted swathe of cerulean. The round golden eye of the sun seemed to gaze down upon them with approval. The temperature was mild and there was an almost spring-like freshness in the air. Even the forest itself spread below them seemed less ominous than it had done in the previous night's shadow.

It had been decided that a large party descending on the Dalish encampment would only serve to antagonise them. After some discussion, it was decided that Alistair and Flora would be accompanied by Zevran – who was curious as to the nature of his wild Ferelden brethren – and Morrigan, who had the most experience navigating nature's most tangled and labyrinthine jungles.

Sten, Oghren and Wynne would follow the White River north, through the villages on the border of the forest; passing on news of the Blight to those who did not yet know. News travelled slowly in Ferelden, and it was possible that there remained smaller settlements unaware of the approaching danger. Finian and Leliana, the most politically astute of the party, would ride to Bann Reginalda's seat and attempt to win her support. Everyone was aware that after the Wardens had secured the aid of the elves, it was a straight road to Denerim – the heart of Loghain's ill-gotten territory.

The two warriors and the senior enchanter had departed already; Wynne imploring the Antivan elf not to antagonise his Dalish counterparts too much. The others were just finishing their breakfast, eating sufficient to sustain them for a long day's travel. Leliana had ascertained through her scouting that the main Dalish tribe had moved further north; far enough that they would need to make camp and continue the next day.

Alistair was checking their horses' hooves, picking the small stones out with a metal pick as Finian held their reins. The young noble's restraining grip proved superfluous; Alistair's gentle hands and soothing murmurs calmed the horses enough that they became docile under his touch.

Finian eventually let the reins drop and went to collect the tangled cooking equipment from the smouldering remains of the fire. Zevran intercepted him, dark eyes glowing as he too watched Alistair coax the horse into raising its hoof.

"Do you think that's how he treats our lovely Warden in bed?" the elf said, his voice low and amused. "All soft caresses and tender touches?"

Finian shot Zevran a glare straight down his aristocratic Cousland nose.

"She's my little  _sister,"_ he hissed, appalled. "I'd rather not think about it."

Zevran let out a wicked cackle, glancing over to where Morrigan was perched on a boulder, a book raised pointedly in front of her face.

"My dusky beauty, what do  _you_  think?" he called, as a pair of golden eyes narrowed at him over the leather-bound tome.

"About what, elf?"

"How do you think brother-warden takes sister-warden?" the elf enquired sweetly, enjoying Finian's obvious discomfort. Morrigan thought for a moment, lowering the book to her lap.

"Him apologising to the Maker like a good Chantry fool, and her stuffing her face with food," she said eventually, with a malicious snort. Zevran snorted, his own voice rising with delight.

"You're both wrong," he said, gleefully steepling long fingers. "I've seen them together. Our sweet prince ruts her like an _animal_. Like a beast of the field."

At this Finian let out a shriek of horror and fled, while Zevran burst into mischievous laughter.

"What's so funny?" asked an oblivious Alistair, approaching with the metal hoofpick in his hand. Morrigan flashed him an evil smile, and Alistair quailed slightly.

Meanwhile Finian had come to an abrupt halt beside the remains of the campfire. Leliana was kneeling beside Flora, whose oxblood hair was loose over her shoulders. The bard was carefully slicing away the bottom few inches with a small blade, eyes narrowed in concentration.

"I don't know why it grows so quickly," complained Flora, blinking as her brother nearly tripped over the remains of the fire. "What's wrong with your face-?"

Finian groaned, passing a hand over his face.

"Don't ask."

He lowered himself to sit beside her just as they all heard Alistair let out a strangulated yelp. Flora gazed from brother to brother-warden; her brow furrowing.

"Why is his head a tomato?"

Leliana hid a smile, measuring out the final ropes of hair against the rest. When Finian made no response other than a heavy sigh; Flora reached out to pluck up several of the severed strands. She pressed them against Finian's chin, the russet shade identical to his own curling hair.

"Now you have a beard," she said, holding the strands in place with her fingers. Despite himself, Finian snorted.

" _Now_  I look like Fergus," he replied, patting his own fingers against her cheek. "You've aged me ten years."

The two remaining parties made their farewells and prepared to depart on their separate ways. Leliana and Finian, taking the horses, were headed for the winding grassland path that led north to Bann Reginalda's seat. Finian had once been there as a child, and his father had imported Brecilian ale from Reginalda herself.

"It's some common ground to start negotiations on, at least," Finian had said, with a mild shrug. They were standing at the craggy face of Wyman's Yat, the horses flaring their nostrils anxiously at being within a stone's throw of the forest edge. The trees towered like the pillars of some vast building, taller even than the Grand Chantry in Val Royeaux. Despite the confident brightness of the sun; the mild spring light could not penetrate between those dark and ancient trunks.

"Maker bless you and watch over you in the Forest!" intoned Leliana, her hair wound into another elaborate concoction of braids in honour of the upcoming visit to the Bann. "I have spent an hour in prayer, wishing all success to your endeavours."

"And no hitches this time," muttered Alistair, remembering the chaos at the Circle and the civil war within Orzammar. "Just a nice, straightforward  _here are the treaties – yes we will happily aid you – thanks and goodbye!"_

Finian looked over at Flora, his face conflicted; then, when she stared wordlessly back at him, made as if to mount his horse.

"Keep yourself safe, sister," he murmured, turning his face away to adjust his stirrup. Then he saw Flora's face peering up beneath his arm, she smiled tentatively up at him and he embraced her.

"You be safe too," she whispered. "I won't know how to be Lady Florence of Highever in Denerim without your guidance. I'll do everything wrong."

Finian embraced the girl he had not held since she was a plump-cheeked baby of five; feeling her slender, sturdy body warm against his own. He kissed the top of her head affectionately, releasing her with an entreating glance over at Alistair.

The bastard prince was taking advantage of Flora's preoccupation to transfer some items from her pack into his, wanting to lessen the weight on her knee.

_I know she's the shield mage and the protector of you all,_ the glance said.  _But she's also my little sister, so please keep her safe._

Alistair gave a tight nod, withdrawing his hand rapidly as Flora turned and shot him a suspicious look.

"Off to see the  _elvhen!"_  announced Zevran triumphantly as the two parties set off; one to the north and one to the east. "I can't  _wait_  to meet my Dalish cousins."

* * *

 

Leliana's prior scouting had proven invaluable, she had located the main elven encampment in the outskirts of the Forest some distance north. Although customarily nomadic, the bard had noted that the tribe appeared to be well-entrenched; and had marked the spot on their map. Through her crude etchings and Morrigan's aerial eye, they hoped to reach the elves early the next morning.

As soon as they passed beneath the canopy of the great trees, the sound of the river and grasslands was muffled. Vast trunks soared up around them, wide and ancient, too great in circumference for them to encircle even with linked hands. The leafy branches above diffused the sun, illuminating the forest with a strange, pale green light. Tendrils of mist clung to rocky outcrops and mossy banks. Gnarled roots broke forth from crumbling earth to impede passage; above the trees trailed vines like a woman draped in fine jewellery.

There was no discernible path and the terrain was difficult to navigate. Damp earth gave way to sprawling bushes, a rocky ridge could quickly end in a sheer drop. Tree roots displaced whatever ancient trails had once been laid. Fortunately, the sun was just visible through the dappled patterns of the leaves; they headed north at cross-angle to its pale glow.

Morrigan relished the wild growth, appearing fully at home within the tangled greenery. Before the morning was through she had proved her expertise many times over – locating fresh springs beneath the moss, pointing out the half-hidden signs of the Dalish, and finally identifying which fungi was safe to eat and which would kill a man within ten breaths. Every so often she would transform herself into a small, black bird and spiral upwards to gain a view of the forest; ensuring that their bearings remained true. The witch was so contented that she almost forgot to be mean to Alistair, scathing to Zevran or patronising to Flora.

Zevran examined each of the small tokens left behind by his Dalish cousins, inspecting the twine-bound twigs and artfully woven grasses in fascination.

"They have some skill at craftsmanship," the elf admitted as they stopped for lunch beside a small, mirror like pond. "Though nothing compared to an Antivan artisan, naturally."

Flora was kneeling in the dewy grass, going through her pack to find their lunch rations. Alistair had the map unfolded on a low rock, an inkpen between his teeth. He was marking their progress as they went, checking landmarks off against Leliana's suggested route.

"I think this is- this pond. Maybe?" He offered the map to Morrigan, who snorted and turned up her nose.

"'Tis strange you would seek confirmation after my assurance that we are on the correct track," she replied haughtily, her derisive golden eyes sweeping over him.

Just then Flora set up a wail that caused several birds to break free from a nearby bush, flapping in panic towards the sun-dappled canopy. Alistair nearly fell into the pond in his haste to reach her side.

"I can't find the salted meat or the cooked roots!" she bemoaned, the contents of her pack now strewn across the grass. "I know I put it in here. The ghosts have  _stolen_ it. Stolen our lunch."

Flora had clearly not forgotten Leliana's intimation that the Brecilian Forest was haunted.

"Fool!" snarled Morrigan from across the clearing. "What use would ghosts have for sustenance?"

Alistair quickly reached for his own pack, opening it up to remove the linen-wrapped rations.

"I've got them," he said quickly, pulling the strings free with calloused fingers. "Here."

Flora sat back on her heels, her gaze swivelling between her own and Alistair's pack. One glance at her brother-warden's self-conscious face was enough to enlighten her as to the truth behind the meat's mysterious relocation. She put her fingers gratefully on the edge of his metal-covered elbow, then moved them up to his bare cheek. Alistair smiled down at her, his hazel eyes warming reflexively on meeting hers. Flora leaned forward, palms pressed against the damp grass and brushed her mouth over his. He returned the kiss with affection, sliding his fingers into the loose stands of hair at her ears.

"Ugh," hissed the witch, pointedly turning her back. "I preferred it when you were a pair of bumbling virgins. This is nauseating."

"Don't listen to the shrew," interjected Zevran, his tone dripping with honey. The elf came to sit close beside Alistair, wicked delight flaring in the depths of his dark eyes. "And, please, don't hold back on our account. If the baser urges of nature inspire you… you should act upon them.  _Right now_ , if you so desire."

To the Antivan's dismay, Flora had already become distracted by the prospect of lunch. She leaned over Alistair's lap and began to dole out portions of root vegetable and salted meat. Zevran lowered himself to the grass beside them, flashing a rueful smile. Milky light filtered through the leaves above and bathed their surroundings in a strange greenish hue, as though the clearing was underwater.

Alistair had become distracted by something wrapped in red fustian, one of the objects that Flora had torn from her bag during her frantic search for the food. He reached out to unwrap it curiously, folding back the red cloth. Suddenly he found the air snatched from his lungs, as though Flora's pilfering ghosts had planted their clammy lips over his mouth and inhaled greedily. Shocked, he reached down to nudge the delicate stem with a finger.

"Maker, after all this time?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: INTO THE WOODS, IT'S TIME TO GO, I HATE TO LEAVE, I HAVE TO GO! Aah, I like the growth of Finian and Flora's relationship in this chapter. Alistair, now he's taken off the metaphorical chastity ring (BELT?) is def not holding back (!) I love woods, I loved the Brecilian woods zone when I did it in game. I actually am in the middle of reloading an earlier save, since I made some baaaad choices and accidentally fucked everything up, lol.


	98. Mushrooms

Chapter 98: Mushrooms

Alistair raised his gaze across the clearing, to where Flora was returning from the surly witch, having delivered her a portion of food. His sister-warden blinked at him in confusion, her eyes dropping to where the rose lay on the fustian cloth.

"I wouldn't throw it away," she said, padding over the grass. "It's my flower from poor, lost Lothering."

She recalled when Alistair had first given it to her, in the inn on the way back from Kinloch Hold. Alistair nodded slowly, stroking the edge of a petal. It was just beginning to curl, the rich scarlet faded to a brownish pink.

"But that was months ago," he said, watching her plant a hand on Zevran's shoulder to lower herself to the grass. "How has it not rotted?"

Flora took a bite of cold potato, then leaned over and touched her finger to the first mottled sign of decay. The golden healing mist seeped from the tiny whorls and ridges of her skin, saturating the curling petal. Alistair watched as the scarlet seeped back into the brown, the curl straightening out as life returned to the bloom.

"Ibee-  _oo_ \- " she started through a mouthful of root vegetable, swallowed it and started again. "I've been doing that every few days. It stops it from wilting. I want to try and keep it alive until the Blight is over."

Alistair felt a sudden dampness prickling at the back of his eyes; he turned his face away and wrapped the rose carefully back up. Zevran took the opportunity to wax lyrical about the range of flowers on display in his beloved Antiva City, where the weather was humid all year round and you were greeted with a cornucopia of colour around every street corner.

"I especially like the spiky nightbloom, which reminds me of our dusky beauty here," he enthused, gesturing towards Morrigan. The witch almost began to smile, then quickly caught it and scowled instead. "A feast for the eyes; but if any part of it ended up  _in_ your feast, you would likely not wake up the next day!"

"It sounds as though  _everything_ in Antiva is poisonous, from the way you talk about it," said Alistair, finishing the last of his salted meat. "Like you could lick the flagstones and drop dead in seconds."

Zevran's eyes lit up. "My dear Alistair,  _speaking_ of licking-"

"What's a Rialto lily?" interrupted Flora hastily, referring to the elf's nickname for herself. "Is it poisonous too?"

"No, my flower," murmured Zevran, leaning back on his elbows and rubbing an idle hand over his taut stomach. "It has medicinal properties; an apt nickname for one such as yourself. And it's a milky shade of white, although," here he cast a prurient glance over at her, "I'm not sure how applicable that is now."

When Zevran had first met Flora and ascribed this label to her, four years in a Circle followed by a damp Fereldan winter had cast her overly pale. Now that spring was settling in her skin was reverting to its natural state, a warmer gold-dusted hue, tan freckles scattered over her nose.

"I don't want to be renamed after anything toxic _,_ " replied Flora in alarm. "Can't I keep  _Rialto lily?"_

Zevran laughed, the sound echoing around the ancient boughs above them.

"Of course,  _cara mia."_

They continued to follow the mossy trail north, Zevran's sharp eye picking out more signs left behind by his Dalish counterparts. Morrigan became almost animated pointing out the different types of plant nestled between the protruding roots; stooping frequently to pluck a sample and store it within her pack. The sun moved lazily overhead, the milk-green filtered light gradually darkening around them.

Their shadows lengthened as sunset approached, the rough path becoming harder to pick out. Zevran's catlike agility allowed him to navigate the tangled undergrowth, but both Alistair and Flora fell victim to the protruding tree roots that lay under their feet like lurking snakes. Alistair stumbled frequently but mostly managed to recover his balance; while Flora's weak knee was guaranteed to send her sprawling face first onto the damp leaves.

Night came down faster in the forest, the wan moon illuminating far less than its golden daytime counterpart. The shadows drew in around them like a cloak, Flora lifted the head of her staff and summoned a glowing whitegold flame to keep the darkness at bay. Everyone was relieved when they reached the small clearing marked on their map as the night's campsite. Here the moonlight streamed down bright and uninterrupted, tinting the edges of the damp grass silver.

They built the tents hastily, Morrigan constructing her own little hide in the hollow of a mouldering oak. Despite the fact that they were buried many miles in woodland and it was highly unlikely that Howe's assassins would have been able to track their route; habit and caution prompted them to maintain a system of watches. Above them, the stars moved in their slow celestial rotations, maintaining an eternal vigilance over the heavens.

Morrigan herself took the first stint, occasionally sparing the still, moonlit clearing a glance over the top of a leather-bound tome. Although she felt far more comfortable within the confines of the forest than she had done at any previous point in their journey; Flemeth's daughter was disconcerted by the lack of audible wildlife dwelling within the woods. Save for the muted evening calls of the birds, the forest was silent as a graveyard.

When she judged her duty to be sufficient, the witch sauntered over to the Wardens' tent and knocked the edge of her blackwood staff smartly against Flora's skull. A yawning Flora extracted herself from beneath Alistair's arm and pulled her breeches on beneath her shirt. Not bothering with her boots, she crawled out of the tent and stretched her arms sleepily above her head.

As Morrigan retired to her hollowed tree, Flora trod a circle in the damp grass with her bare feet, pacing the circumference of the small clearing. An owl gave a mournful hoot somewhere behind her, a second gave a hoarse call in response.

Spotting a pale cluster nestled between the roots of a tree at the clearing's edge, Flora recognised it as a clump of field mushrooms. She crouched down to tilt one velvety fawn cap towards her, confirming that they were the edible variety. Pleased with her discovery and hoping that they would have time to cook them for breakfast, she sank to her knees and gathered the mushrooms into the bottom of her shirt.

Rising, she heard someone exhale just behind her right shoulder. Spinning in alarm, the mushrooms rolled free and scattered at her feet as she brought up her hands in preparation to summon.

"Oh!" she breathed, seeing only Alistair in the shirt and thin breeches he slept in. "I thought you were a ghost. One of the hungry ghosts from earlier."

Alistair shook his head, the moonlight draining the gold from his dishevelled hair until it appeared almost silvery. Even his cool olive skin seemed pallid in the desaturated light. This paleness, combined with his strong, finely hewn features, reminded Flora of the old Tevinter statues that she had seen sketches of in books. He leaned forward, guiding her gently back against the gnarled trunk.

"I want to have you, fisherman's daughter," he murmured against her ear, the heat from his lips warming her neck. "Take off your shirt."

When Alistair spoke in this way, there was nothing of the humble stable boy left about him. A thread of command ran through the words, the dominance in his bloodline brought out more strongly by arousal.

_I wonder if that's how he'll be at the Landsmeet,_ Flora thought wildly, fingers fumbling at her shirt buttons.  _Loghain, take off your shirt._

She had to restrain a sudden and inappropriate urge to laugh. Then Alistair's mouth was at her bare breast and all rational thought flew swiftly from her mind. Her brother-warden kept her pinned against the tree with his knee between her legs, his mouth working her nipple with growing expertise. The owl gave another throaty hoot somewhere in the branches above them, before taking off with a rustle of leaves.

Flora bit on the end of her braid in a futile attempt to muffle the sounds that Alistair's tongue was coaxing from her, with increasingly skilful ministrations. He moved his mouth lower, kissing a meandering trail down her stomach; until he was kneeling on the damp grass between her legs. His breathing was coming hot and erratic now, the statue brought to life with flushed cheeks and lust-shadowed eyes. Fingers fumbled at the buttons of her breeches, pulled them roughly down around her knees.

A moment later Flora gasped, almost losing her balance as Alistair's calloused fingers gripped her thighs. The workings of his tongue between her legs were clumsy and inexperienced; yet she  _too_  was inexperienced and it felt like the most skilful fondling in the world. The end of her braid fell from her mouth and she let out a little moan, her head drooping back to rest against the rough bark. When sword-roughened fingers began to accompany his tongue with deft little motions; she felt something break wide open within her.

Flora became vaguely aware of an almost animalistic whimpering, desperate and primal. She had just enough time to think  _is that me?_ before her knees gave way beneath her. Before she could sink to the grass, Alistair's hands gripped the undersides of her thighs and lifted her bodily into the air. Pressing her back against the tree trunk, it had taken him only moments to pull himself free of his breeches and angle himself between her ready thighs. With a single thrust, he was inside her, his mouth opening in a gasp against her shoulder.

Their coupling was quick and ungentle, her head knocking repeatedly against the bark as he drove into her with gathering momentum. Alistair's frame was powerful and not built for delicacy; but despite her slenderness, Flora was no fragile flower either. She welcomed his increasingly forceful thrusts, urging him on with little gasps and the slickness of her flesh against his. Suddenly and without warning he gave a strangled groan, his fingers curling painfully into her thighs as he spent himself inside her.

For a moment Alistair remained still and shuddering, pinning her against the tree trunk with his face buried against her bare shoulder. Flora brought her hand to the back of his neck, curling her fingers on the damp skin; he exhaled unsteadily, the muscles in his broad shoulders heaving. Eventually she felt his mouth move against her shoulder blade. The words were muffled and unintelligible, yet she knew what he had said.

"I love you too, Alistair," she whispered back and he raised his head, the golden flecks in his hazel eyes alight with adoration. He lowered her carefully to the grass, ensuring that she was steady on her bare feet before releasing her thighs. She felt something squash beneath her toes and looked down, her eyes widening in dismay.

"Oh, no! Those were for  _breakfast."_

Alistair took the next watch, spending the time scavenging for replacement fungi, calloused fingers teasing fawn-capped button mushrooms from their mossy nests. The clearing was still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves from the surrounding foliage.

Returning upright, Alistair fancied that he saw a pair of gleaming yellow eyes in the shadows beside an ancient oak, no more than a dozen yards away across the grass. A moment later they vanished, and he told himself firmly that he had imagined them, that it was nothing more than a trick of the forest. Still, he spent the rest of his watch beside the tents, fingers loosely wrapped around the hilt of Duncan's sword.

When it came for Zevran to relieve him, Alistair crawled back inside their tent and embraced a half-asleep Flora. She settled back against his chest, yawning, feeling the heavy weight of his arm rest across her shoulders.

The Antivan paused outside the Wardens' tent expectantly for a few minutes. After hearing nothing of interest, he departed to proposition Morrigan through the bark of her rotted oak. Receiving only a contemptuous snort in response, the elf wandered aimlessly around the edge of the clearing, fiddling with the hilt of his throwing dagger.

Near the end of Zevran's watch, the ink-black darkness began to dilute itself, taking on shades of watery grey as sunrise approached. The sound came when they were least prepared for it; caught unaware in drowsy pre-dawn lethargy. A howl ripped through the air, harsh as a ragged sword-thrust, fragmenting the silence like a dropped glass.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So I wanted to talk about something unrelated to the chapter, about genetic characteristics. Although Alistair has more tan skin and darker blonde hair than Cailan, the jawline (what I refer to as the Theirin jawline in my story) is almost identical, as are their mouths and their noses. I suppose that he is only a half-brother to Cailan, so the shared characteristics are limited. Enough for Wynne to wonder who he reminded her of when he and Duncan first went to the Circle, right back in the second chapter! Flora's Cousland features are far more distinct; I know that everyone has their own individual headcanon for the Couslands of course. In my story, there are some clear Cousland features – wide grey eyes, dark red hair that runs to curling when cut short. The three siblings have their differences – Fergus is shorter and stockier, with a broken nose from sparring as a child, Finian tall with a scholar's build, and Flora a middle ground between the two. Ooh, it's going to be so interesting with the Cousland faction in Denerim! It's interesting looking back on the earlier chapters, whether Duncan had any idea that she was a Cousland - if he had come straight from Highever to the Circle, he would have definitely noticed the similarities between the teyrn and Flora.


	99. Meeting the Dalish

Chapter 99: Meeting the Dalish

The howl splintered through the dusk, a prolonged and mournful wail that echoed between the silent oaks. Zevran, gathering fuel for the breakfast fire, dropped the armful of wood and withdrew his daggers in a seamless motion. His dark eyes swept over the shadowed trees, every muscle in his body coiled and ready to spring.

Alistair and Flora woke in a tangle of limbs, her head snapping upright and colliding with the base of his chin. They scrambled half-dressed from the tent, Alistair incongruous with Duncan's sword and no shirt; Flora in her brother-warden's shirt and smallclothes. Morrigan emerged from the hollow oak with flashing golden eyes, her nostrils flaring in irritation.

"I trust that noise was not a product of your bestial mating," the witch hissed over at the Wardens as they gathered together in the centre of the clearing. Alistair scowled in response, shaking his head in vehement denial.

"I don't yowl like – whatever  _that_  was," he retorted, watching Flora summon her shifting, fluid globes of golden light then bat them gently into the trees. They hung between shadowed branches like ethereal lanterns, casting pools of amber light onto the moss-covered earth. The source of the howl remained anonymous, hidden from sight within the tangled undergrowth.

"It's a  _ghost,"_  whispered Flora tremulously, and was ignored by everyone.

"It sounded like a wolf," replied Zevran, his eyes narrowed in the murky twilight. "Come, let us search."

They split up into pairs and made a hasty circle around the clearing; Alistair crashing shield-first through the foliage.

"You're making so much noise, 'tis likely the creature will be halfway to Redcliffe," snarled Morrigan, picking her way delicately through the trampled bushes behind him.

"Isn't that a good thing?" retorted Alistair, pulling a coiling vine free from his lower leg. "Isn't that what we want? Whatever it is to just  _go away_?"

"Surely 'tis better to locate the source of the noise, rather than dwell in uncertainty!"

"I'm  _certain_  that I don't want to meet whatever made that noise face to face," Alistair replied grimly, negotiating his way over a small stream.

"Would you prefer it come up behind you?" said the witch's voice close in his ear and he yelped, physically recoiling.

"Aah!  _Maker's Breath!"_

Meanwhile Flora was clambering over a large tangle of roots, trying to keep one glowing hand aloft and wishing that she'd brought her staff.

"I hope it's  _not_  ghosts," she mumbled gloomily to herself, sliding gingerly back down onto the damp earth. "Why do I have to be in front?"

"Because you're the fearless Grey Warden and I merely a humble elf," replied Zevran, bouncing down after her with feline agility.

Flora rolled her eyes at this preposterous claim, continuing in her dark prophecies as they wove around the edge of the clearing.

"I'm not fearless," she replied, removing a twig from her tangled hair. "I think a ghost could  _definitely_  get through my shield."

"The view is also far better back here," added Zevran with a wicked cackle. "May I say that I'm much in favour of your decision to forsake trousers. Is this a permanent fashion choice?"

"Yes," snarled back Flora, then both she and the elf squawked as an olive-hued face materialised in the gloom. Distracted by the possibility of phantasmal company; she had not been heeding the pull in the back of her mind that alerted her to her brother-warden's presence.

It appeared that Alistair had been guilty of the same: solid metal rose to meet gleaming barrier. It was the temporal shield that gave way, Alistair staggering back and colliding heavily with Morrigan.

"Ah! Wilds take you, you great oaf!"

Flora dropped her hands as the gleaming barrier diffused into the shadows, giving a grimace of apology.

"Sorry," she began, then was interrupted by another piercing howl. It came from the clearing, which was half-submerged in morning mist. As the luminous orange sun came up over the tree canopy, a dark and hulking silhouette was momentarily visible on the other side of the tent; its bestial shape briefly framed against the canvas. It lingered sufficient for them to be sure that it was no trick of the light, then vanished.

"What in the Maker's name," breathed Alistair, clutching the strap of his shield to stop his fingers from trembling. "Morrigan?"

The witch was uncharacteristically shaken, pallid underneath her Chasind-hued skin.

"'Tis too tall to be a wolf, which is what I originally surmised it to be," she breathed, the small bones in her hair rattling as she shook her head.

"Whatever it was," interrupted Zevran, his tone grim. "That was a warning of some kind."

Alone among their party, Flora seemed relatively unconcerned. As they made their way back to their belongings, Morrigan caught sight of the healer's nonchalant face and scowled.

"Why do you appear so carefree?" she demanded, as the two Wardens set to dismantling the tents.

"It's not a ghost," replied Flora jovially, unwrapping the sailor's knot that connected the two halves of the tent pole. "Ghosts don't make shadows. If it's just a… a monster, I can shield us against it."

"Still, I'd rather have a  _monster-free_ situation, if at all possible," replied Alistair, kneeling down to roll up the canvas. "All things considered."

Since Flora was so blasé about the prospect of possible  _monsters,_ she had been banished to the rear of the party as they continued northwards. Alistair led the way, shield within easy reach and mouth set in a grim line. It was not a restful morning; first they took a wrong turning at a narrow stream and ended up travelling in a circle, and then the trail led up and down a series of exhausting earthen hillocks. A brief shower of humid rain had transformed dirt to mud, and it took increasing stretches of time to struggle up each one.

Finally they were immersed back in the canopied undergrowth, the foliage more densely tangled than ever. Here the branches soared overhead, interweaving in thatched patterns that almost completely blocked out the sunlight. There was something spiritual about the stillness of the vast trunks; the hushed atmosphere similar to the air of reverent devotion found in a Chantry.

Alistair decided to break the stony silence with a joke; he opened his mouth to speak and then several things all happened at once.

There came a strange, high cry from the dense foliage at the side of the path.

" _Masal di'nan!"_

A net, disguised by leaves on the forest floor, came up around Alistair and Zevran so quickly that neither of them had time to react. Within seconds they were hoisted up a dozen feet into the air, the ropes straining at their conjoined weight. Morrigan had the presence of mind to transform herself into a bird and flap to safety within the nearby bushes.

Gaping, Flora shrugged her arms free of her pack and started forward, only to have a noose tighten around her ankle and yank her upwards by the leg. She dangled upside down alongside her two companions, braid trailing forlornly. If she twisted her neck, she could just about see Zevran's outraged face pressed against the net, his arms pinned in place by Alistair's abdomen.

From her disorientated position, the slowly spinning Flora saw faces emerge from the undergrowth. They were elves, yet not the polished and plucked breed that she had encountered at the Circle. These had rough, shaggy hair cropped close to narrow skulls, wide watchful eyes like deer; and their faces were tattooed with distinctive markings. They wore earth-toned leathers to blend in with the forest, and each was armed with both bow and blade.

They called to each other in their own language for several moments, gesturing. Finally, a woman with blonde hair partially shaved to expose an ink-marked skull approached, her eyes dark and malign.

"You made a mistake following us," she hissed, her voice heavily accented. "The Forest is not kind to strangers,  _shemlen."_

Feeling blood rushing to her head, Flora wondered if she could heal the broken neck that would invariably follow if she used her shield to sever the rope. She saw the elf with the shaved head raise her bow, arrow nocked, and decided to risk it.

" _Venavis, Mithra!"_

The shout came from another elf, a woman with deep-set lines circling tired eyes and dark, curling hair. She stepped forward, lowering her bow and staring up at them. Her pinched face seemed strangely familiar to Flora; whose vision was now starting to blur.

"The healer with the  _halla-blood_ hair," she breathed, changing to the common tongue. "It is you, yes?"

Suddenly Flora remembered where she had seen the woman before.

_Lothering, that first evening. Leaving Alistair and Morrigan glowering at one another in the inn, going to offer your services as a healer to the refugees._

_The elven boy kicked by the knight's horse; his frantic parents. The father, offering all their coin as reward._

_The mother, trembling with fear._

"How is Jendel?" she whispered, and the woman inhaled sharply, gesturing to her blonde companion.

" _Mithra,_ let them down! This  _shemlen hala'rel_ saved the life of my son."

They were lowered to the grass and the rope restraints quickly removed. Zevran looked caught between anger and irritation, severely unimpressed by this first encounter with his Dalish cousins. Alistair, who had spent the past few minutes with his face pressed against the elf's leather-clad crotch, was also deeply unhappy.

"Jendel has recovered fully, thanks to you,  _ma serannas,"_ murmured the dark haired woman as Flora gathered up her dropped pack. "We left Lothering the next morning and travelled here, home of my mate's clan."

Mithra still appeared suspicious of the strangers, lowering the bow but keeping the arrow nocked to the string. Her dark stare swivelled from Flora to Alistair, then across to Zevran, whereupon her nostrils flared in disapproval.

"That may be, cousin, but what business have they here?"

"We need to see your clan…" Flora paused, and Alistair interjected helpfully.

"Elder."

Flora nodded, imploring grey eyes moving from Jendel's mother to the one named Mithra, who seemed to be in charge of the scouting patrol.

"We're Grey Wardens. I didn't say anything in Lothering because there was a bounty on our head – well, I suppose there still is," she amended, shifting her weight to her stronger knee. "There's a Blight coming and we need help."

Jendel's mother inclined her head, shooting a pointed glance over at Mithra. The blonde elf nodded reluctantly, replacing the arrow back in the quiver.

"Surela has told us of the Darkspawn, and of what happened at Ostagar. We were expecting the arrival of Wardens, but…"

Here, she hesitated. The pause stretched into a longer silence, wherein the Dalish glanced at one another.

"Well," Mithra continued eventually, slinging her bow over her shoulder. "You should speak to Elder Zathrian yourselves. Come, our camp is not far."

They followed the elven patrol down a sidetrack that would otherwise have escaped their attention. Zevran, ever the opportunist, attempted to strike up a conversation with Mithra. He was met only with her dark, inscrutable stare; the inked tattoos around her eyes seeming to emphasise her disapproval.

"Good to see that the witch still abandons us at the first sign of trouble, just like she did on the road to Lothering when those bandits attacked," Alistair murmured in Flora's ear.

"Or she would have launched a daring solo rescue later on," she replied hopefully, only to be met with a snort of disbelief.

The trees opened out into a large clearing, dappled golden light streaming down through a thick canopy of leaves. Various carts and wagons were scattered around; unpacked and with an air of permanence about them. Nestled between these were the unique Dalish caravans they had named  _aravels,_ known to everyone else as land ships. Tall leather tents, layered and open-roofed, clustered around a cooking area. Tevinter ruins were dotted around the camp, their once-white stone stained with age and capped with a sleek green coat of moss.

Their arrival immediately drew the attention of the other elves in the camp. The adults drew together, shooting them barbed looks of suspicion, while the children stared with open curiosity. Zevran tried his most charming smile on a huntress with coal-black hair; she muttered something derisive in her native tongue and turned her back on him.

Flora, who had often been treated more civilly by the elves in the Circle rather than her fellow humans, gazed around with mingled delight and fascination. Her eyes moved from the Dalish standard planted on branches driven into the earth, to the various statues of their deities. Beside an  _aravel,_ she saw a solemn faced woman whose expression reminded her of Andraste's effigy hidden within the Temple of Sacred Ashes. On the far side of the camp, she caught sight of a small canine statue, it's face turned away.

"Why is that dog facing backwards?" she asked, and Jendel's mother – whose name was Surala – replied after a pause.

"That's Fen'Harel, the trickster god. His face is always turned away from camp, for one would not want to catch his attention."

Flora fell into a thoughtful silence, then looked up as Mithra brought their party to a halt.

"Stay here, and I will see if the Keeper is ready to see you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So this is a storyline (or a thread of a storyline) that's taken a long time to work itself through! I don't even recall how long ago Lothering was. But I always planned for the elven family that Flora helped in the refugee camp to show up once again, and be the link into this section.


	100. The Curse of Lycanthropy

Chapter 100: The Curse of Lycanthropy

The Dalish scout shot the Wardens a stare that invited no protest, and withdrew inside a large, layered tent. Murmuring could be heard from inside, voices rising and falling in urgent conversation.

"Don't ask me why, but I just get a feeling that this isn't going to be straightforward," muttered Alistair, lowering his pack to the grass. "Maker, that would just be  _too_  easy, wouldn't it?"

Flora was only half-listening, her healer's ear responding reflexively to distant cries of pain coming from the far side of the camp. Surala saw that she had heard them and flinched, her dark eyes flickering.

Just as Flora opened her mouth to query the source of the sounds, Mithra re-emerged from the conical tent. She was followed by a male elf clad in a grey robe with cornflower yellow accents. From his trim and upright build he appeared in his middle years; but when he turned his face towards them, it was evident that he was far older than his hale body would suggest. A hedging of fine lines ran across his face, startling green eyes peering out as if from behind a lattice fence. His complexion was pale and almost papery, showing the faint blue smudges of veins beneath the delicate skin. Even the tattoos on his face were faded, although the delicate whorls and patterns were no less defined for their loss of saturation. On his back he wore a staff, the head blooming with small white flowers.

Flora tasted arcane under her tongue and realised that it was emanating from him; that they were in the presence of a powerful mage. Although Grey Wardens were obliged to show fealty to nobody, she bowed anyway, and Alistair followed suit.

"I am Zathrian, this clan's Keeper and  _hah'ren,"_ the man said, and his voice was like the crackling of dry leaves underfoot. "Welcome, Grey Wardens."

Now accustomed to the routine, Flora stepped forward and drew the treaties from her shirt.

"We need your help against the Blight," she said bluntly, dispensing with flowery formalities. "They're swarming over the south, they'll be here at some point."

Zathrian slowly turned his gaze to Flora, who raised her chin and met his stare evenly. His irises, the pale green of peeled grapes, swept curiously over her face.

"As much as I wish to honour our ancient accord," the elf said, his voice low and regretful. "Our clan faces a more immediate threat than the Darkspawn. We are facing extinction."

Alistair exhaled unsteadily, partially in anger but mostly in disbelief that his earlier prophecy appeared to be coming true. Flora reached out and put her fingers on his elbow, though she too felt a sinking feeling in her stomach.

"What's wrong?"

Zathrian sighed, the sound like rustling parchment. He raised a finger and crooked it, gesturing for them to follow him.

"It would be easier if I showed you."

They followed the elven Keeper across the camp, through a gauntlet of suspicious stares. Alistair, who had always received positive reactions from strangers based simply on his clean-cut handsomeness, was disconcerted. On the other hand, Flora - as a mage - was more used to being glowered at by others. Zevran caught the eye of another huntress with short-cropped red hair, smiled winningly and received a hissed curse for his efforts.

Passing beneath a vine-covered archway, Zathrian led them towards the source of the earlier cries of pain. No less than a dozen stretchers were laid on the grass; the sweat-soaked Dalish patients moaning in pain. Their hands were bound to the sides of their stretchers, mouths contorted with paroxysms of agony. A harried looking healer moved between them, tilting a water pouch to gaping, parched lips.

" _Ir abelas, Keeper,"_ she murmured, withdrawing from one whimpering woman to wipe frothing saliva from the mouth of another. "Many of these are on their  _din'anshiral._ I can do no more."

"Thank you, Felana. See, Wardens, why the Dalish are in no position to offer you aid."

Zathrian swept a fragile hand to encompass the unfortunate contents of the stretchers. Flora, struggling to resist her healer's compulsion to help, shifted from foot to foot and shot Zathrian an agonised glance. The old elf caught her eye and shook his head in a sad, simple gesture.

"I can sense that you are a  _hen'lith,_ a life giver, young one. Yet you will not be able to help. It is no disease that ails them, but a terrible curse."

Alistair groaned under his breath, knowing that Flora was also thinking on the blood curse that had plunged Arl Eamon into artificial death.

"What kind of curse?" asked Alistair, swallowing his own anger as he felt the visceral waves of disappointment rolling off his sister-warden.

"A curse of  _lycanthropy,"_ replied Zathrian after a moment, casting his eyes downwards. "Our clan has fallen foul of a tribe of werewolves who reside in the heart of the Forest. Their leader, Witherfang, is determined to see the Dalish driven to extinction."

"Werewolves?" asked Alistair and Zevran in mingled disbelief, while Flora clearly had no idea what a werewolf even was. Zathrian nodded, glancing at the nearest stretcher. A Dalish male lay shuddering there, his skin covered with a sheen of grey sweat. As with the others, his hands were bound to the sides of the stretcher.

"Yes," confirmed Zathrian with a slow, solemn nod. "The werewolf curse has been decimating us for months now. We are on the run from their tribe; but now we have too many injured to move quickly. And these wounded will soon need to be killed, before they can make their own transformation."

"Why are their hands tied?" whispered Flora, staring at the elongated dark pupils of the Dalish male lying below them.

"Because,  _shemlen,_ otherwise they will try and claw their own skin off," replied the healer shortly, clearly bemused as to why the Keeper was sharing their clan's problems with outsiders.

"Maker, the creature we saw at the camp," breathed Alistair suddenly, recalling the hunched silhouette against the canvas. "That must have been one of these – things. Werewolves."

"Is there anything we can do?" asked Flora, thinking  _anything but getting another pinch of the Ashes, not going all the way back there, please-_

"If you bring me the heart of their leader, Witherfang, I may be able to distill a cure from it," Zathrian said, finally. "If the werewolves are no longer hunting our clan, then we – and the other Dalish – will aid you against the Darkspawn. As you can see," here, he spread out his arms to encompass the stretchers. "We are currently in no position to fight."

Alistair glanced sideways at Flora. She turned her gaze to him, and there was resignation in her pale grey irises as she dipped her head in a slight nod.

"We'll help you," Alistair said after a moment, his voice weighted with lead. "If there's anything you can do to help us locate these creatures, we'd appreciate it."

Zathrian inclined his own head, gesturing over to a series of low wooden benches grouped around the embers of a fire.

"I will gather some supplies, including a map of the Forest's heart. Please, rest here a while."

As instructed, they sat on the benches and waited. Both Alistair and Flora were quietly despondent, whereas Zevran was preoccupied with catching the eye of the redheaded huntress from before. Finally, Flora put her hand on Alistair's thigh.

"At least this doesn't involve demons or Deep Roads," she said, patting her fingers against his knee. "It'll be alright. It's a small delay, that's all."

Alistair remained silent, gazing mournfully into the charred remnants of the campfire. Opposite them, an elf with greying strands of hair clinging stubbornly to a balding scalp listened to their conversation, steepling his fingers.

"It'll only be a few extra days," Flora continued bravely after a moment, walking her fingers up and down his thigh. "You said it'd take a few months to call the armies together anyway. Three more days won't make any difference."

Alistair hesitated, then sighed and caught her fingers with his own. Raising her hand to his mouth, he kissed each of her knuckles and smiled reluctantly down at her.

"My love," he murmured, clasping his fingers within hers. "I'd be lost without you to anchor me."

Just then Zevran, who'd been negotiating in some mild flirtation with the redheaded huntress, cleared his throat and stood up.

"I'm going to go and demonstrate how we  _throw knives in Antiva_  to the lovely Reyina here," he murmured, arching a dark blonde brow meaningfully. "If you need me, I'll be behind this  _aravel."_

Alistair snorted, watching the elf saunter across the grass with the slender flame-haired woman in his wake.

"Don't get your manhood bitten off by a werewolf," he called at Zevran's departing back. As the gleeful elf vanished, Alistair rubbed his fingers over Flora's palm before sliding them upwards to rest on the underside of her wrist. He could feel the warm throb of her heartbeat, pulsing against his sword-calloused thumb.

Two elven children, one whom Flora recognised as the slight dark haired Jendel, darted around the benches in some elven variation of catch. Unable to help herself, she beamed, pleased at how fully he had recovered from being trampled by the knight's horse at Lothering.

The boy stared at her, a faint flicker of recognition passing over his face. Flora half-smiled at him; he narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

" _Da'len,_ sit a moment and I shall tell you a story," said the old elf sitting opposite them, his voice low and worn as an old saddle. The child who was not Jendel poured, his orange eyes flashing with petulance.

"But,  _hahren,_ we are playing  _the halla and the hunter,"_ he protested, but was silenced by a long stare from the greying elf. Jendel put a hand on his playmate's arm, lowering his small head in reverence.

" _Ir abelas,_ elder. We will hear your story."

The two children sunk cross-legged to the dirt before the old elf, who then raised lined and deep-set eyes to the Wardens to check that they were listening. Flora, who loved stories, was beaming. Alistair was busy trying to quash his sudden desire to also take his sister-warden behind one of the surrounding wagons. Hastily he envisioned Sten's disapproving stare; which had the required dampening effect.

"Long ago, our people roamed all of Thedas, ruling from shore to shore," the elderly elf explained, leaning forward so that the wooden amulets hanging from his neck rattled. "Our empire was vast and spanned both sides of the Veil. But our ancestors grew arrogant; and their pride birthed only failure and defeat."

Flora, who knew nothing of elven history save for the occasional fragments that she had gleaned from the elves at the Circle, sat forward in fascination. Alistair, who had received an education beyond that of a mere stable boy under guidance from the Arl, had heard of the old elvish empire.

"We were overrun by the magisters of the Tevinter Imperium, who stole our ancient artefacts and enslaved thousands of our people. We scattered to the corners of Thedas, battered but not broken."

The two elven children sat patiently, but Flora could tell that they were not fully listening. It occurred to her that they had probably heard this story before; that it was being told more for their strangers' ears.

"Centuries later, we regained enough strength to cut our way to the south of Thedas and forge a new colony there."

The elderly elf raised his rheumatic eyes to Alistair, raising an expectant brow.

"What do you think happened then,  _shemlen?"_

Alistair sighed under his breath before offering the answer.

"The Exalted March against the Dales," he replied, as Flora shot him an impressed sideways glance. "The elves were driven out once again."

"Aye, forced into the woods to hide and preserve the ancient ways," murmured the old elf, fingers clutching at the wooden charms around his neck. "To swear the sacred oath that we should never again be subjugated by the  _shemlen,_ or anything else."

Feeling vaguely chastised, Alistair and Flora glanced at one another. The elderly elf stared at them for a moment longer, then inclined his head.

"Thank you for listening to an old man's story,  _er hen fy nhadau,"_ he said eventually, as the children fidgeted at his feet. "It is important that these young ones grow up armed with knowledge about their great heritage."

"Thank  _you_  for telling it to us," replied Flora politely, offering him a tentative half-smile. The elf nodded tightly, then made an effort to clamber upright. Alistair leapt from the bench and went to assist him, seeing the papery old man was unstable on his feet.

"There's someone who I think ought to speak to you," the greying elf informed them as Alistair withdrew his arm. "I'll fetch them."

Flora watched him weave off unsteadily between the  _aravels,_ hoping that he did not stumble across Zevran. Alistair returned to sit on the bench beside her; she smiled up at him and he slung an arm around her shoulders.

Jendel approached them tentatively, his dark eyes shining with uncertainty and wariness. Stopping several feet away, his gaze fell on Flora.

"I know you?"

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ha! I love how the elves in DA are all Welsh, which is where I was born and lived for over twenty two years of my life before I moved England, lol. I actually almost wet myself laughing when I heard Merrill speaking in DA2 – she has a proper Valleys accent. I can't actually take anything she says seriously, she sounds like my next door neighbour. Solas' voice actor is Welsh too. Represent, represent! Also Chapter 100, whaaaat


	101. The True Meaning of Kneeling

Chapter 101: The True Meaning Of Kneeling

The boy's haltering words were half a statement and half a question. Flora nodded, casting around in her memory for that miserable night in Lothering. Like so many of the grief- and fear-filled days after Ostagar, the memory was shadowed, as though a dark veil had been drawn over it. She remembered the  _sounds_  with more clarity than anything else; the hissing of campfires, the quiet sobs of the mother, the child's laboured breathing as his lungs struggled against splintered ribs.

"Bright-faced  _asha,"_ said Jendel after a few moments, able only to retrieve fragments from that pain-filled night. "You took the crushing away."

"Did it take long for you to feel better?" asked Flora solemnly, leaning forward. The boy shook his head, chest puffed out proudly.

"No, we walked twenty miles the next day and I only needed  _papae_ to carry me for the last part."

Jendel looked as though he would have liked to say something more, then changed his mind abruptly. Clambering to his feet, he scampered off after his friend, disappearing beneath a crumbling archway. The other elves in the camp moved around them, still suspicious, casting dark looks of wary mistrust in their direction. Underlying everything were the muffled cries of those afflicted by the  _lycanthropy_ curse.

"I'm happy to see him well," whispered Flora, tilting her head up to angle the words into Alistair's ear. "It was the first injury I healed after I made a mess of my knee."

Alistair placed his hand on her leg, fingers edging the breeches up until the bare knee was visible. The skin beneath the winding leather strap appeared normal, as did the kneecap itself. He brushed a thumb over a narrow strip of flesh visible between Sten's bindings.

"I still feel guilty that I wasn't there when you woke up," he said after a moment, a shadow passing across his eyes. "I should have been at your side; but instead I was sulking in some fetid swamp. Maybe you wouldn't have hurt yourself if I'd been there."

Flora found this so preposterous that she did not know quite how to respond. Instead of retorting with a verbal denial, she slid her fingers against his cheek and brought his mouth down to hers. It was only intended to be a quick brushing of lips, but when she made to withdraw Alistair deepened the kiss, grunting softly against her mouth.

Only when he had stolen the air from her lungs and left her breathless did he pull back, grinning in boyish triumph. She inhaled unsteadily, wondering at how her body seemed to react to his. Every nerve burned beneath her skin, as though the blood in her veins had been replaced by a dull, constant heat. His hazel eyes were shadowed with lust; they wandered over her face as if to say  _I know that propriety prevents it, but I wish that we could find a wagon of our own to hide behind._

Feeling her cheeks flare with warmth, Flora quickly dropped her gaze to her lap.

"Grey Wardens?"

They looked up to see a young female elf approach, her cut-corn hair restrained in a series of elaborate braids. She wore the same yellow and grey as Zathrian, a staff slung over her back. Despite her youth, there was an air of solemnity and purpose about her.

Both Alistair and Flora rose to their feet in greeting, and the elf inclined her head.

"I am Lanaya, this clan's First," she said, after a moment's hesitation. "I understand that you've agreed to go into the haunted woods to retrieve Witherfang's heart."

Feeling Flora quail beside him at the use of the word  _haunted,_ Alistair nodded.

Lanaya took a deep breath, glancing over her shoulder at the shadowed edge of the forest. The trees seemed to cluster together, pressing against the edge of the camp as if resentful of the elven intruders. Despite what the humans might have thought; the Dalish preferred wide, grassy plains where they could graze their halla and espy enemies from a distance.

"Zathrian has informed you of our terrible burden," Lanaya said, her voice low and measured as she took a seat on the bench opposite them. "He has said that the Dalish are inflicted with a disease of  _lycanthropy,_  yes?"

Flora nodded, swallowing her fear of ghosts enough to reply. "He said that the clan would become extinct in a few months if the disease kept spreading."

They listened to the elven mage softly explain how the disease was neither airborne nor waterborne; that it was not transmitted through food or touch. It's base property was  _arcane,_ and only the source of the curse could provide a suitable panacea.

"What have the werewolves got to do with all this?" asked Alistair eventually, curiosity beginning to overcome his impatience at the delay. "Also, Maker's Breath _–_ werewolves are  _real?!_ I thought they only existed in the stories that old women tell children to keep them quiet at night.  _Hush down, or the werewolves will have you!"_

He glanced sideways at his sister-warden, who was unravelling the end of her shirtsleeve by slowly pulling out a long thread.

"Did they tell those stories up in Herring, too?"

Flora shook her head, winding the taut thread around her fingers.

"We were told that Qunari sea raiders would come and steal us away," she replied, watching the tip of her forefinger whiten. "Or pirates."

Lanaya hesitated, and both Wardens had the distinct feeling that the young elf mage knew more than she was letting on.

"There is some connection between Zathrian and the werewolves; I know not what it is," she murmured, her eyes not quite meeting theirs. "Zathrian is a man who has been through much tragedy in his life. He had a family, once."

The words lingered, hanging in the rain-damp air like the mossy tendrils that trailed from the lower branches. A slender scout with the narrow face of a weasel sidled between the benches. He clutched a parchment wrapped in rattan and fastened with basic twine, a suspicious mien to his expression.

"Grey Wardens," the scout stated, stepping forward to hand them the map. "From the Keeper. It shows the fastest way to where the old ruins lie. This is where  _they_ live."

Flora held out her hand, taking the map. It was bound tightly, but she was fluent in knots and made short work of untangling the twine. Spreading the map out, their route appeared simple enough. East, into the throbbing, primal heart of the Brecilian Forest. The map showed the rivers as snaking black lines, and a red inked circle marked their destination.

The suspicious scout led both Wardens towards a small, circular hut with the customary hide roof and chimney-hole in the ceiling.

"You may leave any superfluous possessions here," advised the scout, glowering from beneath thin blond eyebrows. "It is recommended that you travel as light as possible. The Heart of the Wilds is often difficult for flat-footed  _shems_ to negotiate."

He left Flora and Alistair standing on the earthen floor of the hut, which was empty save for several terracotta jars and a colourful woven rug. Flora dropped her pack on the earth and reached up to tuck several loose strands of hair back behind her ears. Alistair lowered his own pack to the rug and exhaled, closing his eyes. A headache was beginning to throb at the base of his skull; caused by either the cloying scent of rotting vegetation, or frustration at the unexpected delay.

As Flora crouched down to sort out their squashed rations, Alistair brought a hand to his forehead and pressed his thumb into the side of his temple.

"Wherever He is, the Maker must be laughing at us," he said, a thread of resentment running through the words. "Yet another request to fulfil; another few days delay. The Darkspawn won't wait for us to finish running around like errand boys."

Wordlessly Flora retrieved the last of the loaves and returned upright. Clutching the bread to her chest she stared at him anxiously, unsure of how to respond. As Alistair gazed at her, the bitterness in his tawny eyes softened. From outside they could hear the laughter of the elven children playing  _halla and hunter,_ small feet thudding against the earth.

"I remember the first time I saw you," he said half-wonderingly, reaching out to slide a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. "Falling through the doorway at the Circle, a loaf of bread in your hand."

"You weren't looking at me," corrected Flora, though she was unable to stop a blush from rising to her cheeks as his fingers lingered against her ear. "You were looking at Jowan."

Alistair grinned, his thumb gently tracing the outside of her earlobe.

"And now I can't take my eyes off you," he murmured, sliding his hand to gently cup the back of her neck. "Funny how things work out."

He bent his head down, his mouth drawn to hers as though her lips were a lodestone, pulling him inextricably closer. She inhaled the scent of his body, warm and masculine and distinct; he reached out to steer her hips against his own, a dull heat beginning to rise in his abdomen. Deepening the kiss, he wrapped his arms around her waist and sought to part her lips with his own.

Now Flora could taste both lust and despair mingled under his tongue; frustration at their delay manifesting in the hard grip of his fingers and relentless pressure of his mouth. She felt his arousal pressing against her stomach and heard his breathing deteriorate into half-pants.

"Don't stop on my behalf," purred an amused voice behind them. Alistair groaned into Flora's mouth and reluctantly disentangled himself from her. Zevran sauntered into the small tent, which now seemed crowded with the three of them, and lowered his own pack to the colourful rug. The elf was calm and meticulously groomed as ever; there was nothing about his appearance to suggest that he'd just taken someone behind an  _aravel._

"That's where you went wrong, my Rialto lily," observed Zevran maliciously, squatting down to help her combine the essentials from three packs into one. "When time is in short supply, you need to think  _creatively_  to obtain the greatest pleasure with the minimum delay."

Flora frowned at him in confusion, passing over the bread loaves. Alistair was striding back and forth behind them, determinedly reciting verses of the Chant in his head to calm himself down.

"What do you mean?"

A grin snaked its way over the elf's face and he leaned over to cup his fingers around Flora's ear, deliberately brushing his lips against her skin as he whispered. A moment later she gaped at him, a cooking pot slipping from her hands onto the earth with a dull thud.

"I love redheads, they blush so easily," murmured Zevran, retrieving the cooking pot and inserting it carefully inside the pack. "Why are you so shocked? Surely you must have seen such practises at the Circle."

Flora squinted for a moment, then her eyes widened.

"He said that he was just kneeling to fix his friend's  _robe,"_ she breathed, realisation dawning.

Zevran let out a cackle as Alistair stopped his pacing and gave them both a suspicious glare. Hastily, trying to hide her pink cheeks, Flora tied the strings on the pack and stood upright.

As they left the tent and headed over to where Zathrian and Lanaya were waiting, Zevran breathed one last question in Flora's ear.

"He's done it for you, has he not? Why not return the favour?"

"What do you-  _oh_." The flush returned, spreading down her throat like wildfire. Zevran let out a cackle dirtier than any sailor, and sauntered off ahead.

Alistair peered over his shoulder at Flora, who was now puce in colour. When he asked her if she was alright, shooting a suspicious glance over at the elf; she nodded mutely, temporarily unable to speak.

Fortunately the clan's elder seemed happy to fill any silences. Zathrian checked that they knew the way to the temple in the deep wilds, and once again impressed upon them the important of slaughtering the werewolves on sight.  _They are savage beasts who cannot be reasoned with,_ he had said earnestly, a strange intensity flickering over his face.  _Bring me the heart of their leader and I will be able to distil a cure._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Zevran sneaking off behind an aravel with some rando Dalish was inspired by his cameo in DA 2 – where he literally goes off and has sex with Hawke and Isabela behind a SAND DUNE! I think I watched the clip about 30 times because it makes me continuously laugh. Also in this chapter: Flora discovers what the two mages she stumbled across in an empty Circle classroom were actually doing, lol.


	102. Green Water

Chapter 102: Green Water

A Dalish scout guided their party down a low ridge, along a path lined with clustered pines. This would take them deeper into the Forest, on a journey that would culminate at the ancient Dalish temple marked on the eastern part of the map. The scout left them with instructions to follow the river as far as possible.

This proved easier said than done; the earthy brown trail snaked its way through tangled roots thicker than a man's torso, vast trees twisting their way skywards in a vain attempt to reach the sunlight. Their foliage was feathery and dark green, while moss crept over every damp trunk. The forest seemed to be awash with a hazy, yellowish light, which cast a sickly pallor over their faces. Mist gathered in fern-filled hollows, spilling up to creep over the earth. There was a sweet, rotting scent in the air; as though the forest itself was in a perpetual cycle of growth and decay.

Morrigan returned to them shortly after the Dalish scout had vanished back over the ridge. She did not bother to justify her sudden disappearance; and they knew that to challenge her would be merely an exercise in futility.

Bringing up the rear, Flora had said little since they left the Dalish encampment, her brow furrowed. Her mind kept revolving around Zathrian's departing words, aimed at their back like arrows.

_They cannot be reasoned with. Put them down._

Lost in thought, Flora was barely paying attention to her surroundings. A snaking tree root insinuated itself around her ankle and she went sprawling facedown onto the leaves, dropping her staff.

Morrigan laughed nastily, her amber eyes gleaming.

"Do watch where you're going, 'tis  _awful_  perilous underfoot," she called, watching Flora scramble back to her feet. Zevran tutted, reaching out to pluck a wet leaf from the top of their healer's head.

"The Korcari beauty has a point," he conceded, watching Alistair's anxious stare sweep over his dishevelled sister-warden. "You do appear somewhat distracted, my Rialto lily."

It seemed to be a natural opportunity for them to take a brief rest; the river trail had widened and there were several flat boulders lining its bank. They had now been travelling for several hours over difficult terrain, and had another ten miles to walk before they reached their planned campsite.

Morrigan draped herself over a flat boulder, careful to keep out of the patches of watery sunlight, and began to correct the damage that the vines and trailing moss had done to her hair. Dark eyes sweeping the treeline, Zevran was sliding a whetstone up and down the dagger he usually kept at his thigh. Although he would not say anything to the others until he was certain, the elf was harbouring a sneaking suspicion that they were being followed.

Alistair leaned back against the side of a larger boulder, not wanting to sit down in full armour. He had removed one of his gloves to rest a bare hand on top of his sister-warden's head. She was sitting at his feet and leaning back against his knee, her own legs stretched out before her.

"Zathrian said that they can't be reasoned with," she said after a moment, tilting her head towards Alistair's palm as he rubbed his fingers gently into her skull. "Does that mean that someone's  _tried?_  That they can speak in the King's tongue?"

"If the folk stories about werewolves are true," mused Alistair, aware that his source was an old woman who had never left the shores of Calenhad in her life. "They were men once, but then they fell foul of some dark magic and were cursed to live as beasts."

"It wouldn't seem right to find them and just – slaughter everything," said Flora slowly, feeling Alistair's fingers moving downwards to caress her cheek. "I know we need the Dalish to help us, but…"

As she clambered to her feet Alistair felt a flood of affection towards his sister-warden. In truth he too had felt uneasy about the order to indiscriminately kill a sentient creature for Zathrian's nebulous purpose.

"Maybe there's some way that we can discuss the situation," he finished. Flora beamed, pleased that he viewed the situation through a similar lens.

As she gazed up at him Alistair remembered kissing her in the Dalish tent; the clumsy wantonness of her mouth against his. A sudden dull heat surged in his lower abdomen; glancing around, he saw that Morrigan was dozing and Zevran was squinting off into the trees. Quietly, keeping the tail of his eye on their companions, he reached out to edge a thumb along Flora's exposed collarbone. She peered up at him, the light filtering though the leafy canopy and creating pale green dapples on her face. Alistair traced the angular line of the bone, his thumb circling the hollow of her throat. His other fingers came to settle gently against the swell of her breast, resting on the crumpled cloth.

"Well, if a werewolf launches itself at me I tell you now, I will not be open to negotiations," murmured Zevran, turning back towards them. Alistair withdrew his hand rapidly, coughing. The elf's eyes narrowed in suspicion, just as Morrigan let out a cry of pained dismay.

They all turned to look at the witch. She was now perched on the boulder, peering down at the milky green surface of the river. Although it was shallow, the water itself was near-opaque; it was impossible to see to the bottom.

"I dropped my silver ring," she hissed, staring down at the sluggish movement of the water. "'Tis infuriating! I only had it in my hand for a moment. My mother gave it to me."

"I thought you hated your mother because you thought she wanted to kill you," said Alistair rather tactlessly, earning himself a glower. Morrigan shook her head in a catlike gesture, a flash of hurt flickering across her golden stare.

"Where did you drop it?" asked Flora, peering down at the translucent ripples. Morrigan pointed a long-nailed finger and Flora knelt down on the edge of the bank.

"It's no use, you'll never be able to see it, and groping blindly will just knock it away or push it into the mud," hissed the witch, cloaking her sadness with anger.

Flora rolled up the sleeve of her shirt over her elbow, inserting her arm into the slow moving water. Reflexively the pale golden second skin materialised over her own and expanded outwards. As the gleaming web of light grew around her arm, the water itself was pushed back around her wrist. The milky green river flowed around her arm as though it was a physical dam; she leaned forward and water surged away from her grasping fingers.

Soon, the spongy dark mud of the riverbed was revealed. It was dotted with clumps of weed and half-buried stones but the glint of silver was just visible beneath the pale fringes of some aquatic plant. Zevran secured Flora by the belt as she stretched her other arm down, unable to pick anything up with the hand channelling the shield. After she had plucked the ring from the shallows Zevran pulled her back upright, seizing the opportunity to give her rear a light pat. As Flora withdrew, the water surged forward once again and the river continued its flow uninterrupted.

She offered the ring to Morrigan; the witch took it wordlessly, then paused.

"I… thank you," she said after a moment, the words sounding foreign coming from her mouth.

Flora beamed as Alistair put his arm around her shoulder, kissing the side of her forehead.

"I used to do that in Herring all the time. Mostly to get back bait hooks dropped in rock pools."

The afternoon's route took them away from the river, curving through trees that grew together in twisted clumps. The terrain itself was becoming more difficult to navigate, the path rising steeply and passing across several large ditches. The wooden bridges had long since rotted; they had to navigate over fallen logs or find another way around. In such circumstances, they were only able to cover about two miles in the span of an hour; and it became increasingly clear that they would not reach their designated campsite before dark fell.

They managed to make up some time just as the shadows began to lengthen, the terrain had flattened out and their route wove along mostly at ground level. The banks rose up sharply on either side, their mossy slopes broken by protruding roots. There was a strange yellowish mist hanging low in the air; a harmless miasma that rolled down the sides of the banks.

"So you did more than just heal," said Alistair suddenly, recalling Flora's earlier statement. "When you were in Herring. I mean, with your magic."

A pink-cheeked Flora nodded as she leaned heavily on her staff, grateful for the distraction from her throbbing knee.

"I looked for things lost in the water. And if there was a bad storm, my dad used to have me stand out on Hag's Teeth for hours, warning ships away from the rocks there. We didn't have a lighthouse."

Flora held up a hand to demonstrate the golden light arcing between her fingers. "Oh, and if there was a wreck, I'd try to save the sailors who washed ashore. Sometimes the wreckers would still be on the beach."

_The last time a ship had wrecked itself was the night before she had been taken to the Circle. A mild storm had blown itself out over the Waking Sea earlier that evening, leaving sheeting rain in its wake. She was sleeping soundly beside her parents when there came a sudden hammering at the door._

" _Pel! Pel, them Maker-damned wreckers've brought another ship in. It's caught in the Teeth. Bring yer girl, there's goin' to be a fight."_

_Flora was fifteen years old, but she had been doing this since she was nine. She'd followed her dad out of the hut – barefoot, boots were only for the adults – and down the grassy bank towards the beach. The rain was coming down so hard that it was hard to breathe, and the wind blew it sideways straight into your face._

_Although she had seen a dozen wrecks in her time; the sight of a floundering ship never failed to take the air from her lungs. The ship reared and rolled in the shallow waves like some great primeval beast in its death throes, sails tattered and wooden hull already splintering. The Hag's Teeth gleamed wet and black, the forms of men clinging to them illuminated by a sudden flash of lightning. She could just about make out the scarlet and green remnants of a banner flying at the mast; and knew that it had been a Marcher ship._

_The wreckers were lit up by their own bonfire, the deceptive glow which had lured the ship between the merciless Teeth. There were a dozen of them, men and women with faces daubed in tar to hide their features._

_On seeing the Herring men approach, the wreckers would usually offer to negotiate; to split the loot evenly. When their offer was inevitably declined, they would raise professional blades. The men of Herring were armed only with the tools of their trade – fish hooks and gutting blades._

_Yet, the fishermen also had a golden barrier shielding them from the wreckers' desperate lunges. The fight was invariably brutal, bloody and short. Theoretically the wreckers should have been taken to Highever for the teyrn to judge them in assizes; but the fisherman preferred to enact their own justice, wrathful as the Waking Sea itself._

_By the time the fight was over, the first sailors would be washed ashore. Mostly they were dead, lives already claimed by saltwater and the Teeth. But some still clung to life, their faces grey and gasping. While the men went out in boats to try and retrieve sailors still clinging to their broken ship; Flora would go from body to body, exhaling life. Sometimes she could do nothing and they would die with their cold mouths going slack against her own. But often, once she had turned them over to spill out the water and breathed energy into their throats, they would cough and try to sit up._

_By the time the last man was brought in, the sun was rising and only a battered skeleton of a ship remained tangled on the rocks. The chests and trunks had begun to wash ashore; the only man in the village with a horse had already begun the ride to Highever to inform the magistrate about the wreck. Flora had followed her father back towards the village, exhausted and soaked to the skin; looking forward to a few hours of rest before checking the crab traps._

_The Templars had been waiting for her, mage cage at the ready._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So I wanted to explore Flora's magic a little bit more in this chapter, to demonstrate how flexible her barriers and shields could be. I also wanted a way to introduce the flashback from Herring, which I looooved writing, incidentally. The decade that she spent living beside the Waking Sea had a huge impact on her character; I picture Herring's coastline as similar to that depicted in the Storm Coast zone in DA:I. It's harsh, unforgiving yet starkly beautiful. When I was writing about the shipwreck, I was inspired by the painting A Storm by the artist Joseph Turner. I can't link it here, but you can google it. Actually, all of Turner's ship/sea paintings are my inspiration for Herring! They're so gorgeous.


	103. The Demon's Trap

Chaper 103: The Demon's Trap

Flora thrust Herring away into the darker recesses of her mind, blinking back the sudden tears that burned her eyes. They had come to a pause beneath the spreading boughs of a vast tree, waiting for Morrigan to scout their surroundings. Zevran leaned against the trunk, his dark gaze returning once more to the treeline.

Looking at Alistair, who was still wearing the Templar armour from Flemeth's hut, Flora was unable to stop the tears from spilling over her cheeks. Quickly she unrolled the map and squinted at it intently, bowing her head. A wet drop landed squarely on Gwaren, blurring the inked letters.  _Good,_ she thought childishly.  _That's Loghain's territory._

Alistair, attention caught by the map, bent his golden head beside hers. His finger landed on their location and he started to speak; then noticed her expression. Horrified, he thrust the map aside and reached a metal glove to her cheek. A moment later he pulled off his gauntlets in frustration and cradled her face between his bare, sword-calloused palms.

"Flo," he said, alarmed. "What's wrong? What did I say? Oh," he realised a moment later, grimacing. "Was it asking you about Herring?"

Flora screwed up her face, not knowing how to explain. Alistair pressed his lips against her forehead, then over each of her damp eyes; much like he had done that night at Redcliffe Castle when the Archdemon had first reached out and touched her mind.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, pressing kisses against each cheek in turn. Alistair had not shaved since Wyman's Yat, and the short stubble on his chin inadvertently tickled her skin. Despite her melancholy, Flora let out a little pig-like snort.

Alistair peered at her down the nose she had once claimed resembled the prow of a ship, grinning tentatively back at her. He brushed his cheek against hers experimentally and she squealed; he took this as an invitation and began to plaster her face with clumsy, enthusiastic kisses, rubbing his angular Theirin jaw over her cheeks. Flora cackled, squirming and making half-hearted attempts to escape from his clutches.

"For such a sweet-faced girl, she has a dirty little laugh," murmured Zevran as Morrigan returned to her usual form in a whirl of black feathers beside him. The witch immediately looked nauseated, placing a hand over her stomach.

"I feel compelled to regurgitate my lunch," she muttered, darkly. "I think I preferred it when he was too scared to touch her for fear of being struck down by the Maker."

Zevran remained silent, a strange expression on his face as he watched Alistair press his face against the small hollow of Flora's shoulder-blade.

"Ah, have you never been in love, hedge witch?" the elf said, his voice distant and somewhat melancholy. Morrigan snorted derisively, slinging her staff back up onto her shoulder.

"No, thank the Wilds, and I never shall. Why fetter yourself to another?"

"You're missing out, my dusky beauty," murmured Zevran, and for a moment he sounded almost wistful. Then he visibly steeled himself, injecting joviality back into his tone.

"Anyway, it's a  _crime_  that a charming body such as yours should not be shared." The assassin openly leered at Morrigan's barely concealed cleavage. "Do you not miss the more  _physical_ side of romance?"

Morrigan shrugged a shoulder, gracefully bending over to pluck a sprig of nightbloom from the grassy bank.

"I am no beast of the field; I can resist my baser urges," she retorted, as Zevran swept his eyes admiringly over her figure. "Unlike those two. My rest was disturbed  _three_ times last night."

This last scathing comment was directed towards Alistair and Flora; brother-warden had one hand on sister-warden's clothed breast as he kissed her enthusiastically.

Zevran sighed, rolling his eyes tragically.

"I still live in hope that our bastard prince might ask me to show him the finer arts of pleasuring a woman; which I would happily demonstrate on the delightful Florence _._ His own technique, from what I have observed, is rather brutish and crude."

"Well, from what I have  _heard_ ," Morrigan retorted, watching the gentle kneading motions of Alistair's strong fingers. "She seems to enjoy herself well enough."

They continued east, the earthen trail leading over uneven ridges of grass and mud. The trees grew haphazardly, roots and benches entangled; rather disconcertingly, they resembled dark, twisted hands reaching towards a miasmatic yellow sky. Ferns larger than any they had ever seen grew in clusters, reaching out to trail damp finger-like fronds across the dirt. Thin, gleaming streams, bristling with reeds, snaked their way through the tree-covered hills. Even the insects appeared strange and oversized, metallic husks gleaming like winged jewels. They lurched drunkenly through the air, providing a constant background drone.

The party were descending a moss-covered slope when Zevran deliberately slowed, dropping back to where Flora was bringing up the rear of the party. He caught her attention with a flash of his night-black eyes, then lingered a few paces. Below them, Alistair stumbled over an exposed root and nearly barrelled into Morrigan.

Lowering his voice to let the ensuing recriminations drown out his words; Zevran brought his mouth close to Flora's ear.

"Don't look over your shoulder,  _mi flor_ ," he murmured, his voice deliberately casual. "But I believe that we're being followed."

Flora immediately swivelled her head around, as Zevran hissed between his teeth in alarm.

"Ah! You would make no assassin!" he complained, nostrils flaring with disapproval.

Flora, who had seen nothing behind them except tree trunks and clumps of ferns, looked unconvinced. Zevran could see the doubt in her eyes, and let out a small sigh of frustration.

"If Leliana were here, she would sense it too," he added, ominously. "Just… be prepared,  _dulce._  My senses rarely err in this area. It is, after all, my speciality."

Flora watched the elf's leather-clad back as he increased his pace, able to trip lightly down the grassy bank with the agility of a mountain goat. She cast a final glance over her shoulder – still nothing – and continued to use her staff to steady herself down the slope.

The ground levelled out, although the trees and tangled undergrowth still made for slow progress. The shadows began to lengthen and the ochre light filtering through the trees took on a richer hue. Miles away over the Frostbacks, the sun was making its slow descent.

Suddenly Morrigan, who had overtaken Alistair with an impatient elbowing, let out a cry of delight.

"At last, some fortune is bestowed upon us!" she exclaimed, pushing aside some trailing moss and starting forward eagerly.

The witch had found a small clearing in the trees, where a campfire was already burning away merrily. Several bedrolls had been laid out at angles around the fire; there was no sign of the occupants. A tent, dusted with a coating of leaves, had been erected to one side.

"Perfect," breathed Zevran, eyes lighting up. "We needed a camp, and now we have one. Perhaps it belonged to a Dalish scouting party, or some hunters."

Morrigan was already striding forward into the clearing, anticipating dinner and rest. Alistair followed her, unslinging Duncan's sword from his back.

"Where did they go?" he wondered, glancing around the deserted camp. "Perhaps something spooked them and they fled."

As Flora stepped into the clearing, she tasted something bitter underneath her tongue. It took her a moment to identify it; unused as she was to any school of magic other than her own specialism. After a pause she identified it as the scent of the  _arcane_ , the distinctive tingling of magical residue in the atmosphere.

"I don't think…" Flora hesitated, hovering beside a gnarled trunk. Then she trailed off, uncertain how to voice her vague and insubstantial concern. "Why don't we camp by the river, like we originally planned?"

Alistair, who had already unbuckled his breastplate, smiled at her.

"Come on, Flo. The fire is built, we can get some food cooking. Look at the flames, they're already hot."

Usually the prospect of dinner would be enough to motivate Flora; yet she hung back for several moments. Morrigan dropped her staff and eyed the bedroll keenly.

"'Tis awful considerate of them to leave behind their belongings," the witch murmured, her amber irises matching the hues of the setting sun. "This bedroll appears more comfortable than Arl Eamon's feather beds."

Flora trailed into the clearing reluctantly, watching Zevran crouch down beside the fire. The elf's dark eyes gleamed, reflecting the rising sparks of the fire.

"The fire reminds me of your hair, my Rialto lily, except the flames are  _far_  more beautiful."

"Thanks," muttered Flora, watching Alistair lower his shield to the grass and peer inside the tent. There was an odd expression on his face that disconcerted her; some distant part of his Templar training igniting.

"There's magic here," he said suddenly, and there was a slight slurring to his words. "You're right we ought… to be careful."

Now alert, Flora stared at him in alarm, lowering her staff.

"Magic,  _pfft,"_ replied Zevran, who had not taken his eyes from the crimson flowers blossoming in the heart of the fire. "Come and look at these flames, Warden. Are they not entrancing?"

"My," breathed Morrigan, stifling a sudden yawn. "'Tis lovely, indeed. Though I find myself stricken with a sudden desire to sleep."

Alistair grimaced, his eyes unfocused as he stared at Flora. Although she was barely a dozen feet away, Flora had the distinct impression that he was no longer able to see her. Slowly, irrevocably, his head swung sideways to where Zevran and Morrigan were kneeling.

_**Don't look at the fire.** _

Flora could sense it, a burning mass in the corner of her eye as she averted her gaze. Then she felt a yawn of fatigue in the back of her brain; the sensation was familiar and she struggled to remember where she had felt it before.

_At the top of the Circle Tower. The sloth demon, pulling everyone into the Fade through the medium of enchanted sleep._

Out of the tail of her eye, she saw Alistair slump sideways on a bedroll, half-disrobed. Zevran was already facedown against the damp grass, his head only inches from the hypnotic flames.

"Morrigan!" Flora scuttled to the hedge-witch's side, keeping her eyes assiduously averted from the campfire. Morrigan was kneeling, her head bowed and her fingers loose around her staff.

"Morrigan, Morrigan, please- "

"Jussttake… shortrest," the witch murmured, the words colliding into each other like drunkards stumbling home from the tavern. Flora reached out and clutched her bare shoulder, desperate.

"Morrigan, stay  _awake,"_  she hissed, feeling the yawn of fatigue once more, longer and more insistent. "I think it's a demon, it's a trick… Morrigan?"

Flora could almost  _sense_ the tattered Veil, the shifting barrier that divided the Fade from the waking world. She remembered what Leliana had said about the Forest being haunted, and realised that the Veil itself must have worn thin within these ancient woods.

All of these things she thought in an instant, simultaneously resisting the urge to lie down beside Zevran. She clambered to her feet, retrieving the staff from her back and holding it readied in her hand. When she turned her head quickly, she thought she caught a glimpse of a skull with broken teeth lying on the damp grass. A moment later, it looked merely a discarded cooking pot.

The clearing appeared empty, save for her slumbering companions. The woods themselves were still as a painted tableau, the leaves of the trees strangely motionless despite the low rustling of wind. The arcane bitterness beneath her tongue grew stronger; the sour taste making her stomach churn.

"It won't work on me!" Flora said to the empty air, now convinced that the campfire was the result of some demonic trickery. "It won't work. Show yourself!"

Since she was half-expecting no response to her bold proposition, it took her by surprise when the shade manifested itself before her. There was a crackle of arcane magic, the characteristic sound of the Veil tearing; and then a vaguely humanoid mass of shadows materialised. It was far taller than her, and with unnaturally elongated arms stretched outwards, nearly as wide as it was tall. It had no face but a seething void of darkness, trailing tattered fragments of shadow behind it. Slowly, with disjointed movements, it turned around to face her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Why haven't I got Alistair into some new armour by now!? He's STILL carting around that old shit from the Korcari Wilds! Why did I not get Arl Eamon to kit him out? Oh well! I love writing the evolving relationship between Alistair and Flora. It's actually inspired by my own relationship with my husband who I met eight years ago and who I still look forward to seeing every single day. Also, I love chapters which start cute and then turn freaky at the end. This bit in the game completely weirded me out, but I do get weirded out quite easily, lol


	104. Flora and the Demon

Chapter104: Flora and the Demon

Flora recognised the creature as a shade, a demon from the Fade which had yet to possess something in the waking world to give it solid form. As it turned towards her she retreated backwards, tripping over the cooking pot and landing hard on her rear. The shade swept towards her, the outline of its insubstantial form blurring in disjointed movement. She heard its voice in her head, the sighing words underlaid by the characteristic demonic snarl.

" _Accept my offer, mage. I can help you to- "_

_No!_ _**No.** _

Flora forced its voice from her mind before it could finish its proposition. She felt the shade emanate an overwhelming pulse of rage, then it flew towards her like a bat, spreading elongated arms outwards. She flung up her hand and the barrier materialised; as the shade collided with it, there was a noise like oil hitting a hot pan. The demon shrieked and recoiled backwards, fragments of shadow dropping onto the grass and vanishing. When the shade disappeared into the ether, Flora scrambled to her feet and retrieved her staff. Her heart beat wildly in her chest like a trapped bird as she circled slowly, every nerve lit with adrenaline.

_It's been months since Connor Guerrin and the demon. I'd forgotten how my creation magic harms them._

_At least I'm not defenceless-_

Distracted by her own thoughts, Flora didn't hear the faint tearing of the Veil behind her until it was too late. A burning claw ripped through her leather tunic and tore a slash in her back diagonally from shoulder to hip, cauterising the wound as it went.

The pain was so sudden and so overwhelming that Flora felt her vision contract, a roaring in her ears louder than the worst storms of the Waking Sea. She fell forwards onto her hands and knees, gaping soundlessly. There was the nauseating charred smell of singed flesh and she realised that was  _her, that it was her body that had been burnt._ She gasped for breath, the air stolen from her lungs by shock and pain, then retched her lunch onto the grass.

The shade lunged forward with a snarl. Dazed, Flora rolled over and thrust up a hand. Her barrier expanded like a second skin, catching the shade within it like a fly in a web. It managed to tear itself free, shrieking, but part of its tattered body had disintegrated. It recoiled with a howl, the campfire flames momentarily turning a pallid green as it flew through them.

Flora slapped a palm over her shoulder, feeling the torn edges of the wound beneath her bloodied fingers. There was just enough time to emit a pulse of anaesthetising golden energy before the shade made another attack. It sent a wave of violet energy, blasting through the air like sheet lightning.

A moment later, she felt dusky fingers creeping around the confines of her skull, trying to pry open the hinges of her brain and find a way inside. Flora, however, was used to banishing the dark whispers of the Archdemon and steeled her mind, expelling the demon's insidious influence with relative ease.

Taking advantage of the shade's momentary distraction, Flora darted around Zevran's prostrate body and swung her staff upwards, ignoring the jolt of pain. The head blazed with whitegold flame and tore into the shade, carving it in two. The shade collapsed noiselessly, fragments of shadow diffusing into the darkening air.

Lowering her staff Flora exhaled unsteadily, wondering if it was truly gone. Just as she took a step forward the shade reformed, smaller than its previous incarnation. It thrust a wall of energy towards her with a banshee-like howl. She put up an arm and felt the skin blister, the material of her shirt sizzling as it caught alight. Recoiling, she fell face first onto the damp grass, the flames extinguished beneath her weight. The pain was a living thing, chewing at her back and her arm, at the edges of her brain; she scrabbled for focus and found it scattered to the four corners of her mind.

The shade lunged forward once more and slashed at her wildly, opening smaller wounds on her cheek and her shoulder. The pain was one steady scream in her ears now; she felt the corners of her vision narrowing and edged with red.

_Am I losing? I_ can't _be losing! I have an Archdemon to kill._

_**Focus.** _

Huddled on the grass, sensing rather than seeing the shade approach for the final strike; Flora felt the cool metal weight of the Chantry amulet against the hollow of her throat. She focused on its solid mass, and then on the person who gave it to her, who was currently prostrate on the damp grass trapped in arcane slumber.

_If I die, so do they._

The shade made a triumphant lunge towards her, claws raised; she waited until the last possible moment and then summoned the barrier. The demon was caught within its materialising form, it struggled to escape but was trapped within the burning net. It began to shriek with rage, fragments of shadow breaking apart and falling to the damp grass. Gritting her teeth, Flora reached up her trembling hand and summoned the whitegold flame, the magic dripping and viscous between her fingers. With the last reserves of her energy, she thrust her hand forward into the demon's face.

It began to burn, the creation magic spreading through its body in branching veins. Encased in a golden net, it began to contort, flickering in and out of existence like a guttering candle. After several moments, it disintegrated into ashes.

The air seemed to flicker, lit strangely by the orange hues of sunset. Flora, panting and half-expecting the creature to emerge from the Fade once again, looked around. The illusion of the campsite had vanished, replaced with a desolate and bloodied clearing. It was littered with skeletal and partially withered remains; the tent became a metal rack supporting flayed strips of meat, the bedrolls several mouldering skeletons. The campfire had been reduced to wet, smouldering sludge.

_I knew that cooking pot was a skull,_ thought Flora irrationally as she placed a palm on her chest, sending another wave of anaesthetising golden magic pulsing through her body. Stopping when she began to feel lethargic, not wanting to send herself into unconsciousness, she clambered stiffly to her feet.

As Flora did so, she saw several pairs of golden eyes watching her from the shadowed edges of the clearing. In slight disbelief, raw pain blurring her vision, she watched three creatures lope forward.

They walked with a strange fusion of movement between man and beast; humanoid in shape but covered in bristling fur. Their hands were almost human - save for the sharpened claws - yet there was nothing recognisable about their bestial faces. One of them opened its jaws and let out a low snarl of warning. The other two eyed her as predators would some wounded and vulnerable prey.

The weary Flora wondered if she even had the energy reserves left to summon; to her mild surprise, the golden barrier sprung upwards in front of her companions with little effort.

"You're the werewolves," she said rather stupidly, watching the one who had snarled step forward. The creature glowered at her, then at the crumpled remains of the shade; a blackened smudge on the grass covered with a seething mass of shadow.

"Many have fallen victim to the demon," the one in the middle said finally, and Flora was surprised at how clear its voice was. Only a slight growl on certain sounds betrayed its bestial origin.

"You could have  _helped_  me," Flora replied, accusingly and without thinking. One of the beast's lieutenants let out a bark of humourless mirth.

" _Help?!_ Why should we help one sent by the Dalish to kill us?! Swiftrunner, we should dispose of them now. We cannot allow them to come near the Lady."

"Wait," said Flora desperately, keeping the barrier up before her companions but stepping out from it herself. "There must be a solution to this. I mean, one that's not about killing you – or this Witherfang."

At the mention of Witherfang's name, the volatile lieutenant let out a snarl. It half lunged towards her, only to be restrained by Swiftrunner. The two growled at each other for a moment before the lieutenant retreated, tail between his legs.

Swiftrunner turned back towards her and bared his fangs, eyes glowing through the gathering dusk.

"Leave now!" he warned her, the growl more prominent in his words. "We shall not be so forgiving next time."

"Don't go! Can't we talk about it?" called Flora desperately at their departing backs as the creatures melded into the shadows. A moment later they were gone, leaving her alone in the bloodied clearing.

The pain had returned, biting and sharp; each movement caused a raw jolt of pain running through to her nerve endings. Looking around at the charnel-house of a clearing, Flora decided that she did not want her companions to remain a moment longer in the demonic trap. Using her own anaesthetising magic to temporarily numb the pain, she rolled up her bloodied sleeves.

Gritting her teeth, she dragged Zevran out by his feet; the slender elf easy enough to manoeuvre over the damp grass. Leaving him in an earthy, tree-lined hollow to one side of the clearing, Flora returned for Morrigan. Picking up the witch's arms and hoping that she did not awaken while being dragged in such an undignified fashion, Flora hauled her over to rest beside the unconscious elf. Carefully, she reached out to arrange the woman's skimpy clothing back in place over her body, not wanting her to wake up exposed.

Alistair proved far more difficult to manoeuvre, several inches over six feet and seventy pounds of solid muscle heavier than her. If he had not removed several pieces of his armour before succumbing to the arcane sleep, it would have proven an impossible task. Fortunately Flora's tainted blood loaned her strength, and eventually she managed to wrestle Alistair alongside the others.

For a few moments she sat alongside them in the grassy hollow, wearied and in increasing pain. Her magic had temporarily dulled the bite to a low, constant ache; but she could feel sharp fingers beginning to pluck at the ends of her raw nerves.

Feeling sadness beginning to burn at the back of her throat Flora put her hands over her face, feeling her torn cheek bloody beneath her fingers. For several minutes she let salty tears of pain and fear flow freely, wheezing frog-like croaks escaping from her chest. The shadows were encroaching fast now; caught in the strange half-life of twilight, the moon not yet risen to ascendancy. The slumbering bodies of her companions lay pallid beside her, their breathing shallow.

Finally, driving her thumbs into her eyes to forcibly plug the remainder of the tears, Flora took several deep breaths to regain her focus. When she removed her fingers from her face, they came away bloody. Forcing the pain to the back of her mind, she felt the familiar tingle of creation magic rising beneath her tongue.

Crawling over to Morrigan who was nearest, Flora leaned over her and gently pulled the witch's jaw apart, tilting her chin down with a thumb. Taking a deep breath, she pressed her mouth against Morrigan's cold lips and  _exhaled_  rejuvenative energy into the witch's throat. She continued thus until she felt the woman stir, a flicker passing over her haughty, exotic features.

Flora slid over the damp grass to Zevran, and gently parted his lips, pressing her mouth against his own and  _exhaling._ She felt a jagged knife-edge of pain between her shoulder blades as she bent over; ignoring it, she continued to breathe energy into the elf's mouth until he gave a small cough.

As she sat up, she couldn't stop a hiss of pain from escaping her lips, her back now aflame with small prickles of agony. The hurt was indistinguishable from that radiating from the arcane burn running the length of her forearm. The reddened skin had blistered, fragments of her shirt sleeve melded to the raw flesh. The pain was like the rising tide, lapping at her chin as she desperately tried to keep her head above water.

Taking a deep breath, hearing Morrigan murmur something indistinguishable, Flora crawled over to Alistair. His olive skin was lined with a greyish pallor, the hazel eyes half-open. His mouth felt familiar against hers, and she reflexively  _inhaled,_ feeling the taint burning the back of her throat as she inadvertently withdrew it from him.

Swallowing it forcibly, annoyed with herself; Flora leaned down once more and  _exhaled_ rejuvenative energy between his slack lips. After a few moments she felt him stir beneath her, pale eyelashes fluttering against tan cheeks. She pressed her fingers momentarily against his mouth, then withdrew.

_Now for me,_ she thought, feeling a great yawn of weariness that had nothing to do with any demonic spell. Clambering unsteadily to her feet, she closed her own eyes and tried to concentrate on the cold metal of the Chantry amulet. Her focus kept breaking, fractured by the bolts of raw pain splintering through her mind.

"Flora?"

Morrigan's voice was uncertain and unusually fearful. A moment later, Flora heard Zevran cough and mutter a low curse in his native tongue. She opened her eyes to see Morrigan gazing at her, the witch's jaw slack with shock.

"What happened?!" the witch demanded, her golden eyes alight with confusion. Zevran leapt to his feet, hands automatically reaching for his blades. He wheeled around, looking for enemies, and seemed perplexed to find none.

"There was a demon, I think it was a shade," whispered Flora. The witch's concerned face hovered before her own; when Flora blinked, there appeared to be  _two_  Morrigans. Four catlike eyes stared at her in alarm, then she felt slender fingers gripping her arm and a familiar accented voice in her ear.

"Sit back down,  _mi amor_ ," murmured Zevran. "There are some wounds that need attending."

"There are?" she whispered, and the elf's face split in half as he nodded. She gaped at him, wondering why his voice seemed to be coming from two places at once. The moon dissolved in the sky above her, dripping pearlescent drops onto the twisted canopy of the Brecilian Forest.

"There are wolf-men here," she said stupidly, wondering why Morrigan was now a bird. She felt the brush of feathers across her shoulder and resisted the urge to laugh. "I  _spoke_  to them."

Through the haze of her disorientation, Flora heard a familiar voice rising in consternation and fear, and then it was met by another, angry and insistent. The bird Morrigan blinked angrily, trailing feathers across her uninjured arm. She felt it being bent upwards at the elbow, the feel of her own palm unfamiliar as it settled on her shoulder blade.

"Heal yourself, fool!" demanded the bird, the sound coming out as a caw. Flora frowned, preoccupied by the fishing nets draped from the low branches. She had stupidly thought them to be dangling mosses, but now she could see them  _clearly_.

_What kind of fish lived in the rivers here?_

"Why isn't she healing herself?"

"I don't know. You,  _here._ Talk to her."

_Trout. No, salmon._

Then a face rose clear before her, hazel eyes warm with concern; a familiar voice cutting through the miasma clogging her mind. Fingers slid through the hand still cradled in her lap and clasped her palm tightly, fishroping her to him.

"Come on, my dear. The quicker you do this, the quicker we can set up camp and have dinner."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So it's been a long time since Flora fought anything one on one, I think this chapter shows off the two sides to her magic well – the barrier, and the healing. Although she's far more proficient than she was when she first left the Circle (nearly six months prior!), she's still far from combat-proficient. She's very much a team player rather than a lone adventurer; as seen by the basic mistakes she makes when fighting the shade.


	105. The Mermaid and the Fisherman

Chapter 105: The Mermaid and the Fisherman

A glassy-eyed Flora focused on her brother-warden's words, which embedded themselves in her brain like gleaming fishhooks and forced her to focus. Her fingers began to burn as magic flowed from beneath her nails, great viscous globules of creation energy rolling down her torn flesh.

"I think we deserve meat tonight, though I don't know if there's anything edible in this Maker-damned forest."

As Flora listened to Alistair's inane prattle, her magic diffused itself into the wound. Slowly, the moon edged up to its rightful place in the sky and the hanging nets transformed back into trailing vines. Morrigan and Zevran became whole once again, the elf cradling her burnt arm across his lap.

"There: not even a scar," the witch said eventually, brushing her palm briskly but not without affection over Flora's bare back. "I admit, you might be defective, but you are very good at what little you  _can_  do."

Flora blinked at Alistair, who appeared to be grimly hanging onto the threads of composure. Zevran was busy removing the fragments of linen from her burnt arm with the tip of his finest blade. Sensing her stare, he glanced up and flashed her a white-toothed smile.

"I knew I'd see you topless again one day, my lily. I have anticipated this moment since the Temple of Sacred Ashes."

A slightly fragile Flora laughed as Morrigan rolled her eyes and hissed through her teeth; the witch hiding her relief with a thick layer of disgust.

"I'll leave you to your debauchery. I'm going to investigate the nature of this demonic spell," she informed them, rising to her feet and stalking from the clearing.

As Zevran continued to extract the remains of Flora's burnt shirtsleeve from her arm, Alistair brought their clasped hands up to her face and flattened her palm against her cheek. Obligingly, she summoned the magic once more and felt the torn flesh knit itself together.

"There," said Zevran finally, leering openly at her while Alistair was preoccupied. "Heal away, my lily."

Flora focused on Alistair's anxious hazel eyes, on his angular Theirin jaw and the proud length of his nose. She felt the burn fading away, the soft pain of new skin forming beneath the charred flesh. Finally, all that remained was a faint pink streak running the length of her forearm.

Zevran, despite his lechery, was the first to retrieve the pack and find her a spare shirt. Alistair, who had not said a word since Flora had finished healing herself, helped her to pull it on over her head. He turned his face away quickly as she emerged, but not fast enough to disguise the sudden damp gleam in his eyes.

"Alistair, I'm fine," she said, stupidly, and then he half-lunged at her, embracing her hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. His face pressed first against her hair, then her neck, and finally buried itself within her shoulder.

"Flo, I'm sorry," he hissed, distraught words muffled against the clean linen. "I should have listened to you.  _Why_  didn't I listen? I should have been there  _with_  you, not left you to fight it alone."

"I'm a mage. Demons are my speciality," Flora whispered in return, patting the back of his head clumsily. "You've nothing to apologise for. I got hurt because I made silly mistakes during the fight. I  _fell over_  twice."

Alistair groaned against her hair, clutching her arms tight enough to leave shadows of his fingerprints behind.

"I go crazy when you're hurt," he murmured, stroking his callused palm over the top of her head. "I can't think straight, I'm so frightened. I swear by Andraste, I'll always listen to you in the future."

"Don't," said Flora in alarm. "I'm wrong quite a lot."

He let out a half-laugh, half-sob against her neck, then pressed his mouth fiercely beneath her ear, kissing a desperate trail along her jaw.

"I'm furious that I fell for such a  _basic_  illusion," snarled Morrigan, returning in a foul temper with the shade's ashes in a small glass vial. "I am  _infuriated_  with myself."

None of them wanted to make camp near the cursed clearing. Despite the deepening shadow, they picked their way determinedly through the trees and tangled undergrowth for another few miles. Fortunately, the vast moon hung low enough to provide sufficient light for this last leg of the day's long journey.

Alistair, also furious with himself, had carried Flora on his back for the first mile after she found herself unsteady on her legs. After a while, she tapped his shoulder and requested to be lowered down, already fully recovered. He released her somewhat reluctantly, insisting on gripping her hand as they made their way through the woods. Every so often he glanced back at her, as if to confirm that she was still close beside him, the feel of her fingers wrapped around his not sufficient reassurance.

At last they reached a small clearing beside a mirror-like pond, protected on two sides by craggy rocks. Morrigan fluttered off in a whirl of hawkish feathers, determined to find some semblance of prey for their dinner. Flora and a silent Alistair put up the single tent that they had brought with them, while Zevran scavenged wood for a fire.

Flora peered at Alistair, who was still slump-shouldered and despairing; seemingly too ashamed to meet her eye after 'abandoning' her to fight the demon alone. She caught his sad gaze with her own curious stare, but he simply tightened the corners of his mouth and looked away.

Morrigan returned triumphant with a glassy-eyed hare; Zevran spared no time in skinning and jointing it while Flora retrieved the cooking grill from the pack.

"Oh," she said, recalling something from the haze of pain that had clouded her mind after the shade's attack. "I did see the wolf-men, I mean, the  _werewolves._ They talked to me while you were all asleep."

Zevran nearly dropped the hare into the fire, while even the despondent Alistair raised his eyes in surprise.

" _Talked_ to you?!" repeated the elf in surprise. "Are you sure you weren't just hallucinating in shock?"

Flora arranged the meat on the grill before lowering it carefully over the flames.

"I'm sure. They told me to go back to the Dalish, they knew our purpose was to kill their…  _leader,_  I think."

A shadow crossed her face as she sat back on her heels, reaching across Alistair's lap to retrieve the cooking tongs.

"It makes me doubt what we're doing," she said frankly, leaning forwards to prod at the meat with the tongs. "Maybe there's a way to end this curse without killing Witherfang."

Zevran gave an artful shrug, his dark eyes reflecting the rising sparks of the fire.

"Your wish is my command, my lady," he breathed, his tone lowering to a smoulder. "Regardless, I found that I have not thanked you for earlier. I wish only that I could remember the touch of your lips upon mine. The memory would have provided me with ample material to fuel my nightly  _exertions_."

The elf leered at her, reaching across to snatch up her fingers and kiss the back of her hand. Flora, who didn't know what he meant, smiled politely; Morrigan, who did, curled her lip and let out a sound of disgust.

It was decided that the watch should be held in pairs; the Veil had a way of playing tricks on a lonely mind and the Fade was proven to leak more easily in these ancient woods. Zevran perched on a boulder and began to whittle a pattern into the soft wood of a broken branch. Morrigan preferred to keep her distance, spilling the ashes of the shade out in front of the fire and studying them intently.

Inside the shadowed tent, the canvas flap hung partially open to let in some firelight. Flora pulled off her boots, eyeing Alistair warily. Her brother-warden had already disrobed to his own thin breeches and was lying flat on his back on the bedroll, staring up at the canvas ceiling. His melancholy was palpable, hanging over him like a storm cloud.

She sighed under her breath and patted his thigh before unwinding the leather strapping from her bare knee. The joint was swollen and red, the long journey over rough terrain having taken its toll. Wincing slightly as the golden energy surged from her arcane-burnt fingertips, Flora stroked her kneecap in absentminded patterns until the swelling had reduced and the ache had dulled.

Sucking her sore fingers, she lay back down on the bedroll and peered at Alistair through the shadows. His hazel gaze remained fixed upright, arms stiff alongside his bare abdomen, fists clenched. Flora leaned over and gave him a chaste kiss just beside his mouth, patting his cheek gently. There was a set in his strong jaw that reminded her eerily of Cailan.

"'Night 'night," she whispered, then rolled over to face the opposite wall of the tent and pulled the blanket up to her shoulders. Flora stretched out her bare foot and kicked at the canvas flap with her toes, flicking it closed. With the firelight shut out, the tent was bathed in greyish shadow.

The next moment, Flora felt herself being pulled into an embrace, strong arms crossing over her stomach. Alistair drew her against his chest, curling himself around her slender, sturdy frame and burying his face in her dishevelled oxblood hair.

"Tell me one of your Herring stories," he mumbled against her ear, breath warm on her neck.

"What kind of story would you like?" she replied, feeling his fingers curl over her stomach.

Alistair kissed the pink shell of her ear, sliding his hand inside the bottom of her shirt and settling his calloused palm on her abdomen.

"Anything, my love. Something to distract me."

Flora thought a moment more, recalling the stories that her father had told on the nights when the rain lashed too hard for them to get the crab pots in.

"Once, there was a fisherman who caught a mermaid in his net," she said, her voice distant. "He fell in love with her and she with him, but he couldn't swim and she couldn't live on the land. He asked her how he could live in the sea with her, and she told him that there  _was_  a way; but that he would have to give up his soul. Mermaids don't have souls," she hastened to explain, feeling Alistair nod against the back of her neck.

"So the fisherman thought about it, and he decided that it was worth giving up his soul, to be with the person he loved. So he prayed to the Maker and asked Him to take away his soul, which had never done anything for him. The next morning, the other villagers came down to the beach and found the fisherman lying dead in the surf, a smile on his face."

Flora paused, feeling Alistair's palm warm against her stomach.

"What happened to him?" Alistair's curious voice filtered through the shadows of the tent and she gave a little shrug.

"It depends on how you want to interpret it. Either he became a fish, or a merman, and went to live in the sea with her. Or, he drowned."

"What do you think?" Alistair kissed the top of her ear, his thumb tracing a meandering circle around her navel. Flora smiled at the canvas wall of the tent, then twisted her head to gaze up at him.

"That he became a fish and they lived happily ever after, of course."

Alistair lowered his lips to hers, pressing a soft kiss against her mouth. When he pulled away, he let out a soft groan.

"Flo," he said, his voice desolate. "I let you down today. I'm sorry. I swear by Andraste, I'll never let you face anything by yourself ever again."

Flora stared up at him, seeing the raw guilt gleaming in his hazel eyes. For a moment she thought back to her Harrowing, which still remained an unknowable blot on her memory.

"You didn't let me down," she whispered, urgently. "Don't think that. I'm used to resisting demons, I've always done it. Their tricks don't work well on me."

Alistair stared at her and she saw that he desperately wanted to believe her. Yet in his eyes she also saw herself, hunched over and wounded, talking nonsense through a delirium of pain.

" _Stop_ thinking about it," she instructed and her brother-warden let out a soft groan, turning over to rest on his back and staring at the ceiling.

"I can't help myself," he muttered. "I can't tear my mind away."

Flora propped herself up on her elbow and stared at him for a moment; Zevran's words rising to the fore of her memory like flotsam on the waves.

_He's done it for you, no? Why not return the favour?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: It's been a while since we had a story from Herring! Like the rest, this is based on a traditional European folk story, heavily amended/adapted. Lots of foreshadowing (and retro-shadowing – is that a thing? I don't think so, lol) in this chapter. I wanted to start the chapter with Alistair's words helping Flora to focus, and end with Zevran's words guiding Flora on how to distract Alistair. PARALLALS! Also, I think it's quite fitting for Flora's compassionate character that both times that she's initiated some new sexual intimacy between them – intercourse at Ostagar and oral now – that it's been for the purpose of consoling her brother-warden. Which is actually quite an interesting motivation!


	106. Night Visitors

Chapter 106: Night Visitors

Outside the tent the fire hissed and spat, sending up defiant sparks into the black well of the night sky. Within the confines of the damp canvas, Flora rolled over to straddle her brother-warden, bare thighs resting either side of his waist. Alistair reached up to rest his hands lightly on her hips, lips parting reflexively as she leaned down to kiss him. Since she did not want to lose her nerve, she did not linger overlong with her mouth against his. Instead, she pressed a brief kiss to the side of his lips, then another against his stubbled chin, working her way slowly down his neck.

Alistair groaned under his breath, sliding his fingers beneath her shirt and running his fingers over her slender back. He knew by heart the location of each freckle in the  _Peraquialus_ constellation that was dotted over her shoulder-blades. When she moved her mouth to his collarbone and began to meander kisses down his chest, he inhaled sharply, feeling his sister-warden shift her weight determinedly down on his thighs.

"Flo?" he whispered, staring down at her. "What're you doing?"

Flora raised her grey eyes from his stomach, half-smiled up at him, then returned her lips to his taut navel. Carefully, she traced the outline of the hard musculature with her tongue, shifting herself further down his body until she was straddling his knees.

When her fingers fumbled at the fastening of his breeches, he inhaled sharply; reaching down to help her with the button. Flora could already feel him hard against the worsted wool, straining for the release that she was offering. Feeling her heart thudding against her ribcage, Flora reached down and gently freed him from his smallclothes. Above her, Alistair appeared to have momentarily stopped breathing. Clumsily, with only the fleeting memory of stumbling across two young apprentices in the Circle to guide her, Flora took him in her mouth.

Alistair's breathing grew ragged as she worked his length with inexperienced lips and tongue, his hips reflexively rising from the mouldering bedroll. A moan of startled pleasure broke free from his chest and he gritted his teeth, determined not to lose control too soon.

This proved easier said than done; Flora looked up after several minutes to see her brother-warden's face contorted in paroxysms of mingled pleasure and lust. His mouth was half-open now, audible groans escaping his curled lips.

Outside, Morrigan hissed in exasperation and took her book to a moonlit patch of grass far from the tent. Conversely, the delighted Zevran - whose sharp ears had picked up Alistair's strangled moans of desire - crept alongside the tent. Pleasantly surprised that Flora had acted upon his advice so promptly, he knelt down and pressed his eye to a small rip in the canvas; the location of which he had noted earlier, and made slightly larger with his blade.

Growing more confident that she was doing something right, Flora added a tentative stroke of her fingers. This proved too much for Alistair, who clutched at her head with his fingers and let out a primitive cry, feeling his pelvis convulse. Flora recoiled in alarm, knocking the back of her head against the tent pole.

" _Agh!_  Ouch."

Alistair collapsed back against the bedroll, his breath coming in ragged pants, cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming.

"Flo," he managed to gasp, raising his arm with great effort. "Come here, darling."

Flora was about to crawl up to settle against him, when she sensed slight movement and the press of a body on the other side of the tent. Reflexively, she swung her foot and kicked out at the bulge in the canvas. Immediately, there came a squawk and a muffled curse in Antivan.

"Aah! Halt, my Rialto lily, it is only I!"

Flora retracted her foot in some confusion, as Alistair groaned under his breath.

"It's that Maker-blasted elf again," he hissed, as Flora found the tear and put her eye to it.

"I thought you were a wolf-man," she said, as Zevran winked back at her. "Sorry."

"Don't  _apologise_ to him!" yelped Alistair as Flora experimentally poked a finger through the hole and wiggled it around. "He was spying on us!"

"There's not much else that passes for entertainment round here," retorted the Antivan, tapping Flora's finger neatly with the end of his thumb. "Forgive me for seeking out a little company in the middle of the woods. I was  _lonely._ "

Flora retracted her hand and smiled down at Alistair, who was still sprawled on the bedroll beneath her, hair tousled. He grinned lazily up at her, reaching up to caress her cheek.

"We should get some sleep, my love," he said reluctantly, sliding his thumb down the angle of Flora's distinctive Cousland jaw. She nodded solemnly, settling back on the bedroll.

"Yes," she agreed, closing her eyes and reaching out to pull the blankets primly up to her chest. Alistair exhaled for a moment, watching a trapped moth beat itself against the canvas flap, desperate to reach the fiery brilliance of the stars. He sat up and leaned forward to twitch the canvas aside, leaving a gap wide enough for the moth to escape.

Looking back, he noticed that Flora's face had gone slack; over the course of their journey, she had developed the ability to fall asleep almost on cue, taking full advantage of any opportunity to rest between watches. The firelight crept in like some lesser sunrise, casting the tent in metallic hues of copper and bronze.

Alistair leaned over and retrieved a thick strand of hair from Flora's cheek, tucking it gently behind her ear. After a brief pause, unable to help himself, he bent his face down and pressed a light kiss against her lips. Her mouth was soft and warm, and soon he found that he could not pull his own away.

Flora woke to her brother-warden's tongue probing between her lips, lust palpable on his tongue. Drowsily she slid her arms around his neck, yawning against his shoulder as he positioned himself on top of her. His impatient fingers pulled her smallclothes aside and checked briefly to ensure that she was ready for him.

"He's not much for  _foreplay_ , our Warden," observed Zevran, who was now beside the fire with the reluctantly curious Morrigan. "Look, he's already taking her. Not even any sensual conversation to get her aroused."

Morrigan, whose night vision was as clear as her sight during the day, gave a mild shrug of her shoulders.

"Each to their own, elf. Unsurprisingly, the fool is clearly a man of  _action_  rather than a man of words."

Zevran gave a little snort, eyeing the rhythmic motion of Alistair's muscled shoulders as they rose and fell.

"If only he would take me up on my offer of advice," he bemoaned, nudging the base of the fire with the tip of his dagger. "I could teach him to draw such sweet music from that beautiful creature. A lovelier sound than the finest lute. He attacks her as he does the Darkspawn."

The witch shrugged a bare shoulder, closing her book and stifling a yawn.

"Elf, there is sufficient evidence to indicate that she enjoys it. I shouldn't trouble yourself over her pleasure."

Once it reached the darkest part of the night, even the moonlight struggled to penetrate the tangled canopy overhead. Those in the tent exchanged position with those on watch, Morrigan pointedly turning her back on a disappointed Zevran.

Alistair tentatively scavenged the bushes at the edge of the clearing, half-expecting a werewolf to burst forth from the undergrowth. Returning to the fire with an armful of wood, he handed some to Flora. Together, they built up the base of the fire until it flared towards the hanging moon in a brilliant blaze.

The orange glow of the flames provided sufficient light for Alistair to get out the parchment and inkpen. He wrote a sentence in his neat, angular hand, then slid the parchment over the damp grass towards her. Flora narrowed her eyes down at the page, her finger tracing the letters.

"The –  _forest_ …. was f-full," she read slowly, hesitating on each word. He waited patiently, having learnt how long to wait before offering assistance.

"Full of…" Flora trailed off, squinting at the word. "Full of...  _Floras?_ "

Alistair grinned, shaking his head. Taking the quill from her, he wrote the word out as individual letters.

"Full of  _flowers,"_  he murmured, handing her the pen back. "But none so beautiful as you, my dear. You write something now."

Flora smiled back at him, then tapped the end of the inkpen against her teeth. Slowly rounded letters were traced onto the parchment, until six words were formed. Although she had made several spelling errors and somehow managed to write a word both backwards and upside down, Alistair could discern their meaning immediately.

_i saw arsh demin last niet_

_._

He gaped, then reached out and drew her into his arms, resting his chin protectively on top of her head.

"Flora, why didn't you wake me?"

Flora rested her head against his shoulder, summoning the memory to the forefront of her mind. She ran her inner eye over the creature's vast, scaled body, the leathery bat-like wings and the snakelike neck. The head, narrow and serpentine, with an intelligent, malevolent yellow stare.

"I was…" She trailed off, uncertain how to complete her sentence. It would not have been untrue to claim that she was no longer  _scared_  by the night-time visions of their enemy; because the fear was a constant dull throb. Yet the terror was no longer sharp enough to take her breath away and bewilder her senses beyond reason. Suddenly, so clear that she almost looked over her shoulder, she heard Duncan's voice.

_When the time comes, will you be able to run_ towards _it rather than away? That, young Warden, is all that matters. You can be frightened, as long as you fight._

Flora thought for a moment, then nodded.

_Yes, I won't run away._

Alistair broke through her reverie with his anxious stare, his earnest and well-meaning words directed into her ear.

"Flo? Say something."

Flora smiled at him, trying to convey as much reassurance as was possible into the curve of her wide mouth.

"Honestly, I was fine," she assured him, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "Oh, a forest full of  _Floras,_ though. What a hideous idea. It sounds hellish."

Alistair knew that she was intentionally trying to distract him, but the thought of multiple sister-wardens gathered around him was admittedly arresting.

"They'd demolish the supplies in a heartbeat," he said, reluctantly smiling back down at her. "I don't think we have food enough to satisfy the appetites of you and all your mirror twins."

"Could you tell which one was me?" Flora asked him solemnly, pale irises gleaming.

Alistair canted his head to the side, pretending to seriously consider the question. Closing his eyes in mock contemplation, he watched her from beneath his lashes. The fire lit up bronze strands in her hair, rich coppery veins running through the dark scarlet.

"I could definitely tell," he murmured, reaching out to slide his fingers through the loose strands dangling about her ears. "You're different."

Flora let out an incredulous cackle as he edged himself towards her, a grin creeping over his features.

"How could you tell?" she demanded in a hiss. "How could you tell?"

"Like this," he murmured, lunging forward and pressing his lips against her mouth. She giggled, letting him bear her down into the damp grass.

It was then that a shape moved from the shadows at the edge of the clearing; its silhouette bristling like a thistle. It was tall, nearly the height of the trees, but with unnaturally elongated limbs. As it moved forward within the orange glow of the fire, they saw that it's skin was bark, that it was –  _impossibly –_ a tree, walking and sentient. Small red flecks were embedded within its bark, and a ragged mouth hung open. It hunched itself over, flailing branch-limbs and letting out a vicious, sibilant hiss. Lowering its head, it began to lope towards them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: 500 words about oral sex, there's an English assignment that you'd never get in school, lol. So the title of this chapter refers to three night time visitors – Zevran (speaking from experience, there is NO privacy in a tent! Ever! EVER.), Alistair, and the Archdemon. Also, for some reason these tree creatures really freaked me out in game – I think they're called sylvan – I don't really know why.


	107. The Sylvans Attack!

Chapter 107: The Sylvans Attack!

To Alistair's credit, after the initial moment of shock had passed he had grabbed Duncan's sword and risen gamely to his feet. Despite his armour still resting on the grass within the tent, he had gone to face the creature head on in tunic and breeches.

"For the Wardens!"

Flora had bellowed in a most un-Lady Couslandlike way for Zevran and Morrigan; while running after Alistair with hands raised. The creature swung a club-like limb, the blow colliding with a gleaming barrier instead of her brother-warden's body. Alistair gave a slightly confused yell and lunged forward. His sword bit deep into the wood of its 'abdomen', sending fragments of bark flying. He struggled to pull it free, just as several more demonic trees began to limp across the clearing.

"How fascinating," breathed Morrigan, golden eyes sparkling with interest as she emerged from the tent with staff readied.  _"Sylvans!_ I have not seen one in years. My mother used to commune with them."

Zevran dodged the unravelling roots of a second tree, daggers drawn.

"I can think of more appropriate term to use than  _fascinating,"_ the elf snarled darkly. He darted forwards, quick as a whippet, and began to inflict quick, deep little cuts with his twin blades.

Five creatures now surrounded them, emitting strange, thin shrieks through bark-encased mouths. They were armed only with their own arboreal weapons; thick arms like wooden clubs, whiplike twigs and the deadly sentient roots. Alistair raised his shield to protect Morrigan from a lashing swipe that would have cut her back to ribbons. Only his Warden-enhanced strength prevented him from stumbling at the force of the blow.

Morrigan shot him a quick glance but said nothing, raising her staff. A gout of flame spouted forth and set the dry bark of one tree alight. It caught fast as tinder, the sylvan itself letting out a thin shriek as it whirled away in a blazing cartwheel of sparks. The flame spread rapidly over its dry husk of a body; and its frantic cries seemed to drive the others into a frenzy. They attacked with increasing fury, hailing enraged blows down upon the Wardens and their companions. Alistair took the brunt of the heavy blows against his shield, bracing his feet with some difficulty against the damp grass.

Flora was so caught up in the careful choreography of shielding and barriers that she failed to notice the root slithering across the grass towards her foot. Preoccupied with protecting Zevran from a blow that would have knocked his head clean off his shoulders, she didn't notice until the root was slithering around her bare calves. She lost her balance and fell over beside the tent, the rough bark abrasive against her skin as it continued to encircle her.

Morrigan had set two more aflame, their charred and smouldering husks prostrate on the damp grass. The third was trapped between Alistair and Zevran, being slowly yet systematically hacked to pieces. Brother-warden glanced out of the tail of his eye behind him for his sister. When he could not see her, Alistair yelled out her name, a surge of anxiety rising in his throat like bile.

"Morrigan, just burn it," he ordered, the vein of command in his voice so clear that the surprised witch did not protest at being told what to do. Zevran and Alistair drew back as she set the third creature aflame; it pitched and rolled like a ship in distress before breaking apart on the grass.

The shadowed clearing was suddenly very quiet, save for their own laboured breathing. Just then, they saw an expansion of golden light in the undergrowth and heard the sound of wood splintering. A moment later, Flora came haring out of the trees towards them. The enraged tree came limping after her, trailing several amputated roots in its wake.

Morrigan raised her staff to meet it with a blast of flame; it collapsed in howling contortions, broken limbs consumed in seconds. Flora, whose bare legs were grazed from ankle to knee, had the temerity to look self-conscious.

"I was so surprised at the walking trees, I forgot I could break out of things," she admitted, somewhat sheepishly. Alistair let out a low exhalation of relief, heading towards her. "Does anyone need healing?"

As Alistair embraced her around the waist, Flora reached up to touch his bloodied face. One of the twigs had lashed him across the cheek, opening a clean cut of several inches. She brushed her thumb along its edge and he felt the familiar strange sting of her magic, the edges of the cut sealing themselves together in its wake. He smiled down at her, leaning down to kiss her on the side of the forehead with lips just brushing her hairline.

Just then, Zevran let out a low groan of pain. He was sprawled on the grass, a slender-fingered hand spread over his abdomen. Alistair and Morrigan shared a rare glance of mutual confusion.

"Did you see what hit him?" the Warden asked the witch as they headed over towards the elf. With an instinctive ear for pain, Flora was already kneeling at his side. Another agonised moan escaped Zevran's chest, his fingers fluttering weakly.

"Ooh, it  _hurts."_

Flora spread her palm over the elf's abdomen, not seeing any blood and assuming there must be some internal damage. Allowing the forest to blur into the background, she used her mind's eye to strip away the leather tunic; peeling back the layers of bronzed skin and honed muscle, probing the organs and vessels beneath with a healer's knowledge of anatomy.

"I can't find any injury," she whispered after a moment, coughing as the thick golden mist congealed in her throat. "Where does it hurt?"

"My manly organ," Zevran murmured back to her. "It is in dire need of your unique style of  _oral_ healing."

From behind them, Alistair ground his teeth audibly.

Flora blinked at Zevran, who smiled archly up at her from the grass. Now that the elf's deception had been revealed, she slapped his shoulder with the flat of her hand.

"Don't be the fisherman who… who cried  _shark_ ," she hissed as he let out a wicked cackle. "Next time you do that, I won't help you."

Zevran batted his dark eyelashes up at her, stretching slender fingers out to touch the end of her chin.

"Would you  _truly_ not come to heal me?"

Flora thought for a moment, then gave a reluctant scowl; acknowledging that it was unlikely she would ever ignore a cry of distress.

"Not that I wish to disrupt this worthy conversation," Morrigan's acidic tone cut across the dappled dawn sunlight. "But I suggest we that we move on as quickly as possible, in case more of those creatures emerge."

She appeared uneasy, casting frequent glances over her bare shoulder. Flora looked at the witch curiously, unused to hearing trepidation running through her tone. She remembered Morrigan's comment from early in the encounter.

_Sylvans… my mother used to use them._

It did not take them long to clear the campsite, and before the sun had finished rising, they were on their way with its orange warmth at their backs. They were heading towards the western part of the forest; the heart of the ancient wood, where the werewolves supposedly dwelt among Dalish ruins.

Alistair, who was reluctantly starting to appreciate Brecilian's strange beauty, led the way. His head swivelled continually from side to side, mainly to look out for any more arboreal assaults, but also to take in the peculiar undergrowth. He reached out to touch the petals of a large, drooping scarlet bloom as they passed, wondering at its size.

As they continued eastwards, several ancient Tevinter ruins began to manifest themselves; standing out against the dark backdrop of the trees like broken teeth. The white stone was crumbled and covered with moss, often too decayed for them to discern what type of structure it had originally supported. Occasionally, they would come across a small rotunda or complete archway, surrounded by fragments of shattered stone. They ate lunch beneath one such edifice, while Flora wondered out loud at the empire responsible for its construction.

"The Tevinter built Ostagar too, didn't they?" she said, summoning Duncan's words to the forefront of her mind. "They got around."

Alistair nodded, his palm idly roaming over Flora's thigh as he watched her finish a portion of smoked meat.

"Their empire stretched as far east as Rivain, and down to Ferelden's southern coast," he said, rubbing his thumb against the rough wool of her breeches to feel the firm flesh beneath.

"How did it fall?" she asked through her last mouthful.

To Alistair's mild surprise, his near-decade at the Chantry meant that he had received the most formal education out of their current party. Zevran had been trained in the twin arts of seduction and elimination; while Morrigan had received mostly magical tutelage from Flemeth within the depths of the Wilds. Although theoretically Flora should have received some basic historical education in the Circle, the instructors- already exasperated at her lack of diverse magical talent- perceived her poor literacy as similar stubbornness. She had spent the majority of the four years doing chores, scrubbing the flagstones and sweeping dust from the corridors. This had not bothered Flora in the slightest, as it allowed for frequent excursions to the kitchen on the pretence of refilling her buckets.

"Some of their magisters tried to enter the Black City," Alistair said, the words of the Chant drifting through his mind as he told the famous story. "They caused the taint and brought the first Blight back with them."

"The one that lasted two hundred years?" asked Flora, aware that this was a far greater number than  _thirty._ "Oh, is that why people hate mages now?"

Morrigan, who had ventured off to explore the ruins further, let out an audible cackle.

"'Tis merely jealousy." Her voice drifted back between the crumbled pillars. "The people wish they could harness such power within their own fingers. Not  _your_ powers, naturally. Who would wish to be so  _limited?"_

Alistair frowned absentmindedly, his thumb rubbing an idle circle against his sister-warden's knee. A bird wheeled into the sky from the bushes near them, letting out a rasping cry. The weak sun filtering through the canopy cast bathed the ruins in murky green light; the effect was almost as though they were underwater.

"Partially," he murmured, the corners of his mouth drawing tight. "It's not fair, the way that mages are treated."

Alistair recalled their last encounter with Howe's men, in the woods before venturing to Ostagar. The leader armed with a mage cage, bellowing at Flora as she quailed in the face of his raw and violent hatred.

_Mage bitch, you have no rights!_

"If I were King," he said slowly, and found that the words were no longer so bitter on his tongue. "I would try to help them. Ensure that their treatment was better."

Both Flora and Zevran were silent, the air hanging damp and portentous between them. The elf pressed a meaningful finger against Flora's calf, flicking his eyes towards Alistair's intent expression. She gave a slight nod of the head,  _I heard it._

_If I were King._

Flora smiled to herself, irrational pride swelling deep in her belly. Impulsively, she leaned across and pecked Alistair on his chiselled cheek, feeling several day's worth of stubble beneath her lips. The bastard prince turned his head to stare down at her, his bruised hazel eyes wandering over her solemn profile.

"I mean,  _you_  were in one of the mage prisons, Flo. I know the Fereldan Circles aren't bad compared to some of the Marcher ones, but…"

Alistair trailed off, looking at her slender fingers as they curled against her knees. He reached for her hand and clasped it within his own, feeling the customary warmth radiating from her palm.

" _Anything_  could have happened to you. You were only fifteen. I've heard stories of Templars a-abusing the mages in their care."

Flora dropped her gaze to the grass between her knees as Alistair faltered; no Circle mage was unaware of such rumours. It was part of the unspoken dynamic between prisoner and jailer, the guard and the guarded.

He grimaced, raising her hand to his lips and kissing her knuckles fiercely.

"Even if we defeat this Blight- "

"When," corrected his sister-warden, sternly.

" _When_ we defeat this Blight, I'll not let anyone put you back in a Circle. I'll keep you with me forever. I swear, Flo,  _whatever_  happens." Alistair's words were laden with solemn purpose; his eyes blazing.

Zevran let out a dry cackle, leaning back against one of the stone pillars and arching his fingertips.

"It seems as though it's decided, then. Our future king Alistair will wed Anora in a loveless political alliance, but spend every night in the arms of his lovely mage mistress."

Alistair's strangulated squawk was cut off by the temperature suddenly dropping several degrees. It was as though the sun had swallowed itself, leaving only shadow and chill air in its wake.

Yet when they reflexively looked up the golden eye winked back at them, free from dampening cloud. Just then Flora felt a strange twinge in her mind, one that predated even the pull of the Darkspawn.

"There's a demon nearby," she whispered, reaching for her staff as she clambered to her feet. "Morrigan?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I actually thought that the Brecilian zone was really pretty, it reminded me a lot of the Washington rainforest near where my husband was originally from (the state, not the city!) Incidentally, I know that in-game mechanics dictate how Alistair feels about becoming king, but I feel that story-wise; the travelling around Ferelden would have played a major role in his decision. By the time they arrive at Denerim, he would have become intimate with a vast swathe of the country, he would have seen first-hand the ruin that the Blight had brought to the south. I think seeing the wild, diverse beauty of Ferelden in person would prompt him towards taking responsibility for it.


	108. Politics and Privacy

Chapter 108: Politics and Privacy

They headed towards the direction that Morrigan had last been seen heading in, ducking beneath an archway of crumbling stone. The overgrown pathway led to a small, sequestered grove to one side of the ruins; the temperature dropping even further as they came to a startled halt. A solitary gravestone stood to one side of the clearing, cracked and neglected, half-buried in a veil of entangling weeds. The witch was standing before it, her staff raised and expression wary.

Before her stood a creature that dwarfed even Alistair's six feet and some inches, clad from head to toe in ancient bronze armour. It wore a vast horned helmet that covered its face, revealing only two blazing scarlet eyes. A cruel battle-ax, its edge pitted and scarred, was held lightly in one gloved hard. Darkness seethed over the armour like a second skin and pulses of Fade energy radiating outwards; strong enough to induce nausea in those sensitive to the arcane.

"Stay back," murmured Morrigan, not taking her catlike stare off the strange apparition. "'Tis a revenant, a demon possessing some ancient remains. It may attempt to bargain; I have rejected its offers. I will be no puppet."

Suddenly the revenant spoke in a hollow whine, undercut with the distinctive guttural growl characteristic of all demons.

"My offer of arcane knowledge lost to this side of the Veil still stands," it intoned, a thick vein of poisonous charisma dripping from its words. Morrigan let out a scornful snort; and the revenant turned, slow and deliberate. It's gaze passed over Alistair and Zevran without pause, and then settled on Flora.

Flora waited patiently, ready to vehemently refuse the demon's offer. The revenant stared at her for several long moments, eyes burning in dark cavernous sockets, then returned its gaze to Morrigan.

"This is my final offer," it stated, dispassionately: "Yield willingly or be overcome."

"You may try," retorted the Witch of the Wilds, amber eyes flashing.

The party closed in on the revenant, which raised the great battle-ax in response. Violet flame flickered briefly over the bronze armour, and the creature glided forwards with a grating cry.

The fight turned out to be quick and brutal. Flora's shield blocked several frenzied swings of the demonic-infused axe, while Alistair drew the demon's attention away from his lightly-armoured companions. The Warden's core strength allowed him to deflect several blows with his own temporal shield, bracing muscular thighs against the arcane-enhanced attacks.

Zevran's daggers made little headway on the rusting armour, but a well-aimed blast of ice from Morrigan was enough to force the revenant to its knees. Seeing an opportunity, Alistair lunged forward and brought Duncan's blade around in a great arcing sweep. Warden-enhanced strength turned sword into scythe, and the creature's head went rolling across the grass, it's scarlet eyes flickering out like a blown candle.

Alistair lowered his sword, breathing hard. There were two bright spots of uncharacteristic anger in his cheeks as his eyes flared in the witch's direction.

"Did you do something to summon that- that  _creature?"_  he demanded; whereupon Morrigan gave a nasty little laugh.

"Nay, I was merely exploring the ruins. Unfortunately for our demon, I was no weak-willed mage, easily susceptible to false promises. It made no offer that I was willing to accept."

Zevran had wandered over to the grave and was inspecting it curiously, rubbing a thumb over the worn inscription. The ground before it had been disturbed with soil scattered over the damp grass, as though the creature had clambered up from within the depths of the earth. Alistair sheathed the sword, calming slightly.

The witch glanced over at Flora, who was suckling on her sore fingertips, and let out a derisive snort.

"'Tis no surprise that the revenant made no offer to you, Flora. What self-respecting demon would want to possess such a  _limited_ body?"

Flora, who was used to being flatly ignored by demons in the Fade, gave a mild shrug, removing her magic-burnt fingers from her mouth with a pop.

"Oh well," she replied placidly, hooking her staff back over her shoulder. "I don't think I'll lose sleep over a demon's disinterest."

Alistair, icy fingers of fear crawling at the base of his spine at the mere suggestion, forced lightness into his tone as he slung a vigilant arm around his sister-warden's shoulders.

"The only one allowed to possess this body is me," he said in a grim attempt at humour. "Isn't that right, Flo?"

Flora laughed at Alistair and nodded, a smile creeping across her face as he pressed his lips hard and affectionate against her cheek.

"Is that what you call it?" she whispered, turning her solemn grey gaze on him. He nodded, then grinned back at her; his own eyes softening.

"Something like that."

Sobered by their encounter with the revenant demon, packs and equipment were quickly retrieved. They left the ruins behind them, continuing to follow the wooded trail into the deepest part of the wilds. The further they plunged into the forest's heart, the more abandoned ruins manifested across their path. Some were Tevinter, whereas others appeared more elven in construction, blending hard stone with organic shapes and elaborate curlicues. Every so often they saw another ruined grave with disturbed earth spread before it, from which they kept a wide berth.

The mossy light began to darken as the sun slowly crept towards the western horizon. Although they could have pressed on for another mile, Zevran suggested that they make camp beside a shallow, sluggish river that snaked its way between the trees like some vast green python. Alistair and Flora built the tent beneath the skeleton of a rotted wooden bridge; so familiar with its canvas construction that they could most likely have done it with eyes shut. Even before they had finished, Morrigan returned with a bleeding hare between her claws. This was almost enough cause for Alistair to forgive her for disturbing the revenant's slumber earlier.

A gleaming-eyed Zevran suggested that they wash themselves to remove the cloying arcane scent of the demon from their bodies. To his mild disappointment, after agreeing, Morrigan disappeared to a fold of the river mostly hidden by trees. Not wanting the witch to bathe alone and vulnerable, Flora trotted after her, pulling her tunic over her head as she went. Morrigan, more disconcerted by the revenant than she would ever admit, was reluctantly grateful for the company.

"I think she would have quite happily stayed with us otherwise," the elf muttered as he and Alistair ventured into the water on the near side of the rotted bridge. "There's no privacy in those Circles. Ah, well."

Zevran's eyes roamed freely over Alistair's finely honed form. Each movement that the Warden made caused bulky muscle to flex beneath olive-toned skin, taut abdominals just visible above the waterline.

"But this is a  _more than sufficient_  consolation prize. Do you require assistance washing your back?"

Alistair scowled at the elf suspiciously, still disconcerted by Zevran's proud and unabashed lechery.

"Do you think it's a possibility, what you said earlier?" the Warden asked abruptly, voicing the thoughts that had been lingering on his mind since the ruins.

"I said many things earlier," replied the Antivan evasively, rinsing foul-smelling demonic ichor from his hair. "May I measure the circumference of your thighs? They're like young redwoods."

Alistair ignored the latter comment, persisting.

"Do you think that if… _if_  I were King, they would insist on me marrying Anora? My dead brother's  _widow?"_

Zevran fell silent, his catlike stare falling contemplatively on the bastard prince. Alistair seemed genuinely distressed, hazel eyes bruised and the corners of his mouth drawn tightly together.

"Cousland or no, Flora is still a mage," the Antivan said at last, watching the greenish river water flowing through his outstretched fingers. "The Council would never condone an official relationship with her, although you could keep her as your mistress. But they cannot  _force_  you to marry, not if you're King."

Alistair groaned, passing a hand through his damp hair so that it stood on end, inadvertently crownlike.

"I won't tolerate Loghain's rule, nor some proxy rule through his daughter," he said finally, peeling a trailing strand of weed from the taut muscle of his stomach. "Ferelden deserves more than a traitor. But no Council can keep me from her, Zev. I  _love_  her."

"That's the spirit, darling" murmured Zevran, wringing water from his saturated locks. " _Amor conquista todo_."

For a moment the elf's face was melancholy. It appeared as though he were trying to summon the recollection of a face; one that kept slipping away beneath the surface of his memory.

Just then Flora appeared capering on the bank, wet and gleeful. She was clutching Morrigan's travel cloak around her bare shoulders with one hand, wielding a fish triumphantly in the other. The witch herself, fully dressed, sauntered behind her with a derisive expression on her face. The self-conscious Alistair sunk several inches lower in the water, aware of Morrigan's supercilious stare.

"I got a fish!" she yelled down at them, waving the salmon around by its tail. "It brushed past my leg and I just reached down and  _grabbed it- "_

The salmon gave an almighty squirm in a last-ditch break for freedom; spasming free of Flora's fingers and landing on the grass. As it slithered down the riverbank she let out a squawk of outrage and chased after it, the travel cloak slipping from her shoulders.

Zevran grinned, eyeing her in delight as Morrigan let out a little snort of incredulity, muttering something that sounded distinctly like  _shameless!_

"I agree, my sweet prince," the elf murmured to Alistair, who was now sinking even lower in the water with flaring cheeks. "A girl like that would be worth defying the sixty old men of the Council for."

The salmon flapped itself instinctively into the water; Flora plunged after it with an unladylike splash. Zevran cringed away like a cat as he was splattered with droplets of milky green water. The lucky fish vanished with several powerful flicks of its tail, and Flora emerged empty-handed and glowering. Zevran then gave a feline lick of his lips, his eyes trailing appreciatively over her bare upper body.

"I don't know why you always wear such hideously unflattering clothes, my Rialto lily," the elf murmured, voice low and thick. "Why not show off what the Maker blessed you with?"

Flora ignored the lecherous assassin and instead looked plaintively up at Alistair. He gazed back at her, water running in rivulets down the honed musculature of his chest. His face was as still as a carven Tevinter statue, but his eyes were blazing like tar-dipped torches as he placed large hands on her hips.

"It got away," she complained as Alistair drew her towards him, calloused fingers roaming over her thighs beneath the surface of the opaque water. "I should've hit it against a rock."

Alistair made a noncommittal noise, only half-listening, focused instead on the feel of her sturdy, slender body against his own. Over the top of her head he caught Zevran's eye and flicked his gaze away pointedly. The silent command was clear:  _leave._

Zevran sighed and climbed up onto the riverbank; the witch pointedly averting her eyes as he did so.

"Come, Morrigan, let's start the cooking of this rabbit," he said loudly, leading the way up the grassy slope towards the campfire. She followed him with a little snort, rolling her eyes.

"'Tis almost unbelievable to think on how awkward the fool was with her at first. He barely touched her for fear of the Maker striking him down; now he cannot keep his hands away. I was surprised to find you suggesting that we leave."

The Antivan let out a low cackle, watching the witch ignite the campfire with the head of her staff as he quickly changed back into his leathers.

"Oh, my dusky beauty," he murmured, eyebrows rising. "I have  _no intention_  of respecting their privacy."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So the Anora/Alistair/Cailan situation has major parallels with the situation in early 16th century England – Arthur Tudor dies at 16 with no heir, leaving Catherine of Aragon a widow. His father, Henry VII, decides to keep Catherine of Aragon at the English court (a virtual prisoner!) for seven years, keeping her 'on ice' for his younger son, Henry. Logically, the match made sense – it would preserve the Spanish alliance, Catherine was known and accepted by the court, and it would allow the avaricious Tudor to keep the dowry. Although, Henry VIII was majorly in love with her though and married her the moment he turned eighteen and became king. Actually, there's not really major parallels with Alistair/Anora/Cailan at all now that I think about it – I just love any excuse to talk about Tudors. You wouldn't think that I get paid to talk about it all day too!


	109. The Theirin Jaw

Chapter 109: The Theirin Jaw

The pale green river moved sluggishly around the two Wardens as they stood in the waist-deep water. Brother-warden's mouth meandered down his sister's damp neck, lips brushing against the sodden tangles of her hair.

Flora's fingers curled helplessly against Alistair's broad, bare shoulder; her head drooping to one side like a wilting flower. He lifted her face in his hands and kissed her hard on the mouth, coaxing his tongue gently between her lips. She folded one slender arm around his neck, the other palm spreading out over the hard muscle of his abdomen. As he sought to steal the breath from her lungs, her fingers trailed down his pelvis and disappeared beneath the waterline.

A few moments later Alistair let out a muffled groan of desire against Flora's lips, then reached down to grab her thighs and lift her bodily against him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, hair plastered in thick wet ropes down her bare back. Alistair's mouth went straight to the creamy golden underside of one breast and her breath caught in her throat; inhaling unsteadily as calloused fingers clumsily fondled the other. As his lips closed around her nipple, she squirmed against him hard enough that he nearly released her into the water.

Despite the circumstances, Alistair grinned against her breast as a memory fought through the clouds of lust. He recalled the small pool in the lost dwarven city of Bownammar, where Oghren's untimely arrival had caused him to drop his sister-warden into the freezing water.  _I'm going to get triple pneumonia,_ she'd snarled; while he'd still been in delicious, hazy shock at the feel of her damp body against his own.

Back in the swampy Brecilian river, the memory only deepened Alistair's arousal. He groaned helplessly around her nipple, using his lips to leave faint bruises on the firm underside of her breast. He had been ready to take his sister-warden even without the assistance of her tentative caresses; but now Flora's clumsy groping threatened to send him over the edge.

With a low growl, Alistair pulled her back up to him, her breasts pressing wet against his chest. Her thighs were already parted around his waist, he had only to reach down to guide himself to the juncture between her legs. Their bodies melded seamlessly together, heightened pulses combining until they were effectively one being; made up of flushed, damp skin, dishevelled hair of gold and copper, and the raw, throaty sounds of desire. Her heel was pressed into the small of his back, knee wrapped around his waist; it was awkward, clumsy and wholly wanton.

Eventually Alistair began to move within her; the strong muscles of his pelvis driving up rhythmically while his arms held her thighs in place. The abrupt displacement of water around them reflected the force of his thrusts, ripples circling out from their conjoined bodies. Flora gasped against his shoulder, clinging to him like a drowning man would clutch at driftwood. The wet sound of their half-submerged coupling rang out in the damp air, as were the vocalisations that accompanied it. From the way that he rolled himself hungrily against her, it was clear that Alistair was not going to last long.

It only took several minutes for her to slump limply against him, body trembling involuntarily. Her brother-warden's handsome features had been briefly transformed into something near-bestial, lips drawing back over his teeth with the effort of his exertions. Finally a strangled cry escaped his chest loud enough to send several birds flapping skywards in panic; he shuddered in sudden release with fingers tightening against her thighs.

It was then that the rotted wooden bridge gave up its attempt to support Zevran's weight and the elf plunged into the water only metres away. Flora reflexively twisted around and thrust out a hand; her golden second skin expanding outwards faster than the blink of an eye. Almost as though a vast palm had slapped the surface of the river, Zevran and a vast wave of milky-green water were washed up onto the far bank.

The elf spluttered as Flora lowered her hand, peering over her shoulder at him in mild surprise. Her hair was plastered against her forehead with a mixture of perspiration and water. Alistair let out an entirely different type of groan, letting his sister-warden slither back down onto her feet.

"Maker's Breath, elf," he hissed, raising fist to forehead in frustration. "You're the most infuriating creature I've ever met. We can't possibly be that interesting to watch."

Zevran snorted as he peeled wet strands of hair from his cheeks, the dark inked patterns now irredeemably smudged. Onyx eyes glittered as he watched Flora, who was clearly trying not to laugh as she clambered up onto the riverbank, wrap Morrigan's discarded travel cape around herself.

"I beg to differ, my pet," the elf murmured, smiling up at Alistair with a wicked curve to his lip that made the Warden slightly uncomfortable. "There's something so unexpectedly  _forceful_ about your lovemaking, it fascinates me."

Later, they sat around the fire after finishing the rabbit and the last of the salted meat. The stars were spread above them in brilliant celestial patterns; the gleaming tail of  _Draconis_ curling scorpion-like across the heavens. Morrigan told them her own names for the bright pinpricked patterns, since her and her mother knew them by far older cognomens.

Flora lay back on the damp grass, half-listening to Morrigan describe some constellation that Flemeth had acerbically named  _Fall of Man._ She could feel Alistair's hand on her lower leg, his fingers running absentmindedly up and down her slender calf. To counter Morrigan, Zevran was enthusing about another constellation that he claimed resembled a perfectly formed pair of breasts.

There was one constellation that stood out among the glittering array; the stark prow of the  _Peraquialus_ charting a meandering course across the heavens. Flora imagined Duncan leaning over the railing, calloused hands wrapped around the wood, peering down through the veil of cloud to see what his junior recruits had accomplished in his absence. Not for the first time, she felt a throb of sadness in her gut; wishing that their Warden-Commander was there to advise them on the wisest course of action.

_You have a great and rare gift. Use it well._

Duncan had been the first to understand the significance of her unusual ability; plucking her from a life of chores and obscurity in the lower echelons of the Circle. His recognition had transformed her from defective mage into a valuable asset, for which she would always be grateful. Flora closed her eyes for a moment, casting a silent prayer for their lost commander out into the void. She hoped fervently that the Maker –wherever He was- could hear it.

When she opened her eyes again, she was surprised to see canvas above her. Morrigan's face was lying a foot away, the witch's expression strangely softened as she slept. The snoring Zevran was prostrated on Morrigan's other side, a blanket pulled up to his pointed ears.

Flora yawned and ground her knuckles into her eyes; trying to avoid brushing the damp tent wall with her elbows. Careful not to disturb the sleeping witch, she clambered over Morrigan's legs and less-than-gracefully fell out of the tent.

The fire was blazing, curling scarlet and umber tongues towards the ink-dark sky. It cast a liquid amber glow over the grass, creating a shifting pool of warmth that defied the shadowed undergrowth surrounding the camp. Flora saw Alistair sitting cross-legged beside the fire, Duncan's sword resting across his lap as he worked it methodologically with a whetstone. She made as if to slither over the damp grass towards him, and then his head turned slightly, profile catching the glow of the flame.

Bathed in firelight, the features he shared with his half-brother seemed to be illuminated; the Theirin jaw, strong nose and chiselled cheekbones all reminded her of the unfortunate Cailan. However, her brother-warden also bore a sense of grave and determined purpose that somehow conveyed far more regality than the late king's grandiose posturing. With olive-hued skin warmed by the fire and hair lit up in brilliant strands of burnised gold; there was something separate and solemn about him. For the first time since he had told her about his true ancestry, Flora looked at Alistair and thought  _he looks like a prince._

_No, he looks like a king._

She hesitated in the folds of the tent, looking down at her grass-stained breeches and bitten fingernails. The ends of her fingers were shiny and raw from the magic that made her anathema to Ferelden society; the dubious gift that had prompted her family to reject her for fear of tainting the Cousland name.

Swallowing hard and trying not to reverse onto Morrigan's legs, Flora began to edge back inside the tent.

"Flo?"

Her chin snapped up guiltily; Alistair was looking at her with a perplexed expression. He placed Duncan's sword on the cloth beside him and stretched out an expectant hand to her.

"Come here, sweetheart."

Flora crawled over the damp grass like a beetle, he pulled her onto his lap and drew her bare legs around his waist. Reaching up to the side of her face, he slid his thumb gently across her cheekbone. She stared at him mutely, unsure of what to say as the corners of her mouth gradually turned down.

"Your eyes reflect light like water," Alistair murmured, wondering at how the flames seemed to reverberate in her pale grey irises. "They remind me of a Mabari."

Coming from a Ferelden native, this was the height of compliments. Flora beamed dutifully at him, but Alistair knew her face well enough to read the sadness behind the smile. He lowered his thumb to trace the curve of her mouth, his brow creasing in a frown.

"What's wrong, my dear?"

Unlike the artful Leliana, Flora was unschooled in the art of disassembly, and so she answered his query honestly.

"This is the last place that it'll be like this with us, won't it? When we get to Denerim, everything will change. They won't approve of you being with… with someone like, like  _me_."

Alistair stared down at her silently, a shadow falling over his hazel eyes. His thumb lingered on her lower lip, even as Flora continued, hastily trying to explain herself.

"I'll just miss you, that's all," she mumbled, unable to meet his gaze. "You're my best friend, Alistair."

"Maker take Denerim."

Alistair had spoken so quietly that Flora looked up, not quite sure what he had said. His voice rose, and there was a hardness to it steelier than Duncan's silverite blade.

"Maker take the Council, and the crown, and damn them all if they think they can part us," he said steadily, his eyes blazing brighter than the campfire. "I'm only letting myself  _contemplate_ becoming king for the sake of preventing civil war. But I'll take no queen, produce no heirs for them to play their political games with. You'll be there every day and I will have you every night; and if anybody attempts to come between us, I'll throw the crown to the hounds and let them fight amongst themselves for it."

Flora listened to the impassioned words and wondered at how determined he was to keep her, when her own true parents had been so hasty to send her away. She smiled at him, feeling tears burning at the back of her eyes.

"I love you," she replied dutifully and Alistair let out a soft groan under his breath, fingers sliding into her hair.

"I don't have the  _vocabulary_ to express how much I love you, Flo," he replied, giving a slight shake of the head. "I don't think sufficient words exist."

The sparks from the fire circled towards the heavens, blown upwards on the heated air. Flora beamed, reaching up to trace the strong line of his Theirin jaw.

"You'll have me  _every_  night? That sounds tiring," she whispered, unable to stop a flush from staining her cheeks. Alistair let out a low, knowing laugh; shifting her weight on his lap to centre her over his pelvis.

"Only when I'm an old man in my forties," he murmured, fingers reaching for the buttons of her shirt. "Before that, I intend to have you every night  _over and over_."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Don't think the endgame situation is all neatly wrapped up yet, there are a lot more twists and turns to come! I actually have the main storyline plotted out on a bit of paper, which I did before I even started writing. For example, Flora's Cousland heritage has been hinted at since about Chapter Three! Did you spot the clues? (multiple comments on Flora's fine-cut features, the Cousland laurel banner in the Fade, the teyrn's ghost in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the old gold ring, the lack of memories before five, her being taken away from the village when the Bann came to visit.) I've read so many complete fanfiction novellas of the game, I felt able to do it before actually playing it. I'm not much of a gamer (does candy crush on my phone count?!), lol. But I'm glad I'm playing the game myself, it's so much fun! Also, it doesn't seem classy to top and tail a chapter with a sex scene (ha!) so I decided to fade to black for this time…. I def seem to be making up for the chasteness of the first eighty or so chapters (!)


	110. Witherfang

Chapter 110: Witherfang

As Flora grinned up at Alistair, he abandoned her half-undone shirt to press his mouth against hers; lips insistently parting her own as his tongue demanded reparation. She could feel him pulsing and hard against her thigh, could taste the raw desire beneath his tongue. The fire continued to consume itself hungrily behind them, sending up a fresh shower of sparks as a log fell into the heart of the flames.

Abruptly pulling his mouth away to leave her short of breath, Alistair returned his attention to the last remaining buttons. Losing patience, he tugged the material apart before lowering his face eagerly to her small breasts. Flora almost protested at the ripping of her last functional shirt; but his tongue at her nipple drove all rational thought from her brain. His other hand fumbled at the top of his breeches, made clumsy by lust.

Earlier that evening, the water's buoyancy had assisted the cadence of their lovemaking. Now, the rhythmic rocking of Alistair's pelvis alone drove their coupling relentlessly forward. He thrust himself upwards in a steady, powerful tempo; gripping her thighs against his lap to drive himself more deeply between her legs. She pressed her face against his shoulder to muffle her gasps, small bitten nails digging into the top of his arm.

Without warning Alistair let out a strangled groan, and Flora felt his entire body convulse as he spent himself within her. His fingers tightened on her thighs hard enough to leave their imprints behind, and he lowered his sweating face against her collarbone. Flora ran her palm down the back of his tunic – he was still mostly dressed – and exhaled unsteadily. For several moments he struggled to regain his breath, forehead pressed to her shoulder. She cupped the back of his skull with her palm, running her fingers idly through the spun-gold strands.

Finally her brother-warden returned upright, smiling down at her with a slight drowsiness to his face. She blinked up at him as he returned his hands to her waist, leaning her gently back against the damp grass. Lust glittered in his eyes like shards of crystal as he knelt, bending her knees apart and lowering his face between her thighs. With the first touch of his lower lip, the constellations above her blurred into a gleaming, indiscriminate mass.

Later, once Alistair had fetched her one of his own shirts to wear and she had persuaded him to get some sleep; Flora sat beside the fire and practised her counting. Several dozen small pebbles were laid around her in evenly spaced concentric circles. She rotated her gaze between them thoughtfully, murmuring under her breath.

"Thirty one, thirty two, thirty three," she chanted quietly, the long sleeves flapping over her hand as she pointed at each in turn. "Thirty four."

Flora remembered Arl Eamon's off-hand comment about her delivering a speech in front of ten thousand, and wondered if there was a great difference between that number and thirty-four.

Suddenly, something caught her eye from the dark treeline. A flash of white, like a woman shaking a sheet out of an upper window, was briefly visible between the shadowed trunks. The curious Flora paused in her counting, then raised her fingers and summoned a small lantern of light. With a light tap, she sent it bobbing towards the trees.

For a single fragment of time, the whitegold light illuminated a pair of watchful silver eyes. They were canine, but set too low to the ground to be a werewolf. They held her wide-eyed gaze for a moment, then vanished. Flora clambered to her feet and stole over the damp grass, away from the protective orange glow of the campfire. Hardly daring to breathe, she crept towards the spot where she had seen the silver eyes hovering.

Her bare feet made no sound on the mulch of rotted leaves; the trees close enough that she could slither between them without drawing attention to herself. The full moon overhead provided sufficient light for her to catch glimpses of something white moving through the undergrowth ahead of her, always just barely out of sight. Flora followed it, slithering down a muddy slope and inching her way through tangled undergrowth; wishing that she had waited long enough to put her boots on.  _Why don't you ever think before you act,_ she thought glumly to herself as she nearly tripped over a half-submerged root.  _You're too impulsive._

Ahead the dense trees gave way to a circular clearing, the grass bathed in cloud-filtered moonlight. As Flora crept forward, she saw that the silver eyes belonged to a white wolf; which was standing in the centre of the clearing and staring at her.

Her heart rising to her mouth, pushing any doubts to the back of her mind, Flora edged out into the centre of the clearing. She held out her hands to show that she bore no weapon; her own pale eyes fixed on the strange creature. There was a strange intelligence about the way that it cocked it's head, as though it were likewise trying to gain the measure of her.

"Are you… " she started then coughed, feeling a little silly. "Are you Witherfang?"

" _We told you to leave."_

The half-snarl came from somewhere behind her; Flora turned in alarm to see the werewolf who had named himself Swiftrunner lope out from between the trees. He was flanked by two bestial guards, and soon more creatures were stalking out from the shadowed trunks. They slunk out from all sides of the clearing, a dozen in total, she irrationally found herself practising her counting as they emerged.

The beast-men, moving with the synchrony of an experienced pack, slunk forward with hackles raised. Flora retreated to the centre of the clearing, deeply regretting her decision to leave the others asleep. The werewolves tightened the circle around her, low and animalistic snarls escaping their bristled muzzles. Not a shred of humanity remained in their hungry stares. Several of them were twitching and rabid, foam dripping from yellow jaws.

"We  _warned_  you!" The words came bursting from Swiftrunner's companion, a ruddy werewolf with broken teeth and a missing eye. "Which was more than you deserved, friend of the Dalish. Now you shall pay for your persistence."

"You shall not hurt the Lady," added another creature, dropping to tangled grey haunches and baring its fangs.

"I don't want to hurt anything," pleaded Flora, her stomach plummeting. "I'm actually just a healer. I wanted to talk."

The pack closed in on her with the single-minded focus of predators surrounding prey. The white wolf alone hung back, watching silently from the treeline.

Swiftrunner came darting forward and Flora felt the same instinctual panic as when a stranger's Mabari snapped its jaws at her. She stepped backwards reflexively and heard a warning snarl, hot rancid air on her neck.

The golden shield formed a shimmering barrier around her just as one of them made a clawed swipe at her neck. The barbed paw scrabbled viciously but in vain against the whitegold light; the creature letting out a howl of bitter frustration.

Flora stepped backwards, using the shield to thrust the foul-stinking bodies out of her way.  _Idiot,_ she thought to herself furiously.  _You'll have to lead them on a merry dance away from the camp and your knee isn't even strapped up._

Just then, she felt a dent in her focus; as though a cool finger had reached out and pressed itself against her mind. A flicker of unfamiliar light – this energy had a deep greenish hue- began to seep into her golden barrier. In slight alarm, she watched dark veins begin to spread through the shield. Swiftrunner let out a wild barking laugh.

"Your spell is no match for the Lady's magic!" the wolf-man snarled, his hackles slowly becoming clearer as Flora's barrier waned.

A horrified Flora gaped, her own surprise contributing to the deterioration of her focus. The last creature to break her barrier had been the Darkspawn magus in the Deep Roads, nearly two months prior. But now there was no service tunnel for her to flee down, only the encroaching press of foul-smelling bestial bodies from all sides.

A jolt of panic more deadly than any spell finally shattered her resolve; the barrier disintegrating in a golden mist. There came a cacophony of triumphant howls, something shoved her hard and she fell onto her back, sprawling onto the damp grass. The pack closed in, eager to tear their victim limb from limb.

_**Focus!** _

Her mind was fractured but the golden second skin manifested itself anyway, keeping the fangs and jagged claws at momentary bay. She gave a desperate thrust outwards and the creatures staggered back, shrieking in frustration.

Then there came a familiar bellow of rage, wordless and primal. A mass of hard muscle barrelled its way through the reeling beast-men, scattering them like leaves. Alistair, breathing hard, kept his shield raised with one arm long enough to haul Flora to her feet with the other. With a roar of challenge, he positioned himself in front of her, drawing Duncan's sword in a gleaming stroke of silver.

A blast of ice had frozen two creatures in place; Morrigan gave a dark cackle as the frost spread upwards over their matted fur. Alistair circled, keeping himself as best he could between his dazed sister-warden and the werewolves. One rabid creature made a lunge at him, it's hanging jaw collided with the blazing scarlet emblem of Redcliffe and it fell senseless to the grass. Another tried to lash out with bared claws, only to come up against a rapidly manifesting golden barrier. Flora held up her hand, feeling the tips of her fingers burn as they channelled the protective webbing.

As one of Zevran's long knives sunk into Swiftrunner's shoulder-blades, the white wolf let out a long howl. Immediately the pack paused in their attack, heads canting towards their leader. The wolf gave another mournful howl, and as if by some unspoken accord the pack withdrew, melting into the shadows of the trees. Two creatures went to assist Swiftrunner, who went limping off with tail between his legs. The white wolf lingered a moment longer, then vanished with a sigh.

The four were left in the moonlit clearing, breathing hard and blinking in disbelief. No one had sustained any injury; Zevran's tunic sported a mild tear.

Alistair lowered his shield and sheathed his sword, exhaling as the adrenaline drained from him. He looked over at Flora and despite never having opened a book in her life, she could read his face clearly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, seeing fear and anger writ naked in his bruised hazel eyes. "I shouldn't have gone off on my own. I'm sorry, Alistair."

Alistair shook his head mutedly, not yet composed enough to form a coherent response. Flora felt the guilt swell inside her throat like a physical thing. Struck by horror at her own recklessness, she clumsily dropped to her knees in front of her brother-warden.

Zevran, wiping Swiftrunner's blood from his blade on the grass, gave a leer.

"This is  _my_  type of apology," he murmured to Morrigan, who let out a hiss under her breath. "Nothing says  _forgive me_ like-"

The next moment the elf scowled as Flora continued to prostrate herself, pressing her forehead against the grass. Such deference came instinctually to a daughter of Herring; any inherent pride she bore as a result of her Cousland heritage locked away in some remote corner of her brain.

Alistair looked down at the top of his sister-warden's dishevelled head as she knelt before him, and it was his turn to be struck by guilt.

"Maker's Breath," he murmured, reaching down to grip underneath her armpits and haul her bodily to her feet. "Don't ever do this again, Flo."

Flora peered up at him, her grey eyes searching his face anxiously. "Go off by myself? Fight wolves? Wolf-men, werewolves…"

"No," Alistair said softly, drawing her closer. His shirt was far too large on her; the sleeves trailed over her fingers and the hem reached mid-thigh. "As much as I hate to admit it, most of the time you'd be absolutely fine on your own. I mean, never kneel before me again."

"Don't be so hasty," interjected Zevran in mild alarm. "Kneeling wouldn't go amiss on  _certain_ occasions."

Flora smiled at Alistair as he gazed back down at her, a warm tenderness burning the anxiety from his hazel irises. Impulsively she rested her cheek against his chest and exhaled within the strong circle of his arms; feeling as secure as if she were encased within her own barrier.

"Though promise me you will at least consider waking me next time," he murmured against the top of her head, sliding a palm down her back to gently cup the curve of her rear. "We're in this together, aren't we?"

"Me and you," she returned, echoing their exchange outside Flemeth's hut six months prior. Alistair nodded, feeling the customary warmth radiating from her body and spreading throughout his own abdomen. As he held her close against him, the heat deepened and took on a raw edge as the unmistakeable creeping fingers of lust began to pull at his stomach. Sliding his fingers against the back of her neck, he lowered his mouth hungrily to hers.

Morrigan plucked up a tangle of matted fur delicately between her fingers, inspecting the wiry hairs with her distinctive amber stare. Glancing off in the direction that the white wolf had vanished; the witch could almost smell the arcane on the air.

Beside her, Zevran let out a wistful sigh. "Shall we give them the semblance of privacy?" he murmured, fingers brushing her bare arm. Morrigan's lip curled as she shook her head vehemently.

"'Tis as if they expect the Darkspawn to wait patiently while he excavates her throat with his tongue," she hissed, stooping to pick up a small pebble. "I won't tolerate it."

The pebble arced across the clearing and hit Alistair in the back of the head. He squawked, withdrawing his hand from inside Flora's shirt and clapping it to his skull, shooting Morrigan a deathly stare.

"Ouch! Well, that was mean."

"By all means, take her on all fours like a beast in this clearing," the witch snarled. "But I should like to leave this wretched forest as soon as possible."

"Good idea," murmured Zevran, his dark eyes lighting up. "Brother-warden needs to expand his repertoire."

"No, Morrigan is right," piped up Flora earnestly, extracting herself from Alistair's arms. "We can't get distracted, Alistair, we have to resolve this –  _werewolf_  situation, somehow, and recruit the Dalish."

Alistair grimaced down at her, reluctantly accepting the truth in the words. Flora continued, resolution gleaming in her eyes.

"So I think that until we leave Brecilian, you and me can't… _you know_."

She made a vague euphemistic gesture involving her fingers and raised eyebrows, and Alistair's jaw dropped.

"What? Nothing at all?" he asked plaintively.

Flora shook her head, her eyes wide and earnest.

"I can't even  _kiss_ you?!" Alistair protested in abject dismay.

"You can do anything that a brother may do to his sister. Not an  _Antivan_  brother," she added hastily, seeing Zevran open his mouth. "So you can kiss me on the cheek. Or the hand."

Alistair scratched the back of his head, perturbed.

Morrigan let out a malevolent laugh, delighted with this outcome.

"It shouldn't be difficult, Chantry boy," she hissed, flashing her golden eyes at him. "Spend the time praying to the Maker instead, you should be used to that."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Two chapters in a row starting off with a sex scene, whaaat (!) But this one ends with some good old fashioned enforced chastity. It's actually been hilarious to write them keeping their hands off each other as they venture further into the Brecilian Forest. Also, in this chapter we see more of Flora's worst quality - her impulsiveness. In this case, it puts her in danger when something manages to penetrate her barrier. By my count, there are four different instances where this has happened so far - Templar magic, the Darkspawn magus, Witherfang/Lady's magic, and her own loss of focus.
> 
> No update tomorrow night since I'm going out with the looooove of my life (aka husband).


	111. Enforced Chastity

Chapter 111: Enforced Chastity

On the way back to the camp, Zevran sidled up to Flora. She had her chin in the air, feeling rather noble and martyr-like.

"So, my Rialto lily, does this mean that you'll be seeking satisfaction elsewhere?" he murmured, caressing her hip with his slender fingers. "I could make you sing such sweet music that the birds themselves would feel ashamed."

"It'd take a miracle to make  _me_  sing sweetly," replied Flora, with a cackle.

Before the elf could reply she had marched off through the trees, intoning a grim northern dirge – most of Herring's folktunes were mournful – about a drowned sailor, in her slightly hoarse, off-key voice.

They disassembled the camp while a red sun rose above the canopy, the surface of the river transformed into a molten stream. According to the map, they were within a day's journey of the ruins; through what appeared to be relatively flat, if densely wooded terrain.

The two Wardens packed up the tent; she rolling the canvas up while he wrestled the wooden frame into submission. After failing to dissuade her from the path of chastity, Alistair had tried a new tactic. He leaned down to where she was crouched on the grass, slightly red-faced while manhandling the damp canvas.

"I don't think it's fair I had no warning that – when I kissed you after the werewolf – it would be the  _last_  time. It shouldn't count, my dear," he murmured in her ear. "Kiss me now and it can be the last official time."

Flora hid a grin, then decided that the canvas sausage wasn't compact enough and unrolled it to start again.

"It  _did_ count," she insisted, panting slightly as she leaned her weight into the process of rolling. "You'll have to be patient."

Satisfied with her second effort, Flora shoved the roll of canvas into the pack, then helped Alistair to slide in the dismantled frame.

"Are you enjoying the sight of her  _handling your pole_ , your highness?" yelled Zevran crudely, from beside the river where he was refilling the water flagons. "That'll be the most action you see for the next few days."

Alistair shot the elf a dark look over his shoulder, reaching down to help a beaming Flora to her feet. As he did so, he reached out and grabbed her hand, bringing it up to his face. She let out a squeal of protest but he shook his head triumphantly.

"You said the hand was acceptable," he whispered, arching a golden brow at her. " _Brotherly._ "

Flora peered at him suspiciously as he pressed his mouth against her skin, keeping his hazel gaze fixed on her face. His lips brushed across her knuckles as he kissed each one in turn.

"Alistair," she said under her breath. "It's getting a bit… I don't know the word."

"Incestuous?" he murmured against her ear, taking her little finger briefly into his mouth. She inhaled in surprise, and his lips curved into a smile around her slender digit. With a final ghosting kiss over her knuckle, he withdrew his mouth and patted her gently on the head.

"My dear  _sister-warden_ , I'm going to make this as hard for you as it will be for me," Alistair drawled, letting the back of his hand brush lightly over her rear as he drew away.

Flora swallowed unsteadily, watching her brother-warden shoulder the pack with ease, tossing her a wink as he strolled away.

They made good time as their route curved to the north east, gradually descending into the vast basin that contained the heart of the woods. The trees grew close and tall, their canopies intertwined to veil the forest floor in semi-twilight. Zevran plucked an orange flower from the undergrowth and presented it to Morrigan with a small bow. She rejected it with a mocking laugh; moments later Zevran found that his fingers were reddening and swollen. A sympathetic Flora offered him her hand to clasp, healing magic passing from her palm to his.

Alistair was acutely aware of his sister-warden's presence, whether she was at his side or bringing up the rear of the party. He kept catching glimpses of her out of the tail of his eye; her dark red hair a haphazard twist of scarlet against the earthy hues of the forest. The days of continuous walking had taken their toll on her knee, and she was using her staff more often than not to steady herself.

Likewise, Flora's gaze kept drifting towards Alistair's broad shoulders as he strode purposefully through the tangled undergrowth, showing no sign of weariness.

As they came to a steep ditch Alistair turned around and reached out a hand, aware that her knee was paining her. Flora took the offered palm gratefully; stumbling as she half-slid down the slope. He reached out to steady her, his arm sliding around her waist.

"Careful, my dear."

Flora dropped her eyes quickly as she felt a blush rising to her cheeks. Alistair raised her hand to his mouth and planted a chivalrous kiss there, his lips lingering a moment before letting go. Courteously, he then turned around and offered the same hand to Morrigan. She shot him a derisive look before bounding lightly down with feline agility. Alistair rolled his eyes, then twitched as Zevran eagerly took the proffered hand.

A light, humid drizzle began to fall just as they stopped to eat in another set of abandoned elven ruins. As a northerner from Ferelden's dampest coast, Flora was long inured to the rain. She sat against the crumbling remains of a marble pillar, eating a naked slice of soggy bread while mentally running through the alphabet in her head. A yelping Zevran, complaining bitterly about the Fereldan climate, went to seek shelter beneath an archway. Morrigan transformed herself into something with water resistant feathers and darted into a nearby bush.

Alistair, after eating his lunch during the morning's journey, had spent the break exploring the remains of the ruins. There was barely anything intact left; but with a little imagination, one could easily imagine the sprawling temple that had once stood proudly amidst the towering trees. To his delight, he had also found a small onyx figure of a dragon half-buried in the earth.

"Hey, Flo, look at this." He went to her, thrusting damp hair away from his face with his fingers. The dark gold strands stood upright like the spines of a hedgehog as he crouched in front of her. "I wonder who made it."

Flora swallowed the last mouthful of bread and took the statuette, turning it over in her rain-slick fingers curiously.

"It's nice," she said at last, smiling up at him. "I wish real dragons were that little."

Alistair laughed, taking the figurine back and sliding it inside his padded tunic. Flora scrambled upright, using his shoulder to lever herself to her feet; a moment later he followed her.

Instead of stepping back, Alistair looked down at his sister-warden, whose shoulders were pressed back against the pillar, her body only inches away. She stared back up at him, hair plastered to her shoulders and rivulets of dampness running down her cheeks. Her soggy shirt was clinging to her collarbone, the warm skin beneath visible through the translucent linen. Alistair breathed out unsteadily, reaching out to remove a strand of wet hair from her lip.

"Brothers are allowed to hug their sisters, aren't they?" he murmured and Flora nodded wordlessly in response. He reached up to unclip his breastplate; the battered Templar armour coming away easily to reveal padded linen beneath. She watched the deft motions of his strong fingers as they worked the straps, and forced a swallow down her dry throat.

Having removed the metal barrier between them, Alistair reached out to embrace her; gathering her up in her arms and pressing her back against the crumbled stone. Flora wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling her heartbeat quicken as he lowered his face to hers. His mouth hovered a hair's breadth away, close enough for their lips to occasionally ghost together. Alistair groaned, involuntarily pressing his hips into hers.

He felt her inhale suddenly and saw his own desire reflected in her sea-grey eyes. Unable to help himself, he began to grind his pelvis against hers in a primitive, instinct-driven rhythm. Flora let out a sound that was half-whimper and half-sigh in his ear; he reached down to fumble with his breeches and found her fingers already there.

"Unbelievable!" snarled Morrigan from somewhere behind them. "You can't keep your hands off one another for a  _single morning?_ "

Alistair withdrew from Flora and hastily gathered up his armour. Flora herself laughed, patting his cheek as she sidled past him.

"I'm just a simple girl with simple urges," she said, with an amiable shrug. "And he's  _very_ handsome."

Alistair grinned at her, an inadvertent flush rising to his olive cheeks.

"You think I'm handsome?" he asked, rather stupidly. Flora gave a slight nod, smiling at him from beneath her eyelashes.

"You're like the… hero from a story," she replied, then hastily amended her statement. "The kind that  _Leliana_  tells. Not my stories about fish. There wasn't anyone who looked like you in Herring. Or the Circle."

Alistair beamed as he strapped his rain slick breastplate back over his chest, irrationally pleased. Morrigan let out a small groan, rolling her eyes.

"Careful, or he won't be able to fit his swollen head inside his helmet," she hissed, watching Alistair pick up his shield. "Pity there's nothing of note between those handsome ears."

Alistair, however, was not listening to the witch. His eyes were moving over his sister-warden as she took the pack, it being her turn to carry it.

"Well, you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen," he replied, ignoring her protests and reaching out to take the pack. "No, allow me, my dear. Your knee is hurting."

"I imagine that there wasn't a great number of women to compare her with in the Chantry or in the Wardens," retorted Morrigan evilly.

As if on cue, Zevran's head popped up from behind a pillar. The elf gave a dashing grin, dark eyes sparkling.

"Sorry,  _shems,_ but if there is to be a contest of looks- _I_  win hands down."

They continued onwards, pace quickening as the terrain began to slope downwards once more. Alistair, pencil gripped between his teeth, marked off their route against the map. The crumbling ruins lined their path with increased frequency, like broken teeth emerging from a ragged jaw.

Finally their route brought them alongside a high stone wall, the decorative carvings long since worn away. The entire structure appeared ancient and not entirely stable; stone fragments of varying size littered the earthen trail.

"What's that?"

The sharp-eyed Zevran had spotted something nestled in the trees ahead. A yellowed canvas tent, patched with what appeared to be animal skin, had been erected in the centre of a small clearing. The remains of a quickly extinguished fire smouldered in the foreground; a hollow tree stump stood to one side.

They hung back, cautious of seemingly abandoned camps after their experience with the demon. Morrigan paused, closing her eyes in an attempt to detect any arcane residue in the air. Flora stuck out her tongue, in a slightly less elegant way of ascertaining the same.

"There is magic here," said the witch eventually, her brow creasing. "However, 'tis not demonic in nature."

Alistair placed a hand on his sword as a precaution, leaving the pack beside a tree and stepping forward. He led the way into the clearing, glancing around cautiously.

"Hello?"

Morrigan and Flora followed him, the witch's eyes drawn to the copper pot brewing on a suspended pedestal over the fire. Advancing, she leaned over and took a sniff.

"Interested in my tea, are we? Trying to  _poison_ it, perchance?"

The high, manic voice seemed to echo around the clearing, bouncing off the crumbling wall and coming from all directions at once. Morrigan recoiled backwards, her amber eyes flaring in alarm.

Alistair raised his sword and strode forward several paces; clearly unsure as to which direction he should face.

From beside the tent there came a sudden whipcrack of arcane magic and a column of violet smoke rose up from the grass. A man emerged from the arcane miasma, sidling sideways across the grass like a crab. He wore a stained yellow robe that hung in tatters around his knees, a straggling beard trailing in thin strands from a pointed chin. His eyes were alight with wicked glee as he pointed at Morrigan.

"A mage! A mage! Will you show us a spell?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Sorry, but I have a major phobia of talking trees, I think it comes from seeing Grandmother Willow and getting freaked the fuck out when I was a child. So there's no way that the Grand Oak and his shady rhymes is entering my story, lol. I wanted to talk a little bit about Flora's magic in this OOC note – my husband helpfully noted that since Flora's barrier expands from her body like a second skin, it should theoretically rip all her clothes to smithereens and back every time she casts it! I don't think so! Her magic is primal enough with the use of her mouth. That's actually one of the things that I like the most about her style of magic – the fact that it literally comes from within, rising up in her throat and seeping from beneath her fingernails. I knew that by restricting her to such limited abilities, I had to come up with a way of making it interesting for me to write. And it's worked, I actually love writing Flora's healing scenes.


	112. The Mad Apostate

Chapter 112: The Mad Apostate

Morrigan, thoroughly unimpressed by the hermit's gleeful enquiry, allowed her lip to curl slowly in disgust. Alistair kept his sword held up as a nonplussed expression crept over his face.

"You're an apostate," he said dubiously after a moment, and the old hermit let out a high-pitched cackle of laughter.

"Is that a question or an answer? Or a rhetorical question? You _must_  tell me, or I shall not know how to respond."

Alistair stared at the old man, who began to caper around them while flashing very white knobbled knees. He danced over to Zevran, who was standing motionless at the side of the clearing, struck into raw silence by the strangeness of the situation.

"Your ears are as pointed as a  _hare's,_  creature!" the hermit cackled as the Antivan scowled. "I prefer the crow-wing haired mage. Back to the warren with you, rabbit!"

"May I end his pathetic life now?" Zevran hissed sideways at Flora, who was momentarily shocked into silence. The man sidled over to Alistair, flicking yellowed nails against the man's battered steel gauntlet.

"And what have we here? All brawn and no brains? Why bother with a helmet at all, there's nothing to protect within that skull."

Morrigan, despite herself, snorted; and it was Alistair's turn to scowl, tensing as the hermit approached Flora.

Flora stared at the old man, her pale eyes wide with mingled wariness and confusion. The hermit eyed her for a long moment, and then his thin lip curled.

"Ugh!" He made a disgusted sound, then pranced away over the grass. Flora looked perturbed as Morrigan let out a delighted cackle.

"On second thought, I _do_  like our new friend. He should join our company," the witch said malevolently.

"Why  _ugh?!"_ protested Flora, stepping forward into the clearing. "I'm not  _ugh."_

Immediately the old hermit turned around and shot out a gnarled hand, all pretence of sanity gone. A jet of bright scarlet flame blazed a scorching trail through the air towards Alistair, who had ventured furthest into the clearing. He brought up his shield to defend his face, cringing reflexively; when there was no blast of sudden heat, he peered tentatively over the top of the metal. In front of him gleamed a golden barrier, pulsing gently.

Glancing over his shoulder, Alistair saw Flora edging forward with her hand thrust outwards. The ends of her fingertips were alight, as she had not had enough time to pull the staff from her back. The old hermit continued to channel the deluge of fire, his wild eyes widening in rage. The flames spread over the surface of the barrier, scorching a wide swathe of grass at their feet.

The insane apostate let out a shriek of rage, beads of sweat and frustration beginning to form on his forehead. His face reddened and contorted in disbelief.

"That's not fair! Fight properly!" he demanded, capering up and down on the spot and gesticulating angrily. Flora, still annoyed at being referred to as an  _ugh,_ thrust her hand forward. The barrier expanded outwards like a second skin, a shifting wall of flame now inching back over smouldering grass towards the hermit.

Finally with a snarl of frustration, he lowered his hands. As soon as the jet of flame stopped, leaving a vast swathe of charred earth in its wake; Flora dropped the barrier. Immediately Alistair lunged forward, knocking the old man onto his back and kneeling over him with sword drawn. The hermit began to laugh, a wild chattering cackle that echoed around the trees. Alistair pressed the edge of his sword to the hollow of the old man's throat, then looked conflicted. It was obvious that he did not want to kill someone so clearly not in their right mind.

"I used to have a tower, you know," the apostate said to Alistair. In contrast to the hard-eyed panting young man, the hermit was the picture of calm. "I built it here."

"Where is it, then?" asked Morrigan snidely, who was now inspecting the contents of the old man's cauldron. "'Tis quite the potent poison you're brewing here."

"I hid it inside the hollow trunk.  _No, don't touch!"_

This was directed at the witch, who was now sauntering towards the rotted half-tree. In a seamless gesture, the insane old man produced a curving silver knife. Its blade was covered in a filmy greyish liquid, which shimmered for a moment before he sunk it home into Alistair's shoulder.

Alistair jerked backwards as though a Qunari had barrelled into him. He made no cry of pain, his mouth merely forming an  _O_  of surprise. The old man guffawed, taking advantage of Alistair's distraction and scrambling to his feet. As he did so, one of Zevran's flung blades hit him with deadly accuracy in the hollow of his neck. The apostate died with a ragged cackle in his torn throat, slumping back onto the grass with venomous dagger in convulsing hand.

Flora, with the single-minded focus of a healer, was reaching for Alistair's breastplate before the old man had even hit the charred grass. She sunk to her own knees in front of her brother-warden, who was kneeling glassy-eyed and shocked. Fortunately, she had seen him remove the armour enough that she was able to unfasten it almost as quickly. The linen shirt underneath had been ripped by the cruel edge of the blade. Below, the grey-edged bloody wound seemed especially obscene in contrast to the taut olive muscle surrounding it.

Zevran, who had darted across the grass to offer assistance, crouched down to brace Alistair from behind. His practised assassin's eye ran over the ragged wound, taking in the sickly grey liquid curling the edges of the skin. The prince let out a soft groan of disbelief and shock, blinking but unable to form a coherent sentence. His eyes were beginning to mist over.

"It's a neurotoxin, you don't have long," he murmured, watching as Flora expelled the air from her lungs. There was no time for her to panic; she had been stoically focused since her fingers first touched his breastplate.

Lowering her mouth to the wound, Flora pressed her lips against the ragged grey edges and inhaled the poison. She immediately felt it congeal in her mouth, swelling and foul; a different type of bitterness from the Blight. Fighting the natural urge to cough, she forced herself instead to  _swallow_. Even before it reached the back of her throat she could feel the prickling of magic seeping through her skin; the inherent creation energy neutralising the poison before it could reach her stomach. She felt a surge of yellow mist beneath her tongue, thickening into something viscous as it made contact with the air. It clogged her mouth, tar-like, and Flora had to spit some of it out in order to breathe. It faded away in small golden particles before it could reach the blackened grass.

She fell so easily into the natural rhythm of  _inhale_ poison,  _exhale_ energy that it took Flora a while before she realised that the bitterness in her mouth had changed; that it was now the taint itself that she was withdrawing. She blinked, losing her focus and coughing, feeling her body reflexively nullify the Blight's decaying ichor.

_Is that why my Joining was strange?_ Flora thought suddenly, thinking back on Duncan's surprise and Alistair's suspicion.  _The magic in my body naturally annuls the Blight. But I_ was _tainted, Duncan sensed it; and I wouldn't be able to hear the Archdemon otherwise._

Wynne's face rose to the forefront of her mind, the older woman's eyes sharp as two shards of glacial ice.

_You and Alistair must be careful. You can't predict how your body reacts to the Blight. Nothing is certain._

Then a hand reached out to tilt her chin upwards, drawing her head up and away from the wound. Flora looked up to see Alistair smiling down at her, his eyes a clear and unclouded hazel.

"You don't know how often in my prayers I've begged forgiveness from Duncan, for ever doubting him about you," he murmured, peering down at the sterilised wound. It had been anaesthetised through her magic, but not yet healed. There was no sign of the poisonous grey ichor, but the flesh was still raw and pink.

"How many times have you saved me now? I lost count."

Flora gave a little half-shrug, taking a moment to breathe unimpeded by the choking thickness of the creation energy congealing under her tongue.

"Equal to the times that you've saved me," she whispered, inhaling the damp, faintly rotten forest air gratefully. "It doesn't matter. It's what I do."

_I swore an oath to King Cailan, I gave my word to Arl Eamon._

She lowered her mouth to his shoulder, exhaling golden mist while her fingers moved in instinctual patterns above the torn skin. The ragged flesh began to knit itself together as though sewn by some deft invisible needle. Finally, all that remained of the wound was a thin pale line, standing out against the olive muscle.

Morrigan had gone to investigate the deranged apostate's hollowed tree stump, gingerly stretching an arm inside its shadowed depths. With a grimace, she withdrew what appeared to be a broken human jawbone. It had been labelled by a small parchment tag, which she inspected with a grimace.

" _A Gossip's Remains_ , ugh."

Tossing it to the grass, the witch continued to rummage around the dried leaves. The next moment, she had produced a solid gold headband, marred by a bloodstain on the back.

" _Crown of the Betrayed_."

Morrigan licked her thumb and ran it over the cool metal, wiping the bloodstain away. Her lips curled maliciously and she turned towards the bastard prince.

"Here, why don't you try this on- "

The smile quickly dropped from her face and she raised her voice pointedly, hand on her hip.

" _That's_ not very brotherly, Alistair."

Alistair sat up with a grin, reaching for his torn tunic and breastplate. Flora, still sprawled backwards on the grass, attempted to assume an innocent expression.

Zevran sidled past Morrigan and darted his hand into the rotted oak, groping around with pursed lips. He withdrew a small glass vial, filled with an iridescent blue liquid. Uncorking it, the elf took a sniff.

"Lyrium. Want it, Flora?"

Flora shook her head, fastening the buttons of her shirt as she sat upright.

"I don't really run out of energy," she replied, attempting to flatten her tousled hair. "I think healing is less exhausting."

Zevran let out a little snort, tossing it to Morrigan instead.

"I love that even  _you_  don't quite understand how your magic works, my lily."

Morrigan wrinkled her nose, withdrawing something that gleamed even in the clouded clearing. She held it up between her fingers, an acorn that appeared to be coated with gold leaf.

"How utterly pointless," the witch muttered, but her eyes gleamed covetously and she slipped it into her pocket.

They continued to follow the high wall north from the hermit's camp. The wall itself was beginning to change – decorated with additional crenellations and carvings, the occasional small watchtower. Alistair had commented that it appeared to be leading towards a proper entrance; and the party picked up their pace.

Only a gloomy Flora lagged behind, still uncertain how to resolve the situation with Witherfang and the wolf-men. In both the Circle and Orzammar their goals had been clear and defined:  _kill the demon, get a crown._ But there was something about Zathrian that she did not trust; even his First, Lanaya, hinted that the Elder had not been completely honest with them.

Zevran let out a cry of triumph, and Flora looked up, startled. They had reached a gap in the wall in the form of a vast pillared entrance. There were no gates to speak of, but a shifting white mist swirled between the two pillars. Beyond, they could just glimpse a tree-lined courtyard and the remains of an inner temple.

Alistair withdrew his sword and gave the intangible barrier an experimental tap. It gave the same metallic clang as Flora's barrier did when struck. He hit it slightly harder; only earning a louder retort and a painful jolted elbow for his pains.

"Typical warrior," snapped Morrigan, approaching and drawing her staff from her back. "Just charging in and  _assaulting_  it. Allow me to demonstrate a more refined approach."

The witch lowered her eyelashes demurely, then let out a little shriek and blasted a powerful gout of flame towards the barrier. Alistair made a hasty retreat as the grass at the temple wall was incinerated; and the stone itself began to char.

"Is this meant to be the  _subtle and refined_  approach?" hissed Zevran, raising his voice over the roar of the rapidly channelled flame. Alistair shrugged, feeling Flora's fingers curl around the inside of his elbow and easing the residual ache.

"I don't know. It doesn't seem to be having much effect."

Morrigan, her tanned skin flushed scarlet with mingled exertion and irritation, abandoned the flame and began to hurl shards of ice at the intangible barrier. The gleaming lances shattered against the shifting energy as though it were steel, splintering uselessly over the grass. Flora picked up one fragment, watching it melt between thumb and forefinger in fascination.

Finally, the witch gracelessly admitted defeat. Thrusting her staff back over her shoulder, she whirled around to face them with her haughty, sensual face contorted in a snarl.

"I'll see you fools on the other side! 'Tis not as if I did not  _attempt_ to offer assistance."

With a whirl of feathers she transformed herself into a small, black bird, flapping upwards over the top of the crumbling stone wall. A moment later they saw her unfold back into her normal form on the other side of the barrier, waving slender fingers at them sardonically.

"Fine!" Alistair announced, letting out a huff of exasperation. "You can deal with the werewolves for us too, then!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So this is my interpretation of the whole hermit/barrier shenanigans, otherwise known as a refusal to trek back and forth across the entire Forest in my story, lol. The whole biochemistry of the taint also really intrigues me – I don't know why since I hated chemistry in school and now I'm a professional historian which is possibly the furthest you can get from biochemist, lol! But I think it's so interesting, all the different ways that it could interact with the human body – is it more viral, or does it spread more like a liquid-type cancer, like leukaemia? I don't know yet how I'm going to interpret it. But I think it's fascinating how it could interact with Flora's naturally manifesting healing ability.


	113. Not Another Dragon!

Chapter 113: Not Another Dragon!

Morrigan, face blurred through the shifting mist of the forest barrier, shot Alistair a derisive look. With deliberate slowness, she sauntered over to a narrow patch of sunlight and settled down to wait, folding one bare leg over the other.

"This is more your area of expertise," Zevran said to their barrier mage, who was standing to one side with a slightly vacant expression. "Can you get through it?"

"I can try," Flora replied, gamely. Stepping forward, she summoned the barrier around her arm; a gleaming second skin rose and hovered inches from her hand. Tentatively, she pushed at the white mist that blocked their path into the temple.

It offered some resistance and Flora scowled, unused to anything being able to withstand the brute power of her barrier. Narrowing her eyes and drawing strength from the Veil, she thrust her arm forwards more forcefully. The pulsing white mists yielded, just far enough to allow Flora to pass her arm through. Beads of sweat rose on her forehead as she withdrew her hand, exhaling unsteadily.

"Well?" Zevran eyed her expectantly, raising arched eyebrows. Flora gave a little grimace, then a slow and tentative nod.

"I think I can part it enough for us to get through," she said, somewhat dubiously. "You'll have to get close to me though, I can't widen it much more than my own body."

"Not a problem, my lily _,"_ Zevran said immediately, sidling over and positioning himself directly behind her. Alistair let out an exasperated scowl as the elf wrapped his arms around Flora's waist, a delighted expression on his painted face.

"What's pressing into my back?" Flora said suspiciously to the air in front of her; Zevran's warm breath ruffling the hair about her ears as he chuckled.

"Just the hilt of my dagger,  _cara mia._ "

Somewhat awkwardly, the two shuffled against the barrier. Zevran beamed, enjoying every moment spent pressed against Flora's body. He could feel her tensing with the effort, expanding her own gleaming barrier just enough to encompass the two of them.

It was akin to pushing one's way through the densest of tangled undergrowth with only a single hand. Gritting her teeth, Flora managed to force the white mist apart sufficient enough to allow Zevran through.

As the elf reluctantly released her, she half-fell through the barrier back into the hermit's campsite. Alistair was there to steady her, his eyes searching her face anxiously. She was flushed, breast rising and falling unsteadily from the effort of unnaturally forcing the barrier apart.

"Need a rest?"

"No, no, let's just do it."

Alistair reached down to lift her up, gripping her hips with practised ease as she clung to him like a monkey, legs wrapped around his waist.

He carried her as though she weighed nothing; a sweating Flora ground her teeth together as her own barrier stretched to encompass both her and Alistair. It took only moments to pass through the white mist, which fought her fiercely for every inch ceded.

The grass grew wild with spring flowers within the inner courtyard, snaking vines crawling over the side of the vast stone wall. A flight of footworn steps led down to a pair of finely carved doors, which appeared to be the main entrance to the temple. The ruins themselves were half-sunken into the earth, the distinctive Dalish architecture eroded by time and weather. The roof was capped with a great stone dome, cracked down the middle as though struck by lightning.

The reclining Morrigan opened a golden eye and gazed at them lazily, resembling nothing more than a cat resting in a patch of sun.

"I see you decided you join me; 'tis about time."

"This is it," announced Zevran, who had commandeered the map and spread it out over the stump of a broken pillar. "The  _Temple Sel'Arian._ It must have been an impressive structure before nature reclaimed it."

"It looks better for it," retorted Morrigan, casting an eye over the sunken temple.

Submerged within the tangled undergrowth, the ruins did appear as though they were in the process of being cannibalised by the forest itself.

Meanwhile, Flora was paying no attention to their surroundings. Flushed and sweating profusely from the effort of thrusting through the ancient barrier; she was pulling at the collar of her overlarge shirt.

"I'm boiling," she complained fretfully, shifting from foot to foot. "My head is on fire."

"Here," murmured Alistair, offering her his own water pouch. "Take as much as you need, my dear."

Flora took several large gulps before handing it back, her hand trembling slightly. Alistair reached out to remove a sweaty strand of hair from her cheek; his mail-clad touch tender. Unfastening the top buttons of her shirt and pulling the damp linen away from the skin, he bowed his head and blew cool air down the open front.

"Come on," hissed Morrigan impatiently, jabbing a dark-nailed finger towards the sunken entranceway. "Let us be done with this."

The steps leading down towards the vast stone doors were slick with moss and damp. The catlike Zevran darted down fleet footed, while a nervous Flora used her staff to brace herself. The doors themselves were covered with intricate carvings, geometric shapes interspersed with the organic lines of nature. Alistair lined up his shoulder and gave one door a forceful shove, then almost lost his balance as the door gave way easily.

They emerged into a vast, circular antechamber, greenish sunlight streaming in through the gap in the cracked ceiling. Stone pillars, some broken like jagged teeth, curved around the walls; while the fragmented tile floor reflected the patterns inscribed on the door. The Forest's reclamation of the temple was obvious, leafy ferns crept through cracks in the flagstones, trailing vines decorated the walls. A tree emerged in triumph in the centre of the chamber.

Morrigan exhaled with pleasure as she looked around, reminded of the many ruined temples in the Korcari Wilds. She ventured across the cracked tiles, turning slowly to take in the full view.

"This is the most pleasant location we have visited thus far on our tedious wanderings," she announced, stepping towards the gaping dark entrance of an interior passage. "I believe that- "

There was a sudden metal clang, a shriek of iron grating in violent movement. They all startled, the witch letting out a yelp of dismay. Her trailing leather skirts had drifted over a pile of leaves, disturbing some ancient lure. A rusted metal bear trap had sprung shut over the fabric, the teeth warped by age but still vicious enough to bite easily through flesh.

" _Such_ a pleasant location, Morrigan, I agree," murmured Zevran, darting a suspicious look down at the mossy tiles as Flora scuttled forward to offer assistance. "I suggest that I take point; my eyes are the sharpest."

Flora crouched down beside the witch and eyed the rusted metal teeth, warily. The trap had warped with age, and there was space sufficient for her to insert a finger. With some effort she was able to expand her own barrier sufficient to force the iron jaws apart. Morrigan removed her skirts with an unimpressed scowl, tossing her magnificent head and not deigning to offer a response.

They entered the shadowed passageway, descending several more steps as they did so. No external light penetrated this low, wide corridor; but it was illuminated by several hanging lamps, each holding a dancing blue flame. The air was damp and heavy with the smell of rotting vegetation, it was clear that they were now underground. Various small chambers branched off to either side, many caved in or blocked by twisting undergrowth. The only sound was the steady dripping of water, accompanying their footsteps against the damp stones.

As they ventured down the corridor, a distinctive sound joined the background noises of the temple. It began as a low scrape of movement, but as they drew nearer it escalated in both volume and frequency. There was a rustling, as though something leathery was brushing against the stone walls. The distinct clicking sound of claws against tiling soon followed it as  _something_ walked back and forth. The closer they got, the more apparent it was that whatever was making the sound, it was  _not small._

Nobody seemed willing to breathe, and Alistair made an especial effort to tread quietly over the cracked flagstones. The shadowed passageway came to an end in a pair of half-rotted wooden doors.

Zevran put his eye to a slender crack where the wood had warped, in a vain attempt to peer into the chamber beyond. Pale blue lights danced in the lanterns lining the corridor, casting a strange pall over his white-blond hair as he leaned forward. Very slightly, he nudged his weight against the door. It opened a fraction of an inch, the wood scraping across the tiles. The sound made them all freeze, but the creature within the chamber appeared not to notice. Zevran pressed his face to the crack and looked for a long moment. Finally, with an almost resigned shrug of his shoulders, he turned around.

"What is it with dragons and ancient temples, eh?"

Alistair glanced across at Flora, who had staff in hand and appeared faintly nauseous. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it came out more as a grimace.

"Is it any smaller than the last one?" he asked, remembering the scrabbling of vicious claws against the inner sanctum doors while the wind howled in mocking derision outside. Zevran lowered his eye to the warped crack once more, squinting.

"I think – a little smaller. Perhaps not fully grown," he amended, trying to inject optimism into his tone. Morrigan exhaled impatiently, tapping the base of her staff against the flagstones.

"I don't know why we hesitate, since we have a  _barrier mage_ with us. Send her in to distract it while we pass by unnoticed."

Alistair glared, a hot white anger flaring in the pit of his stomach.

"No," he stated flatly, shaking his head in a quick back-forth of denial. "It's too dangerous. There must be another way around. We could find another passage."

"Fool!" hissed back Morrigan, the bluish light casting her skin in a sallow hue. "Why add unnecessary time onto our journey?"

"Why put her in unnecessary danger when we could find another way?!" retorted Alistair, his rising voice echoing around the stone passage. "It's not  _fair-_  "

His words were cut off by a low, throaty snarl from the other side of the wooden doors; the unmistakable sound of a predator sensing its prey. For a single moment they stood there paralysed, Alistair's mouth still open and his brows drawn together.

Flora thrust her staff upwards a fraction of a second before the wooden doors were vaporised in a blast of violet fire, the ashes themselves incinerated by the sheer force of the heat. The flames collided with the pulsing golden barrier, spreading themselves over its surface like wine dissolving into water. Those behind the shield felt a rush of air hot enough to sting the eyes, but the fire itself was kept at bay.

Almost as suddenly as the boiling jet of flame had arrived it vanished, leaving acrid smoke curling in its wake. The wooden doors had been incinerated, the bare entranceway now revealing a long pillared chamber with a vast ceiling. Thick roots, with a circumference greater than a man's torso, crawled across the tiled floor like vast snakes.

Framed by the stone archway, the dragon looked back at them. As Zevran had surmised, it was smaller than its counterpart from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It had bronze, scaled skin and gleaming hooded eyes; Flora was reminded unpleasantly of the Archdemon's own terrible maw.

The beast gave a thin shriek, then took off with a clatter of claws, leathery, bat-like wings flapping as it wheeled towards the high arched ceiling. On the far end of the long hall, a small stone doorway was just about visible.

"There!" hissed Zevran, pointing a slender finger.

Flora looked over at Alistair; he was staring back at her with a faintly sick expression. There was a hard lump wedged in her throat, which she swallowed with difficulty, mournful eyes searching his face.

"Alistair?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Heal and shield, Flo, that's all you can do so you'd better get out there and do your thing! It might not be flashy, but it gets the job done. Also, this was the way that I chose to handle the magic barrier between the East and West part of the Brecilian Forest – it just seemed like an easier, character-driven way to resolve the situation. And I don't have to deal with creepy rhyming trees, which is always a bonus!


	114. Arachnophobia

Chapter 114: Arachnophobia

The single word spoke volumes; Flora gazed up at him with helpless resignation.

_I am a barrier mage. This is what I do._

Alistair bowed his head in forlorn acquiescence.

"Just… be careful," he said, struggling to keep his voice even. Flora nodded at him, fingers tightening around the length of her staff. Before she could lose her nerve, she darted into the high-ceilinged chamber. A predator's shriek rang out somewhere above her head; the young dragon wheeled around and dove towards her with claws stretched out.

The others began to scuttle down the side of the long chamber, keeping between the protective colonnade of pillars and the wall. Flares of golden light interspersed with violet flame erupted within the cavernous main hall, as the dragon made several attempts with tooth, claw and flame to penetrate the arcane barrier.

They had almost reached the far doorway when there came a great cacophony of shattering stone. The dragon's body broke through several pillars, fragmenting them as easily as a stone flung into a line of glass bottles; the next moment Flora let out a squawk of pain. Reflexively Alistair spun around and saw his sister-warden sprawled on her back amidst the broken remains of a pillar, her staff broken in two.

Without hesitation Alistair withdrew shield and sword, feeling the deep heat of anger rising like scarlet fire within his stomach. Shaking off Zevran's attempt to grab his elbow as though the elf weighed nothing, he strode back into the main chamber and gave a defiant bellow of challenge. He heard movement behind him, and realised that both the elf and the Witch of the Wilds were at his back.

"Come on, you overgrown lizard!" howled the Antivan, withdrawing two gleaming blades. The juvenile dragon wheeled around from where it had been advancing on the dazed Flora, it's attention caught by the glittering silver. As it raised leathery wings in an attempt to take off, Morrigan sent a blast of bitter ice crystals streaming through the air. The frozen particles adhered themselves to the base of the creature's wing; when it tried to take off, it veered wildly before lurching clumsily towards them. Zevran darted to one side, Alistair clamped his fingers around a cackling Morrigan's bare elbow and dragged her out of the way.

As the dragon floundered between them, the witch thrust out her staff and sent another blast of frozen crystals at the base of the second wing. Now unable to take off, the beast let out a shriek and opened its fanged maw, twisting its head towards Morrigan and Alistair. The ensuing bout of violet fire met a materialising white-gold barrier; primal flame neutralised by the potency of the creation magic. Flora, appearing somewhat dazed, had her trembling fingers stretched towards them. Her brow was creased in focus as she channelled the ranged barrier from twenty yards away.

Zevran took advantage of the creature's momentary paralysis to dart forward and slice his blade down the soft underside of it's neck. Dark purple blood, the colour of blackberries, began to spout from the ragged wound and the creature let out a gurgling howl of rage. Alistair drew from his reserves of strength and swung Duncan's sword. The blade cleaved through the creature's neck, severing it's head in one brutal arc. It fell to the floor, jaw partially open as the cruel, sallow eyes began to close.

The pillared chamber was suddenly very quiet, save for the sound of their own laboured breathing. Alistair sheathed the sword, careless of the congealing blood, and strode over to his sister-warden. She was still sitting amidst the rubble, clutching the two halves of her staff. He crouched down beside her, removing his gloves with trembling hands.

"What happened to your barrier,  _barrier mage?"_ asked Morrigan snidely as she followed close on Alistair's heels.

"The binding charm on my staff broke," the gloomy Flora explained, rather unnecessarily. "Then a bit of rock hit me in the head."

Alistair hissed through his teeth, tilting her chin upwards and gazing into each eye in turn. He had seen enough recruits struck on the head during Templar training that he was easily able to identify the signs of concussion. One young student, after taking a glancing blow to the back of the skull with a shield, had been found dead in his bed the next morning.

On finding both of her pupils their normal size, Alistair slid his fingers into her hairline to locate the wound. To his relief, he located a bump rather than a dent; and the skin did not appear to be broken. Flora waited patiently as he checked her over, allowing Morrigan to take the broken halves of her staff.

Finally, Alistair held up several fingers in front of her.

"How many fingers am I holding?" he asked, and she counted them dutifully.

"Three."

" _A miracle!_  I did not realise that she could even count that high," interjected Morrigan snidely, her own fingers running up and down the staff as she renewed the binding charm. Zevran was busy prying several scales from the dragon's neck, aware of the gold that Circle mages would pay for such rare reagents.

Alistair exhaled in unsteady relief, taking Flora's wrist and lifting hand to head, her slender fingers spreading out over the bump. Golden energy drifted from her fingertips, diffusing into her skin and igniting individual strands of hair like copper wire. The lump began to sink, the swelling reducing in size until the curve of her skull was uniform.

"Does it hurt?" Alistair asked, feeling a wave of relief wash away the fluttering moths of panic as Flora shook her head. Giving into an instinctual urge he embraced her, fierce lips pressing against the side of her temple. Her skin was clammy and pale beneath the sun-warmed gold; and he realised that she had been badly frightened by her near miss with the dragon.

"We're never doing that again," he said flatly into her hair, reluctant to loosen the grip of his arms. "It's happened in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, in the Deep Roads, at Ostagar –  _twice!_  - and now here. I'll not leave you to face anything else alone."

Flora opened her mouth to protest; Alistair shook his head, tone hardening. A steely vein of authority ran through the ensuing response.

"I swear it, Flo. Whatever comes from now on, we face it  _together_. Bandits, werewolves – the Archdemon itself."

At last she smiled at him and Alistair grinned, taking her face in his hands and smoothing his thumbs over her cheekbones. Letting out a small groan, his eyes wandered over the fine-hewn planes of her solemn face.

"Maker's Breath, it's killing me not being able to kiss you," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the curve of her generous mouth. She grinned, then leaned forwards and brushed her lips over the stubbled line of his jaw.

"Come now," snarled Morrigan, dropping the mended staff without ceremony at Flora's feet. "'Tis hardly  _fatal._ You survived your years of chastity well enough at the Chantry."

Having collected a small fortune's worth of dragon scales, Zevran was impatient to move on.

"Unless you're planning on taking her against a pillar, which I would happily watch," he called across the long chamber, hopping lightly over a trailing root. "I suggest we continue."

The stone archway led to a steeply sloping ramp, circling downwards into the lower level of the temple ruins. The air grew damp and heavy, the walls slick with greyish moss. Flora's raised staff gave off a brilliant golden glow, which mingled with the blue elven lanterns to create ethereal green patterns on the stone.

It led them down into a maze-like warren of stone passages, the majority of which were blocked by cave-in or tangled undergrowth. Reasoning that the werewolves' lair would lie at the end of the most travelled route, they continued to press forward into the bowels of the ruined temple.

Although the architecture of the temple was Tevinter, the walls were covered in intricate Dalish carving. Most of the panels were too worn away to decipher clearly; but some images remained preserved in the stonework. Hunting was a recurring theme, with halla seeming to be the most common victim. Despite this, the deer-like creature also appeared to be venerated by the elven people and was often depicted with regal trappings.

They had just come to a crossroads, the east and west branches blocked by fallen rubble. The passageway ahead was strung from floor to ceiling with silver webbing, each iridescent strand rope-thick. Too slick for Morrigan's flame to burn away, Alistair was forced to barge his way through the tangled mess with shield raised. The others followed unhappily in his wake, Zevran complaining bitterly about the wet tendrils left trailing from the ceiling.

"I cannot tolerate these sticky ends hitting me in the face," he hissed, cringing away like a cat splashed with water.

"It must remind you of being back in Antiva City," muttered back Alistair, gloomily inspecting his slime-covered shield.

The elf gave a dark cackle in response, allowing several thick strands to swing back and plaster themselves to Flora's cheeks. As usual, as the one with the best defences, she was bringing up the rear.

"Wouldn't  _you_  like to know, my dear Alistair?" Zevran replied, raising a plucked eyebrow. The male Warden flushed, muttering something unintelligible beneath his breath.

Flora paused to pull the remnants of a tattered web away from her hair, managing to also tug most of her braid free from the leather tie. Impatiently, she thrust the loose ropes of hair back inside the band, tying it up in a lopsided bundle on top of her head.

When she looked back up, a cluster of orange eyes were staring back at her through the torn webbing. The shadows before her shifted and she realised that the patches of darkness were not formed from the absence of light; but were made up of vast, black-bristled bodies.

Flora recoiled in shock, losing her balance and falling backwards onto her rear. As she collided with the flagstones, she felt a rush of movement over her head as another hidden spider made a lunge from behind with gyrating fangs.

Zevran turned around just in time to see the second spider rear forward, front legs raised. He gave a yell, withdrawing his blades from his belt. A third spider dropped down in front of Alistair, who stepped back in surprise and trod on Morrigan's toe.

The passageway was too narrow for a proper fight; the four of them confined within the narrow stone walls alongside the three spiders. Their bodies were in too close proximity to fight effectively, especially with vision obscured by the tattered webs. Alistair thrust his shield into the spider's clicking mandibles, not wanting to use his sword in case it bit into Morrigan's bare arm or Zevran's lightly armoured shoulder.

After losing several eyes to Alistair's shield, the third spider vanished into the shadows of the ceiling. More from luck than judgement, they stumbled out of the passage into a narrow antechamber, which was empty save for a pedestal and a copper basin.

Zevran had managed to sink a dagger into some vital organ of the second spider; it rolled onto its back and began to convulse, legs twitching wildly. Morrigan, who had received a puncture on the shoulder from one gleaming fang, sent the last one scurrying back into the tunnel with charred bristles.

"I  _hate_  this temple," announced the elf darkly, plucking trailing strands from his body. All four of them were now covered in damp stains from the webbing residue. "First dragons, now spiders. What next – giant  _bats?"_

"I hope not," replied Alistair in mild alarm, scrubbing at the smeared mucus covering his shield. "Are you alright, witch?"

Morrigan rolled her eyes, huffing under her breath as though inconvenienced by his question. On seeing the greenish tinge around the puncture, Flora had planted her lips straight onto Morrigan's bare shoulder and  _inhaled,_ drawing the venom into her own throat.

"I'll be fine," the witch said, more annoyed at the delay. "'Tis only a small thing."

"Good," Alistair retorted, eyes moving to his sister-warden, whose face had gone slightly greyish. "I don't fancy having to explain myself to your mother if we lose you. Here, Flo."

Reaching out to steady her as Flora squinted forward blearily, Alistair reached for his water-pouch. The sharp-eyed Zevran saw the light manifesting at the back of her throat as she opened her mouth to take a sip; the hollow of her neck faintly glowing.

"Fascinating," the elf breathed, although he was talking more to Flora's body than Flora herself. "So your body reflexively heals itself of poison? Is that what happens when you inhale the Blight?"

Alistair nodded, stroking a hand absentmindedly over the top of his sister-warden's head. She took another gulp, the colour returning to her cheeks as her body rapidly neutralised the toxin.

"She's my clever girl," he murmured, taking the water pouch away as Flora hiccupped. "I don't know what I would do without her."

"Ha!" interjected Morrigan, inspecting the healed puncture mark with grudging admiration. " _Clever?!_ We are speaking about the girl who can barely spell her own name, yes?"

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Two minor things – I actually have been reading through previous chapters (SO many minor grammatical mistakes – looks so sloppy! I edit these drafts twice before I upload them, I'm such a moron sometimes). Anyway, I realised that Alistair calls Flora his "clever girl" more than he compliments her on her looks. Which is actually quite nice, I didn't intend it that way.
> 
> Also, it sounds a bit stupid but Flora's ability to neutralise toxins within her body was partially inspired by the amazingly named auto-brewery syndrome – where bacteria in the gut convert food into ethanol! Since Flora's body channels such potent creation magic (to the tragic exclusion of any other type of energy – hence defective mage), I theorised that it could also neutralise poisons – and the taint. Which has some pretty major implications for my interpretation of the story in the future, lol. Wow what a stupid inspiration hahaha


	115. The Lady of the Forest

Chapter 115: The Lady of the Forest

They continued deeper into the ruins, the elven lanterns lighting their way through the warren of tunnels. Despite the labyrinthine layout their route was clear –the moss growing over the damp flagstones had been disturbed by a multitude of clawed feet. Several times Alistair could have sworn that he saw flickering outlines in the dark passages to either side; a persistent one forming the shape of a young boy.

He did not mention these to Flora, for fear of igniting her deep-rooted superstition about ghosts. However, not even he could suppress the sudden cry that echoed high and plaintive between the stone walls.

" _Mamae!"_

Flora immediately came to a halt, her head swivelling from side to side in alarm.

"Did you hear that?" she breathed, then scuttled to catch them up hastily as nobody else paused. "I think I heard something."

"Hm, it was just the wind," said Alistair quickly at which Flora narrowed her eyes, suspicious.

"The  _wind?!"_ she hissed back as the passage opened up into yet another circular stone chamber. "We're so far underground; we're practically back in the Deep Roads."

Just then Zevran smacked Flora on the elbow, hard enough to make her yelp and glare at him.

" _What-_ oh." She trailed off as her eyes followed the elf's stare, across the cracked tiling to a low stone archway.

Four werewolves stood there, three dun creatures flanking a hunched older beast with silver-tipped fur. Zevran reflexively placed his hands on the hilts of his blades and the one in the centre bristled, hackles rising.

"Hold, trespassers," the oldest one said, the words enunciated in a strange half-growl. "Stay your blades. I am the Gatekeeper of these ruins, and you must pass through me to come any further."

Flora put her fingers placatingly on Zevran's arm, though a surge of fear rose in her throat as she remembered the press of bristling bodies against her own. The elf glanced warily across at her, their faces at an even height; then let out a little sigh and released his grip.

_They were about to tear you limb from limb in that clearing,_ Flora thought to herself gloomily,  _and they have someone – something - that can get through your barrier._

"We don't want to fight," she said, grateful that her nerves did not seem to be reflected in her words. Her voice rang out in its clear, husky-edged coastal accent, echoing between the carved patterns on the passageway walls.

"You slew the dragon and have thus proven your strength," replied the Gatekeeper, every movement of his mouth revealing red jaw and white fang. "Since you have come this far, our Lady wishes to speak with you. Therefore, I offer a parley."

Flora gazed back at the creature with a total lack of comprehension. Alistair was familiar with the archaic terminology, and gave a slight nod.

"A negotiation," he muttered for Flora's benefit, seeing her visibly perk up. "Can we trust them?"

Alistair too was thinking back on the previous night in the clearing; the rage and bone-numbing fear he had felt on seeing his sister-warden alone and surrounded.

"Gatekeeper, they wish to kill Witherfang!" snarled one of the dun creatures, it's orange eyes flashing with anger. "They are merely agents of the Dalish."

"The Lady believes that the Dalish have not told them everything," replied the Gatekeeper, a low growl in his throat. "She wishes to enlighten them."

Flora recalled the nervousness of the clan's First, Lanaya, back in the Dalish camp.

_There is some connection between Zathrian and the werewolves, I know not what it is, the elf had said, her pale eyes flickering to the treeline._

_Zathrian's insistence that they not attempt to negotiate with the cursed creatures; that they launch into attack without hesitation._

"Is Witherfang your Lady?" Flora asked, a white wolf lurking between the trees at the edge of her memory.

The werewolves around the Gatekeeper stirred, hackles rising; their lieutenant snarled back at them with bared fangs.

"The Lady herself will explain," he replied, amber eyes shrunk to narrow points. "But I warn you, strangers, if you attempt to hurt her in any way, the whole clan will descend upon you."

"What makes you think that you could defeat us?" said Morrigan curiously, ignoring Flora's wide-eyed glower. "We have destroyed far greater foes than some mangy canines."

"Then we would return from the Fade itself and rip you apart," retorted the Gatekeeper, eyes moving over the witch with barely concealed loathing.

"We'll come peacefully," interrupted Flora hastily, as Morrigan bared her own small, white teeth in a malicious grin.

They followed the Gatekeeper through the low archway and into a wider stone passageway. Damp rivulets trickled down the walls, their feet splashed through shallow puddles that gathered on the tiles. More werewolves fell in behind them as they walked, communicating in body language and low grunts; the smell of wet, dirty fur overpowering in the confined space.

Before long the passageway opened out into a large chamber, the ceiling of which reached many times higher than a Chantry. The Dalish architecture seemed to be in the process of being consumed by the forest itself – fully grown trees sprung up from between broken tiles, vines trailed down the walls and crept across the floor. Jagged gaps in the stone dome allowed weak beams of sunlight to penetrate the gloom; though the main source of illumination were still the hanging elven lanterns. The ornately carved walls contained various alcoves, from which several other werewolves quickly emerged. Water from unknown sources ran down the walls in several places, pooling in recessed hollows. At one end of the chamber was a raised stone dais, upon which waited Swiftrunner alongside several others.

Flora looked around wide-eyed, inhaling the heavy reverence that hung pall-like in the air. There was an almost spiritual atmosphere about the chamber; it reminded her of the Inner Sanctum from the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

"You shall not approach our Lady armed, strangers," snarled Swiftrunner, suspicion emanating from him in ruddy waves. "I like this not, Gatekeeper. Why have you brought them?!"

"The Lady requested it," retorted the silver-haired creature that had led them into the chamber. "You know this, Swiftrunner."

Swiftrunner let out a low growl deep in his throat, hackles rising and head dropping. It was a clear indication of impending attack; Flora raised her hands, imploringly.

"Just me, then! I can't hurt anything. You  _know_  I can't, remember when you surrounded me in the clearing? I couldn't attack!"

Alistair let out a low groan of disbelief under his breath, shaking his head from side to side. Flora squeezed his elbow, quick and reassuring, then stepped forward. Pulling her staff from her back, she placed it on the stone, then returned upright and held out her palms.

"See, I'm harmless," she said, then froze in place as Swiftrunner let out a throaty snarl of contempt.

"You could have some weapon secreted about your person," the creature snarled, running it's orange eye up and down her dishevelled figure.

Flora reached down and untucked Alistair's shirt, pulling it free from her breeches before rolling the trailing sleeves up over her elbows. She looked up at the werewolf, who shot her a look of malevolent distrust.

In response, Flora pulled off her boots and stood there in bare feet, feeling faintly ridiculous.

"See, no knives," she said, hoping desperately that this would be sufficient. "Nothing pointy."

Swiftrunner drew his bristling lip back over his teeth, then inclined his head.

" _You_ may approach. Alone."

" _Flora_ , no," whispered Alistair, his voice near breaking on her name. There was so much fear, throbbing raw and painful, in the single word that she felt almost physically sick with guilt.

Swallowing her nausea, Flora turned her back resolutely on her brother-warden and their companions, and began the long walk down the central aisle towards the dais. They closed in on her as she walked, snapping their jaws close enough that she could smell the hot acrid odour of their breath; swiping their claws just short of her trailing shirt. Their behaviour was clearly intended to intimidate, but she could hear her dad's voice ringing in her ear, in the gruff northern accent that had indelibly shaped her own manner of speech.

_Deep breath, chin up, eyes straight._

_Someday soon you'll walk into a room and Loghain will be inside it. Think of this as practise._

Lifting an obstinate chin higher, Flora stalked down the aisle as though she were returning to Herring with a twenty pound tuna slung over her shoulder.

Halfway down the aisle one overenthusiastic werewolf lunged a little too far. A yellowed claw tore a great rent in Alistair's shirt and left a faint pink scratch between her shoulder blades. Flora paused for a moment then pressed determinedly forward, jaw rigid as any Tevinter statue. She could feel the pack closing in behind her; hairy bodies drawing together to prevent retreat.

There were three shallow steps leading up to the dais. Swiftrunner stared at her with barely concealed dislike, hackles rising as he gave a low growl. From this distance, she could see that one of his eyes was merely a shrivelled and empty socket.

Suddenly there was movement from the rear of the dais; a slender willow tree which Flora had barely noticed on her approach began to unfurl. Strips and tendrils of bark coiled outwards, forming limbs that extended forth from the shape of a naked woman. Her skin was a pale greyish green, whorls of bark spreading in delicate patterns over her torso. Dark hair fell midway down her back, scattered leaves and twigs caught within the coal-black tangles. Her proud face was long and there was something bestial about her beauty; her eyes small, dark and avian.

The woman reached out with a protrusion of bark that served as a finger, calming the restless Swiftrunner with a touch. Flora stared at her rather stupidly, then bowed her head with hasty respect. The other werewolves dropped to their knees in reverence, lowering their gaze to the cracked flagstones.

The Lady of the Forest gazed back at Flora for a long moment, then reached out with the same protrusion of bark and brushed it gently against Flora's breast, resting it there for a moment. The Lady's sternness seemed to melt away as her dark eyebrows rose, and she let out a soft surprised exclamation.

"The child tells the truth," she murmured, in a low, melodic voice that seemed to come from all parts of the chamber at once. "If the spirits trust her sufficient to lend their talents, then we must also, Swiftrunner.  _Come forward!"_

This was directed to Flora's companions, who dutifully approached as the werewolves stayed prostrate in reverence. Alistair covered the length of the aisle in a few paces, ascending the three steps to the dais in a single stride and drawing his sister-warden protectively to his side. For a brief moment he held her overtight, heedless of both Lady and werewolves, his relief palpable. Morrigan and Zevran followed more slowly in his wake, the witch eyeing Swiftrunner with dislike.

"You have been sent by the Dalish to end the curse," the Lady said in her strange, echoing voice, waiting until Alistair had released Flora to speak. "Yet I suppose that Zathrian did not tell you that he was the one who created the curse in the first place?"

Alistair and Flora glanced at one another, he more surprised than she. Morrigan, on the other hand, merely let out a low snort. Despite only having espied on Zathrian from a distance, she was inherently suspicious of any political leader requesting boons.

"Why would he create it?" asked Zevran, the revelation enough of a distraction to draw his gaze from the Lady's shapely form.

She sighed, the noise like the breeze rippling through the leaves of a tree. The werewolves remained quiet, strangely docile in her presence.

"Many years ago, the Dalish came to odds with the humans also residing within the Forest. Zathrian's son and daughter were kidnapped by the villagers, and his son was killed."

There was a long, drawn out pause, and Swiftrunner seemed to hunch in on himself. For almost a minute, the only sound in the vast stone chamber was the stream of water filling the alcove pool.

"His daughter was raped and set free; Zathrian found her and took her home. When she found herself carrying her rapist's child, she took her own life with her father's dagger."

Flora found herself unconsciously mimicking the werewolf's hunching gesture, her shoulders drooping as she listened to the melancholy tale. Alistair, who had greater understanding of the injustice enacted upon elves by their human counterparts, let out a low sigh under his breath.

"Enraged, Zathrian created the curse of lycanthropy in these very ruins, binding it to the great wolf Witherfang. It spread among the villagers, who either became infected or fled in terror. The humans were decimated, and those who survived fled into the forest."

The Lady's voice was melodic and almost soothing, despite the tragic nature of her story. Alistair cleared the thickness from his throat, eyes gleaming. Naturally compassionate, the plight of both Zathrian's family and the innocent villagers resonated strongly with him.

"Are- are these the men who attacked his children?"

The Lady shook her head, thick tangles of dark hair moving over her breasts.

"No, the ones responsible are long dead. Yet, these innocents suffer the same terrible affliction. Only my presence offers them any respite from the bestial side of their nature, but they are desperate to reclaim their lost humanity. It slips from them with every passing year; I fear that soon not even I will be able to reach them."

Flora looked sideways at Alistair, reaching out to touch his elbow with her fingers. He gripped her hand in his own, clutching her slender fingers almost painfully tight for a moment before releasing them.

"Now it's spread to the Dalish too, would Zathrian not lift the curse?" she asked, tentatively, at which the Lady gave a solemn sigh.

"I have tried to contact him many times in the past but – but perhaps  _now,_  he would listen."

The Lady raised her strange, shifting eyes, reflecting mingled hope and despair alike.

"That is why I reached out to you and your companions, child. Bring Zathrian to me here, and perhaps he will finally see reason."

The creature finished, bowing her head and letting tendrils of bark unspool gently across the floor. The elongated growth ran over Swiftrunner's mottled paw; he let out a soft growl.

The Wardens and their companions turned inwards, and there was a long and expectant pause. Finally, Flora realised that they were all waiting for her to speak. Even Morrigan, despite the supercilious smile curling over her face, was quiet and awaiting instruction. In truth, Flora had begun to think on what they might do before the Lady had even finished speaking.

"Morrigan, would you fly back to the Dalish camp and get Zathrian to come back here?" she said finally, her grey eyes earnest as they focused on the witch's angular features.

Morrigan let out a soft snort, yet made no protest except to mutter that she hoped the old man would be able to keep up. Here, Zevran commented that he had spotted the mage transform into a small bird during exertions behind the  _aravel_ with the redheaded huntress.

"Don't take  _no_  for an answer, though," repeated Flora, patting Morrigan's bare elbow. "Turn him into a frog and carry him here in your claws if need be."

"Into a  _frog!"_ the Chasind witch exclaimed in derision, her eyes already turning upwards to the sunlight streaming through the broken ceiling. "Don't you worry, Warden, I'll make sure that he accompanies me. I estimate that it will be tomorrow by the time we return."

"Good luck, my night blossoming flower," called Zevran with an ornate little bow. "May the breezes look favourably upon you."

Morrigan cleared her throat, her eyes taking on a darker hue as she prepared to transform herself. Just then Flora, who was not quite brave enough to fully embrace the witch, wrapped both of her arms around Morrigan's own and pressed her face against the witch's tan shoulder.

"Thank you for everything," she said impassionedly, her voice muffled. "I'm so glad that you came with us after Ostagar."

"I wouldn't go that far," muttered Alistair, a small muscle beneath his right eye twitching. A myriad of expressions flitted across the dark-haired woman's features, a brief flash of softness quickly replaced by the usual arrogant smile.

"'Tis true, you'd be at the bottom of Lake Calenhad without I," she retorted a little too smoothly, as though focusing on keeping her voice steady. "I  _have_  been rather invaluable."

Then she was away in a whirl of dark feathers, a small sleek-winged bird soaring upwards to the faint gleam of daylight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: A creepy ghost elf boy! Good thing that Flora never saw that, or she'd be freaking the feck out. She's very superstitious, as befits a fisherman's daughter. Also, werewolves, chomp chomp chomp. My brain is a bit broken this week, work has been so crazy!


	116. Zevran and the Spirit Healer

Chapter 116: Zevran and the Spirit Healer

"You can rest here tonight," interjected the Lady, whose branching fingers were scratching the top of the passive Swiftrunner's head. "There is fresh water for you to bathe and dried meat to eat."

The other werewolves had begun to drift back to their individual alcoves; but Alistair's eyes still rested suspiciously on their matted haunches.

"How do we know that they won't attack us?" he asked, not quite daring to look the Lady directly in the eye. Neither did he want to appear as if he were staring at her body, so he settled instead for a point on the stone wall behind her. She smiled sadly, lifting her branchlike fingers from the werewolf's fur.

"They are not yet too far gone to pay no heed to my words. For as long as you remain here, you are under my protection and they shall not touch you."

"Your song is growing fainter, Lady," muttered Swiftrunner, the words a soft and despairing growl. "I dread the day when I am unable to hear it at all."

They were shown to a small alcove in the stone beside one of the recessed pools. Vines trailed down from the stone archway, giving them some semblance of privacy, the walls coated in thick moss. One werewolf had brought their pack from where they had left it in the antechamber, leaving it with silence and a suspicious stare.

"My shirt is broken," complained Flora as the werewolf parted the trailing vines and left the three of them alone. "Is my back bleeding?"

She twisted her neck, trying to see over her shoulder to where the werewolf's claw had rent the shirt and marked her back. The faint scratch had already vanished; her body reflexively healing the minor wound without necessitating conscious intervention.

Zevran ran his fingers down the clean tear, clicking his tongue absentmindedly.

"I can mend this, there's a needle in the pack," he declared, fingering the edge of the fabric. "Every Antivan knows how to sew, it is second nature to us. We are a nation of leatherworkers, after all."

A short time later Flora sat cross-legged on the stone with Zevran kneeling behind her, a needle gripped between his teeth. Alistair was busy sorting through the slabs of hare that another werewolf had reluctantly brought over.

"Half of this is still bloody," the bastard prince exclaimed, his brows furrowed. "I don't think it's healthy to eat raw meat."

Only the impediment in Zevran's mouth prevented him from making a lewd comment as he pulled the thread taut. Licking the end of the cotton, he darted it through the end of the needle and began to make the final stitches.

"Don't prick me," said Flora anxiously, keeping as still as possible while keeping her hair gripped on top of her head. "I don't want to get pricked."

The elf groaned, skilfully weaving the needle in and out of the white linen.

"You two are as bad as each other," Zevran murmured, working his way up the length of the tear. "Raw meat and pricks. Honestly!"

The Crow bit off the end of the cotton, then leaned forward and pecked the back of Flora's neck.

"All done, my Rialto lily."

Flora released the untidy bundle of hair and beamed, reaching behind her to touch the small, neat stitches in the material

"Thank you," she said as the elf shuffled forwards to sit beside her. Zevran gave a little expectant cough, then arched a finely plucked eyebrow at her.

"Do I not also get an embrace of thanks, such as our witch received?" he enquired, lower lip sliding outwards. "Have I not served your cause loyally?"

"After you stopped trying to assassinate us," pointed out Alistair reasonably, managing to locate some meat that appeared to have been mostly cooked.

Zevran opened his mouth to reply, but his smart retort was cut off by Flora dutifully putting her arms around him. The elf embraced her enthusiastically, rolling his eyes at Alistair over Flora's shoulder.

"You can stop glowering at me,  _my lord_ ," Zevran purred, running a slender-fingered hand up and down her narrow back. "I have nearly a decade on your sister-warden. She's a little young for my tastes; I prefer a more  _seasoned_  woman."

As if to emphasise his point, the elf tousled the top of Flora's head with brotherly affection as he withdrew. She smiled distractedly at him, her attention already fixed on the pile of salted hare in front of Alistair.

"Well, I prefer seasoned  _meat_ ," Flora announced, patting her stomach. "Can we eat now?"

They were all so hungry that they ate with the sticky residue from the spider webbing still coating their hair and clothing. As the beams of weak sunlight gradually dissolved into shadow, pale blue elven lanterns ignited and cast their ethereal glow over stone, fur and flesh.

Zevran bathed in the recessed pool first, splashing water over the sinewy musculature of his bronzed chest while attempting unsuccessfully to catch either Warden's eye.

Alistair was distracted by several sheets of parchment spread out on the mossy stone, watching Flora chew the end of the inkpen as she squinted down at his carefully scribed letters.

"The," she started confidently, then scowled. "No,  _there._ There… was. Was a  _da_ \- dra- drag - oh,  _dragon?"_

Alistair nodded, eyes bright with tender affection. Thus encouraged, Flora continued.

"A dragon, l-ly…  _lying_ in the- temper. Temple."

"Almost, my dear," he said, taking the inkpen gently from between her teeth and writing the word out neatly beneath his original sentence. "Not lying,  _living_. See, there's a  _v."_

"L, I, V, I, N, G," Flora recited dutifully and Alistair grinned at her, irrationally proud of the progress that his sister-warden had made over the past six months.

Zevran rose elegantly from the recessed pool, tossing his head with mild impatience at his lack of success.

"You know, my darlings, the killjoy witch is not here," he murmured suggestively, pulling his tunic back over his head. "If you wanted to break your little self-imposed bout of chastity, far be it from me to inform her. I shall be taking a short walk around this antechamber."

The elf sauntered over to the dangling vines and ducked his head beneath the low stone archway.

"I shall be gone mere moments, but I assume that for Alistair, that is more than sufficient," he commented snidely, earning himself a glare.

Flora clambered to her feet, squashing Alistair's eager face with a stern glance.

"No, we  _promised_ ," she said, clambering out of her breeches and shirt, while he let out a groan and massaged his thumbs into his temples. "I know you don't break promises."

"Do promises to the witch count though?" Alistair countered half-heartedly, although he was already swivelling around to face the other side of the alcove. Having divested herself of her smallclothes, Flora slid into the pool with a little grimace; her knee giving a painful twinge.

"It's freezing!"

Taking a deep breath, she submerged her head beneath the water.

A short time later, Zevran sauntered back between the vines with an innocent smile on his face.

"Forgive me, I just forgot my-  _what?!"_

Zevran's carefully arranged expression slid off his face and was replaced by a look of incredulity. His eyes swung from Alistair who was sitting dutifully facing the opposite wall, to Flora, who had had just emerged from the pool trailing wet moss from her head, like the mermaid from the previous night's story.

"I thought he'd have you bent over the ledge by now," Zevran muttered to Flora, aware of her sore knee and stepping forward to help her climb out of the recessed pool.

She shook her head indignantly, sitting down and reaching for the mended linen shirt.

"No! We made a promise."

" _You_ made a promise," countered Alistair grumpily, clambering to his feet.

He had already removed the larger pieces of his armour and now he took off his breeches and linen tunic, trying to ignore the gleam in Zevran's eye.

As he stepped past Flora, she tilted her head back to blink reproachfully up at him. Alistair paused, an involuntary smile curling the corners of his lips as he gazed back down at her. He leaned down to press a kiss against the top of her damp head before continuing to the recessed pool.

Zevran swept his own appreciative stare over Alistair, before raising his eyebrows at Flora.

"Templar's longswords, eh?"

She rolled her eyes at him as he cackled, tying her damp hair in a strange hybrid of bow and knot on top of her head. The elf glanced between the hanging vines to where the werewolves were extinguishing the braziers, clearly preparing to settle down for the night.

"So, do you think that the lovely Lady is telling the truth about these creatures?" Zevran asked, watching Flora fumble with the bindings around her bare knee. "Or do you think we'll awaken in the process of being torn limb from limb? Hold, pet, let me."

The Antivan reached out to expertly wind the leather strapping around her knee, while Flora closed her eyes. She could feel the nearness of the Lady of the Forest as a cool green presence hovering in the back of her mind. It felt comforting, and oddly familiar.

_She knew me as a spirit healer. Is she a spirit, then?_

"I trust her," Flora replied slowly, settling back against the bedroll as Zevran finished tightening the leather strap. "I can't explain why. I don't think we're in danger."

Sometime later, moonlight diffused through the ruined chamber as the werewolves slept fitfully in their own alcoves. The Lady had curled herself back into her willow tree, the elven lanterns cast pools of bluish light over the nature-reclaimed stone. From somewhere far outside an owl let out a long and lonely call; the sound muffled by the rock and root that tangled together in a centuries-long battle for dominance over the temple ruins.

In their vine-covered alcove, the Wardens and the elf rested on the combined pair of bedrolls and a blanket. Alistair's arm rested heavily across Flora's stomach, their fingers entwined in the usual nightly ritual. He was not yet asleep but close to it, his breathing warm and sluggish against the back of her neck.

Flora yawned, opening an eye and looking across at Zevran. He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling with an uncharacteristically sober expression on his face. The moonlight drained the colour from his features, the black markings over his cheeks standing out stark against sallow-toned skin.

"Zevran?" she whispered under her breath, feeling Alistair shift sleepily behind her, his lips brushing against her skin.

The elf turned his head sideways on the bedroll to face her, his onyx eyes a dark mirror of her own pale stare. Finally he let out a little sigh, giving a slight shrug.

"My mother was Dalish, you know."

There was a pause and Flora said nothing, simply rested her cheek against the palm of her hand and waited.

"She left her tribe because she fell in love, or so I was told. Unfortunately, she made a poor choice; since the one she fell in love with fell victim to the Crows."

Flora listened without speaking, feeling Alistair's breath warm on her ear. The corner of Zevran's mouth turned up in a wry smile.

"I never knew her, nor who my true father was. He could have been the one she fell in love with, or one of the men she took to support herself after he died. She was never healthy after leaving the Dalish, and my birth finished her."

Flora reached out with the hand not entwined in Alistair's, and traced the dark pattern of the tattoo over the elf's cheek with a finger.

"Is this a Dalish pattern, or an Antivan one?"

Zevran smiled, the faint lines around his dark eyes creasing.

"It is traditional for Crows to have tattoos, but," he paused for a moment as her finger moved up around the edge of his eye. "It does bear some similarities to the Dalish  _vallaslin, carina."_

Flora thought about this for a moment, withdrawing her finger. A sudden chill came over her and she shivered; Alistair reflexively drew her closer within the encompassing circle of his arms. Zevran eyed her for a moment longer, then sighed and gave a wry smile.

"He loves you dearly, you know," he said, a tinge of melancholy to the words. "But it will not be so simple when you get to Denerim. Please tread carefully, my lily. I once knew another who found themselves entangled with princes and politics, and – well – she did not survive it."

"Rinna?" asked Flora, and Zevran's features twisted in a minute jerk of shock. He propped himself up on one elbow, his dark eyes searching her face.

"You mentioned her before," she explained, Alistair's lips moving against her damp hair as he murmured in his sleep.

" _Once_ , months ago," countered the elf, his expression unreadable. Flora, who had developed a good memory for the spoken word as compensation for her illiteracy, gave a little shrug.

"I remembered."

Zevran paused, then leaned forward and pressed his mouth gently against her forehead, resting his lips there for a moment. As he withdrew, he inhaled the warmth of her skin and the smell of her damp hair.

"Sleep well,  _sirenita."_

Flora smiled at him, rubbing the back of her hand sleepily over her eyes.

"'Night. Don't let the weever fish bite."

" _Weever fish?!"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So it hasn't often come up, since Flora has received very little in formal magic tutelage – she spent most of her time in the Circle doing chores – but her specialism is a spirit healer. And she apparently has some pretty picky spirits, who won't let her cast anything else, lol. I love this chapter as I love all character development or relationship development chapters – Zevran is one of my favourite characters from the entire franchise. Also, Zevran kept coming onto my character at the most inappropriate times in game – like, they'd just killed the Broodmother (I took Zevran rather than Sten in my playthrough) and he's like /FLIRT. Why yes this is an appropriate time for your flirtation, covered in putrid organs mmmmmm


	117. Fresh Growth

Chapter 117: Fresh Growth

Flora awoke in the darkest part of the night, heart beating a rapid staccato against her ribcage and the linen shirt stuck to her skin with cooling sweat. Beneath her tongue, the bitter aftertaste of the Archdemon lingered. Taking several deep breaths to calm herself, Flora opened her eyes to see Zevran's still face a foot from her own, lit in shades of ethereal blue from the elven lanterns.

Gently untangling herself from Alistair, Flora sat up and looked around. It took a few moments of staring at the carved stone walls for her to remember that they were resting in a vine-draped alcove, within a temple at the very heart of the forest. The Lady of the Forest had evidently been true to her word; no werewolf had disturbed their rest.

_Something far worse than any wolf-man disturbed my rest,_ Flora thought gloomily, straining to remember the particulars of the Archdemon's incursion into her mind.  _It was perched on a tower –strangely, similar to the Tower of Ishal. Is the Archdemon back at Ostagar?_

_It saw me again, I can feel it's sticky residue coating the inside of my skull._

_**Let it look.** _

Extracting the Archdemon's fishhooks from the intangible matter of her memory, Flora clambered to her feet and carefully stepped over Zevran's sinewy torso. Ducking her head beneath the stone archway, she brushed the dangling vines aside and stepped into the main chamber; with no particular aim other than to purge the dragon's hooded stare from her mind's eye.

The decrepit hall held an eerie beauty, the crumbled stone and sprawling undergrowth in temporary truce as they rested in patches of silvered moonlight. The Lady's tree grew up from the rear of the dais, trailing dark mosses reminiscent of thick tendrils of hair.

Several werewolves raised their heads from where they had been resting, but made no attempt to impede her. Flora saw that that a tentative hope had started to mingle with the inherent wariness in their watchful amber gaze. She wandered barefoot around the perimeter of the dais, superstitiously avoiding stepping on the cracks in the tiles, then paused and stared up at the fragment of moon visible through the broken dome.

The sweat was cooling on her body now and Flora shivered, turning around and heading back towards the vine-draped alcove. Pushing the dangling mosses aside, she manoeuvred carefully back over Zevran's legs, scrambling into the narrow space left for her on the bedrolls.

As she lowered herself down, she noticed that Zevran was grimacing in his sleep; murmuring in what she assumed was his native Antivan tongue. Realising that she was not the only one suffering from bad dreams that night, Flora reached out and rested her fingers across the elf's forehead.

"Shh," she whispered, reaching down with her other hand to pull the blanket up over his shoulders. "It's alright. Sleep."

Settling back down, Flora felt a broad arm encircle her sleepily from behind. She rolled over to see Alistair yawning, rubbing a thumb into one bleary eye as he squinted down at her.

"So, we're not missing any arms or legs, which is always a good thing," he murmured drowsily, half-smiling at her. "I was expecting to wake up being used as some werewolf's chew toy."

Flora stared back at her brother-warden's handsome, finely-carved features and wondered why she had even bothered to wander around in the chamber; when the greatest panacea to the Archdemon's lingering presence had been beside her all along. She half-lunged at Alistair, almost hitting him in the jaw as she thrust her arms around his neck, burying her face against the defined muscle of his shoulder.

Slightly taken aback but recovering manfully, Alistair drew her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her. He could feel her exhale unsteadily, the still elevated flurry of her heartbeat throbbing against his ribcage.

"Flo," he said against the top of her head, sliding his palm beneath the damp shirt and resting it on the small of her back. He could feel the sweat cooling on her skin, and realised the cause of her distress. Letting out a soft groan under his breath, Alistair embraced her more tightly, frustrated at his own helplessness.

"My love," he murmured, stroking his free hand clumsily over the top of her head. "I'd stay awake all night if I thought I could keep it from you."

Flora shook her head, swallowing to gain some moisture in her dry throat as she rested back against the bed roll.

"Could you-…?" she whispered, making a vague gesture as understanding dawned on her brother-warden's face.

Alistair leaned forward and pressed his lips against each of her ears in turn, exhaling warm against her neck.

"No more hearing it," he breathed, forcing reassurance into his smile before pressing a gentle kiss against each eyelid. "No more seeing it."

Brushing the hair from her sweaty face with sword-calloused fingers, Alistair pressed his lips gently against the centre of her forehead.

"And  _gone_  from your mind."

Flora exhaled, reassured by the familiarity of the ritual. Alistair paused, then kissed her softly on the mouth.

"That one doesn't count," he murmured and she reached up to touch the strong angle of his Theirin jaw. He smiled back down at her, hazel eyes warm with raw affection.

"Alistair," she said, assuming a solemn expression with some difficulty. "Can you just check that I'm not missing any limbs? Werewolves have already tried to eat me once, remember."

Her brother-warden grinned down at her, then assumed the same stern expression.

"Of course, my dear. Let's see." Alistair ran a roughened palm over one shoulder, then edged his fingers inside the collar of her shirt. His wrist ghosted against the swell of her breast as he felt the top of her slender arm. "Arm present and correct."

"Now for the other one," he said solemnly, sliding his fingers along her collarbone and rubbing a slow circle against her opposite shoulder. "I'm pleased to inform you that both of your arms are still intact, my little fishwife. However, your legs could be a different story."

Alistair sat up, leaning forward and running a palm appreciatively up the length of her bare thigh.

"Werewolves  _love_  legs," he murmured, bending his mouth to plant a kiss on top of her knee. "Especially those belonging to redheaded northerners. They're extra chewy."

Flora, still lying back against the bedroll, put her forearm over her mouth to muffle a laugh. Alistair grinned sideways at her, trailing his lips in a tantalising meander up her inner thigh.

"This leg is  _definitely_  still here," he assured her, lifting her shirt to kiss a horizontal path across her belly before descending to the other leg. "And- there we go. You're fully intact, my dear."

There was one part of Alistair's body that was assuredly also still intact; he coughed slightly, but did not reach for the blanket to cover himself. Flora looked up at him, feeling a thread of desire pull taut within her.

"Maybe I should check you too," she offered innocently, and her brother-warden let out a soft groan of lust.

"This is the strangest foreplay I've ever witnessed, darlings, but it's working for me."

Zevran's voice drifted lasciviously through the darkness, warm and intimate. Alistair recoiled, then slumped back on the bedroll with a grunt of disbelief. Flora turned her head sideways to see the elf propped up on one elbow, grinning down at her. She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue at him; the Antivan assassin laughed out loud, reaching out to pat her head.

"It'll be all the sweeter for the delay, my lily, don't fret."

The next morning, Flora woke up with a blast of hot and rancid breath directed into her face. She opened her eyes in mild alarm to see Swiftrunner's hairy muzzle hovering over her, his lip curled back in distaste. Only her excellent reflexes had stopped her from launching the werewolf across the alcove with her barrier.

"The Lady wishes to speak with you," the werewolf snarled, as Flora removed Zevran's arm from where it lay casually across her lap. "Just you."

Flora glanced down at her sleeping brother-warden, who was huddled on her other side, then clambered to her feet. Yawning, she pulled on boots and breeches and trailed after the werewolf.

Early morning light filled the ruined temple, mottled green patterns coating the stone dais as the weak sunbeams filtered through the foliage. Many of the temple's occupants were absent, embarking on the usual morning hunt. Flora saw the old silver-furred Gatekeeper leaning against a stone pillar, watching her with clear suspicion.

The Lady of the Forest was standing near a panelled wall at the rear of the dais, beside a small patch of earth. Her dark, avian eyes swept over Flora thoughtfully as the Warden approached, gesturing for her to come closer. Flora obeyed, then stood there feeling rather foolish as the Lady dropped her gaze to the damp soil. There was silence for several long moments.

"Morrigan should be bringing Zathrian back today," Flora ventured eventually, earning herself another appraising stare. The Lady crooked one of the branchlike appendages that served as a finger, then gestured to the patch of crumbled earth at her feet. Flora looked down to see a dozen small sproutlings, several of them anaemic and unhealthy in appearance.

"Maybe he'll listen to reason and lift the curse, now that it's affecting his own people too," she said, sinking to her knees and pressing a finger against one of the limp seedlings. Golden mist seeped from the delicate whorls of her skin, infusing the pale sprout with vitality. It unfurled itself, reaching a slender and sturdy tendril around her finger.

Gently extracting herself, Flora moved onto the next limp sprout. The Lady watched her without speaking, a brown-winged moth emerging from the dark tangles of her hair.

"I also hope Zathrian isn't giving Morrigan too much trouble," Flora continued blithely, nudging life back into the half-dead seedlings. "I hope that he'll listen to reason."

She sat back on her heels, surveying the rows of rich green sprouts. The Lady leaned down with a twig like finger and touched the damp soil; the twelve tendrils burst into life, sprinting upwards in luxuriant and accelerated growth. Large, white flowers, speckled with pink like an eggshell, unfurled in triumph. The vines entwined Flora's arms and coiled around them, encircling her head in a floral halo. She reached up to touch the soft edges of the blooms, then turned her curious grey stare on the Lady herself.

"You're a spirit, aren't you?" she whispered and the Lady inclined her head, dark tangled hair falling over her shoulders.

"Flo?" Alistair's voice was hesitant, coming from the dais behind her. Flora turned around with the floral decoration still curling around her head and arms. Her brother-warden was standing there in his breeches, looking slightly confused.

He blinked at her, then for want of anything else to say, said: "You look like a bush."

Flora grinned at him as the flowering vines retreated from her body and coiled themselves up the Lady's legs; joining the lush growth that already covered her grey-green form. The arboreal woman bestowed a gentle smile on Alistair before wandering away, Swiftrunner trailing dutifully in her wake.

"What did she ask you?" her brother-warden asked curiously, as Flora clambered upright and linked her arm through his own bare one.

"She didn't say anything," she replied, casting a surreptitious look sideways at the keen musculature of his abdomen. "I asked her if she was a spirit and she said yes. Then we… did some gardening."

Alistair parted the vines to their alcove, then stopped abruptly; Flora colliding with his back. Zevran was standing Maker-naked in the recessed pool and leaning back against the sloping stone wall. He had himself in hand, and sported a wicked grin on his features.

"Aah!" yelped Alistair, clamping a hand over Flora's eyes. "Elf! What are you  _doing?!"_

"Isn't it quite obvious?" leered the assassin, arching finely plucked eyebrows. "Why don't you both come in and join me? We all have some time to kill before Morrigan returns."

The majority of Flora's face was covered by Alistair's large, calloused palm; she began to laugh helplessly. Her brother-warden groaned, averting his eyes to the sloped alcove ceiling as Zevran clambered out of the pool. The elf sauntered to retrieve his clothing, in no particular hurry.

"Shameless!" hissed Alistair in a manner disconcertingly reminiscent of Morrigan. The elf let out a little cackle, smartly pulling up his leather breeches.

"Says the one who would happily have taken his lovely  _'sister'_ on the bedroll beside me last night. Next time, I shall be sure not to interrupt."

Alistair, realising that the elf was speaking the truth, flushed to the tops of his ears and said nothing.

A silent werewolf delivered them a rough-hewn bowl filled with a variety of roots and berries. Zevran, who was sick of the Fereldan diet of various cooked and salted meat, was ecstatic. They sat on the steps leading up to the stone dais and ate them gratefully, watching the werewolves carry on with their daily routine. It mostly seemed to consist of hunting, and over the course of the morning several bloodied kills were dragged back into the chamber. The Lady herself had retreated into her tree; several of the werewolves lay curled over her roots, including her loyal lieutenant Swiftrunner.

Alistair, whose patience was rapidly wearing thin, strode back and forth down the main aisle, face taut as an over-tightened lute string. Their goal seemed both intangible yet tantalisingly close. He kept trying to work out times and distances in his head; mouth working silently as he attempted to calculate the time it would take for the dwarves to bring their armies to Denerim.

"What's he doing?" Zevran asked Flora as he perched beside her on the stone steps, watching Alistair mutter under his breath as he paced the worn stone. In premature preparation for Morrigan's return, the young Warden had strapped on his armour, Duncan's sword hanging at his side.

Flora looked up from the sheets of parchment spread over the tiling, taking the inkpen out from between her teeth. She had run out of clean pages and was now writing on the back of past lopsided alphabets and  _flora lov herrings._ It was startling to see the contrast between her clumsy early efforts, and the more recent attempts at stringing together sentences.

"He's trying to work out how soon we'll be ready to challenge the Darkspawn," Flora said, having heard her brother-warden muttering under his breath as he neared them. "It's going to be longer than he likes. You can't just summon an army from across Ferelden overnight."

"He's thinking on what the usurper is doing while sporting the Theirin crown," murmured Zevran, watching Alistair scowl darkly to himself before starting another loop of the chamber. "Why don't you lure him into the alcove and distract him with your body?"

"No. Give me something to write."

"' _Yonder bosom infused with light akin to ivory; fragmented with shell-formed curlicue,'"_ intoned Zevran, reciting the opening stanza of a famous Antivan love poem.

A nonplussed Flora jabbed him in the elbow with the wooden end of the pen. Zevran laughed, dark eyes gleaming wickedly.

"Fine. ' _The prince kissed his mistress.'"_

She bent her head over the parchment, brow furrowed in concentration. Alistair came over to sit beside them on the low stone steps, a scowl ingrained on his handsome olive features.

Flora slid the parchment over to Zevran, who took one look at it and struggled to restrain a laugh. ' _the pins cussed his matress'_ was scribed in her rounded, looping hand haphazardly across the page.

"The prince cursed his mattress," the elf read gleefully, the corners of his mouth curling upwards. "Why? Was it too hard? Too soft? Too  _lumpen?"_

Flora blinked at him for a moment, then looked down quickly; not fast enough to hide the flash of sadness in her eyes. Alistair, able to interpret each minute quirk of his sister-warden's face, shot Zevran a dark glower.

It took the usually unabashed elf a moment to identify the twinge in the pit of his stomach as guilt. Reaching out with long fingers, he tilted Flora's chin up so that he could look her in the eye.

"You were very close, my Rialto lily," he assured her, face solemn. "You forgot the  _r_ in prince. Listen."

He rolled the sound in the back of his throat in a manner that came second nature to Antivans. Flora laughed, trying unsuccessfully to mimic the sound. Alistair, roused from the brooding mood he had been in all morning, also made a valiant attempt. Zevran opened his mouth and pointed at his tongue, raising his eyebrows.

" _Rrrrr_ -" he started, and then a familiar dark bird swooped down through the crack in the domed ceiling. Morrigan emerged in a whorl of feathers and arcane magic, her amber eyes glowing triumphantly as she stood in the aisle before them.

"There was no need to turn him into a frog," she intoned, as the werewolves alerted. "He came, albeit reluctantly."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Initially, Flora's illiteracy came about because I was trying to handicap her character in multiple ways to compensate for her gift at healing and shielding. BAM, you can't read or write! BAM, your knee is fucked! BAM, you're a crap mage who can't cast anything! But I've genuinely loved developing her literacy as a secondary storyline. It kind of parallels my own attempt to improve my creative writing, which hopefully will get a bit better during the course of this story! Two more small points – it was way back in chapter 31 where Alistair first did the snogging-face-exorcise-Archdemon thing (literacy? What literacy). And secondly, for the person who PMed me – YES, you're right! The bolded, italic text that pops up in the occasional chapter is the voice of the spirit who assists Flora with her healing. More to come on that! The name of the chapter represents the growth of Flo's literacy, the growth of the seedlings and the growth of Alistair's OK ENOUGH FOR TODAY FOLKS


	118. Blood Mage Versus Spirit Healer

Chapter 118: Blood Mage Versus Spirit Healer

A small sparrow fluttered down through the cracked dome, it's outline blurred in the filtered sunlight. The Lady began to unfurl herself from her tree as the bird reformed itself into the shape of the Dalish elder.

Zathrian stood in the centre of the dais, as pale and lined as when they had first seen him in the elven camp. This time, his features were taut with anger, his narrow lips folded. A staff hung at his back, the gnarled head humming with primal energy. On seeing him the werewolves snarled, moving as a pack and closing in on the dais. The elf surveyed them with a callous contempt, his pallid eyes derisive.

"So I hear you have failed in this simple task, Wardens," Zathrian said coolly, pupils a ruddy brown as he narrowed his eyes at them. "I thought you wanted the assistance of the Dalish."

Swiftrunner let out a low growl, hackles rising. The elf turned to look at the werewolf, his lip curling with mingled disgust and loathing.

"Peace, both of you."

The Lady's voice came from the rear of the dais, soft and penetrating. She stepped forward, trailing mosses and roots like a part of the forest made mobile. Zathrian gazed at her, his expression unreadable.

"Zathrian, your ire has run its course," the spirit murmured, casting her strange avian stare over the elven mage. "It is time for you to let go of your anger and release these poor men."

He turned on her, face already contorting in rage. She met his anger with her strange, unblinking stare.

"They are not  _men,_ they are  _beasts._ I have merely given them a form which reflects their true natures."

"But these men didn't attack your family," interjected Flora, her brow furrowed. "They deserve to be cursed about as much as we do."

This only earned her a venomous stare from Zathrian, who hissed at her with flecks of spittle flying from his lips.

"You want me to undo this curse?! I will not, by the gods!"

"But only you can undo it, Zathrian. It is by your blood that it was made," whispered the Lady, leaves rustling as she took another slow step across the dais. "It is entwined within you, and I, in whom you bound the spirit of Witherfang."

"It's a blood curse?" interjected Alistair, his fingers straying to the hilt of Duncan's blade. He inhaled suddenly as the realisation dawned. "Wait, are you a  _maleficar?"_

" _Yes_ , it's a blood curse," snarled the elf, his voice taking on a raw and wild edge. There was a sudden electrical crackle, lightning arcing between his gnarled knuckles as he gripped the haft of his staff. "Writ in the blood of my son, as his murdered corpse was left to rot. And the blood of my daughter, which she herself released in her own despair."

The Lady took a trailing step backwards as the elven mage retrieved a slender dagger from the sleeve of his robe, his eyes dark and scarlet-hued. The scent of the arcane in the air grew stronger, manifesting as a strange, sour burning in the back of the throat.

"Your tribe believe you retain the ancient Dalish immortality," the Lady breathed, watching Zathrian tremble with anger before her dark stare. "Yet it is this curse which keeps you tied to this world and prolongs your years behind their natural course. I beg you, reconsider your actions!"

"Wardens, you're going back on your word," snarled the elf, his face contorting. "Grey Wardens,  _oath breakers,_ why am I not surprised?"

"I think we ought to talk about it!" bleated Flora, although she could feel a dull heat beginning to rise in her stomach, a low tingling like the crackle in the air before a thunderstorm.

_**Prepare yourself.** _

In response Zathrian laid bare his own forearm and Alistair realised what the elf was about to do; he had seen the blood mage Jowan perform the same ritual at the Circle Tower. Even as he opened his mouth to release a shout of warning, Zathrian made a slit in the skin and the spell tore through the air with a bloodied whipcrack. The werewolves struggled in place, held in position with an arcane paralysis. Swiftrunner let out a desperate howl of rage, his yellowed fangs bared.

The elf swung his staff towards the wild growth clinging to the stone pillars. Branches twisted together to form elongated torsos, and several wild sylvans tore themselves free from the walls, lurching towards them drunkenly with limbs like clubs.

"Please," breathed Flora, appalled both at the sudden change in circumstance and at the fact that her staff was tucked safely thirty yards away in the alcove. "We can't discuss this calmly?"

In response, Zathrian threw forward his arms with a primitive cry in his native tongue. The sylvans began to advance on the Lady, and Flora made a nonverbal desperate vocalisation, flailing her arm.

Morrigan rolled her eyes but was able to decipher the incoherent request. Withdrawing her own staff from her back, she darted across the aisle to place herself between the Lady and the arboreal attackers. Fire sparked between her dark-painted fingers and she gave a little, savage grin.

Flora turned around to stare at Zathrian, seeing redness seeping from between his teeth and from the corners of his eyes; it reminded her of how Jowan had looked on that desperate afternoon in the Circle Tower.

"That's really unhealthy for you," she breathed, and the elf let out a humourless bark.

More blood began to run down his papery forearms, the smell of the arcane now an acrid burning. Three dark pools of energy manifested within the temple ruins; the shadows coalesced within them to form several hooded figures. They reached out elongated arms and Flora recognised them as demonic shades. Alistair, grimly thankful that he had donned his armour earlier, drew his sword and stepped towards them. Zevran went to cover his back, his own twin blades gleaming in the arcane-infused sunlight.

" _Spirit healer,"_ snarled Zathrian with contempt curling his lip. An appalled Flora turned to look at him, grey eyes wide.

"Shall we see who claims assistance from the stronger spirits? I have many years on you."

"Can I just get my staff..?" began Flora, then stepped back hastily as he began to brew a mass of latent energy between weathered palms. "Well, I suppose not, then."

The elf gave a wordless shriek, before flinging the ball of energy towards her. There was an electrical crackle and a trail of flame, as though the lightning was setting the damp air itself alight. Flora threw up her hands and the deadly projectile collided with a gleaming barrier. Discharge was flung in all directions; and Flora felt the buzz of static electricity ripple over her skin.

Alistair started towards his sister-warden, but Zevran made a frantic grab at his sleeve, gesturing up at the dais. Energy was humming in the air, the magical residue so thick that it was almost tangible; Zathrian was laughing wild and manically as he drew more primal magic from the Fade.

"Fool! Don't get in the way of two mages," he hissed, dark eyes gleaming. "It's suicide. She'll be fine. Use your Templar tricks on these demonic fiends."

Reluctantly Alistair turned away from the raised dais and went to cover Zevran's back as the shades closed in on them.

Morrigan was laughing too, brewing flame between her fingers as she darted out of the way of one sylvan's flailing grip. A root slithered across the tiled floor and attempted to insinuate itself around her ankle. Occupied with sending a shower of sparks over another arboreal attacker, she only realised that she was being entangled when the root had crept up around her knee. For a split second the witch's outline blurred and she became something dark and furred, lunging forward with gleaming golden eyes and a snapping jaw, severing the ensnaring root in half. Then she was a woman once more, issuing a gout of flame from the end of her blackwood staff. One sylvan crashed backwards onto the tiled floor in a heap of charred tinder, burnt stumps of limbs twitching spasmodically.

Zevran and Alistair worked surprisingly coherently together, having honed their combined skills at the Temple of Sacred Ashes as well as against the Darkspawn at Ostagar. The elven assassin showed the demonic creatures the deft swordsmanship he was renowned for as a Crow; the shades still sufficiently disorientated from being pulled through the Fade that their superior numbers gave them no advantage. Alistair's half-remembered Templar incantations were sufficient to slow them further, allowing Zevran to carve them up with gleaning blades.

Alistair himself preferred a more brutal approach, using his strength to ram Duncan's sword into congealed shadow and energy. Dark half-formed limbs were vulnerable to his anger-driven scything; particles of black matter falling to the aisles. The werewolves were howling, part in frustration at their inability to act but part in support of the young warrior.

Meanwhile up on the raised dais, Flora was experiencing the full wrath of a centuries-old blood mage fuelled by a potent combination of rage and grief. Zathrian, howling louder than any werewolf, had flung primal magic of all schools at her in an unending and brutal assault. She had thrown up her hands, manifesting her barrier in time to absorb each wave of energy; aware that a split-second distraction could see her blasted apart. The relentless, vicious nature of the attack was almost unstoppable; her palms were burning from constantly channelling her own defensive shield. Waves of flame rolled across the dais, split by bolts of arcing lightning, followed in short succession by pulses of shadow energy. Each blast was powered by Zathrian's own centuries-old blood, carving the air apart with dark and malevolent purpose, near-overwhelming.

Yet  _almost-unstoppable_   _and near-overwhelming_  was the worst that the blood mage's spells ever reached; Flora was astonished to realise that her barrier was able to deflect each one. The force of Zathrian's assault sometimes had her staggering back and once knocked onto the floor; yet his primal magic washed against her like angry waves crashing against an immutable cliff face. His rage broke apart on the gleaming shield of her resolve; the spells either scattering to the atmosphere or reflected back towards him. Her defensive magic had writ itself on her body, channels of gold following her veins as though the blood itself had been replaced with energy.

_Am I still in control?_ The thought flapped against her skull frantically like a trapped bird.  _Is this still me?_

_**Yes, on both counts.** _

The elf let out a wordless scream, lashing blood-soaked fingers to knock aside his own bolt of lightning as it arced back towards him. There was so much arcane residue in the air from their combined magic that it was manifesting physically as clouds of violet energy, the distinct rumble of the arcane growing louder as the already thin Veil was weakened further. Streaks of the visible Fade gleamed in the air above them as Zathrian drew relentlessly from it; reckless in his desire to see his enemy reduced to a charred smear on the dais.

A stray bolt of raw magic arced out and shattered a pillar. Another shot sideways passing through the final sylvan and shade, and incinerating them instantly. A column of energy blasted upwards, splintering itself against the dome overhead. There was a crack louder than any natural thunder, and a great fragment of the stone dome began to plummet towards the temple floor. From the main aisle Alistair let out a yell of warning, releasing his grip on the sword hilt in alarm.

Both Flora and Zathrian looked up but there was no time for logical thought; she flung her hand upwards and felt a wave of energy discharge itself painfully from her fingers. The gleaming shield manifested outwards, and collided with the section of jagged rock as it dropped towards them.

The ancient stone splintered into a thousand enamelled fragments, like a ceramic plate hitting a tiled floor. Then there came only silence as the arcane clouds around them began to dissipate, leaving raw mana burning in their wake. The tattered Veil began to seal itself once more, the flickering green of the Fade no longer casting its eerie light over the broken stone. When the magic had cleared from the cracked dais; the blood mage was on the floor, and the spirit healer was standing over him.

Zathrian, gasping as though he were a fish freshly plucked from the sea, lay sprawled on his back, surrounded by fragments of stone. He was pale, a dozen leaking wounds covering his arms and face. Flora exhaled unsteadily as the magic receded from her stinging hands, the golden light creeping back along her veins and withdrawing inside her like the retreating tide. Her clothing was dishevelled from the expenditure of energy, her hair loose and curling wildly from residual static.

"Are you ready to talk now?" she enquired, mildly, ignoring the pain in her burnt palms.

Zathrian stretched out bloodied fingers towards his staff, letting out an involuntary groan; Flora scowled. The golden second skin flared around her for a moment, illuminating her skin and igniting copper stands in her hair.

"Or we could do this again," she said, slightly annoyed. "I'm not at all tired. You  _want_ to go again?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So after falling on her rear and almost getting eaten by werewolves, falling on her rear and almost getting eaten by a dragon; Flora finally redeems herself from a combat point of view! Although she did fall on her rear at one point, lol. In all seriousness, this fight was an important milestone for her with regard to the strength of her barrier.


	119. Ending the Curse

Chapter 119: Ending the Curse

For a moment the atmosphere grew taut as Zathrian considered his options. Alistair, ignoring Zevran's hiss of warning, strode up onto the dais to stand beside his dishevelled sister-warden. The werewolves found themselves able to move once more, but a gentle gesture from their Lady kept them fixed on the spot, snarling softly.

"The spirits that aid you… are _generous_  with their power," breathed the elf, clambering to his feet with some difficulty, leaving his staff on the cracked dais. "I only wish that my daughter had had such a shield."

Flora stared at him; the wariness faded from her eyes and was replaced with raw compassion.

"I'm sorry about what happened to her," she said quietly, her voice tinged with sadness. "But has  _this_  made you feel any better?"

She swung her burnt palm out towards the werewolves. The Lady was approaching, trailing roots and vines in her wake, her expression gentle. Zathrian paused for a moment and gave no reply, but his answer writ clearly over his face.

"It's time to let go, old friend," murmured the Lady, her voice like the breeze rustling through autumnal leaves. "We can end this curse together, you and I. Only this will save your people."

Flora realised that Zathrian was no longer looking at her, his gaze focused on the Lady of the Forest as she stood there in raw, simple pleading. Both Wardens stepped backwards; Flora stumbling slightly, still disorientated from the excess magic discharge. Alistair reached out to grip her elbow, steadying her. The werewolves drew tentatively towards the steps leading up to the dais, brushing past Zevran and Morrigan as though they were not there.

The old elf shook his head, gritting his teeth.

"Spirit, you cannot possibly understand the suffering that I have endured," Zathrian said, the hurt throbbing raw in each syllable. "It has  _ruined_  me."

The Lady gave a sad smile, her rootlike fingers curling.

"Through this form I have experienced so much more of this world than I could ever have dreamed. Yet, both of us are an unnatural presence now. Everything must come to an end, Zathrian. Even your anger."

"I desire nothing more now than release from it," replied the elf, a hollow and humourless laugh ringing in his dry throat. "It has shackled me in darkness and chained my people in despair."

Zathrian turned to Flora and Alistair, curling his fingers downwards. There was a strange lightness to his face as he spoke, his voice little more than a whisper.

"Lanaya will become our tribe's Elder and my people will aid you against the Darkspawn. I wish you luck, Grey Wardens."

Alistair, not understanding, glanced sideways at Flora. By virtue of her four years in the Circle, Flora understood a little more of blood magic and had some idea about what was coming. Swallowing a hard lump that had risen in the back of her throat, she raised her chin and forced herself to watch what was about to transpire.

Zathrian reached for his discarded staff; lifting it high and bringing it down on the cracked stone with a crash. There was a flicker of white light, bright enough to leave dazzling spots in the eyes of those watching. When their vision cleared, the elf was sprawled on his back on the dais. His eyes were half-open, the staff fallen from his limp fingers. It was quite clear that he was dead, and Alistair inhaled in shock. He looked sideways at Flora, whose features were solemn, still and devoid of surprise.

The Lady of the Forest exhaled, her dark eyes closing. She stretched out her bark-covered arms and the werewolves drew closer, ascending the steps to the dais. Swiftrunner was first among them, his feral eyes gentle. The Wardens and their companions stepped back, unconsciously drawing closer together.

Fragments of bark began to peel themselves from the Lady's body; veins of golden light fragmenting beneath the greyish green skin. The spirit exhaled, tilting it's head back to stare at the broken dome. A weak spring sun gazed down through the jagged opening, and the Lady seemed to merge with the filtered rays of light. A smile curled over her face and she breathed out for a final time, before her body fragmented into a thousand amber particles. The remains of the forest spirit drifted upwards towards the cracked ceiling, the sparks flickering out of existence one by one. As the spirit departed the waking world and made its return to the Fade; Zathrian's corpse crumbled away into bone and ash.

One by one, the werewolves' bodies were encased in sheaths of gleaming white light. Their bestial silhouettes were visible for a faint moment, then shifted into something more recognisable. Slowly, human figures emerged crouched on the broken stone; men and women alike clad in archaic clothing. They clambered to their feet, faces contorted with shock and joyous disbelief, turning to one another and exclaiming.

One man with a grey-streaked beard approached the Wardens with gratitude effused over his features.

"Wardens, how can we ever repay you?" he said, throat hoarse from lack of use. "You have returned our humanity to us. We had long given up hope of ever going home."

"Where will you go?" asked Morrigan in curious fascination, running her eyes over them as they took their first tentative steps for many years as humans. The man who had once been Swiftrunner grunted, dark eyes gleaming as he shrugged.

"Anywhere but this blasted Forest," he murmured, a humourless laugh escaping his throat. "Now that the Lady has gone, there is nothing for us here. We need to go and find some semblance of a life."

He made a clumsy bow in their direction, the gesture long unused.

"Thank you for your assistance, friends. I apologise for trying to eat you."

This was directed towards Flora, who shook her head.

"It's alright," she whispered, her face still stiff with solemnity. "I've been told that I'm quite tasty."

At some point Alistair had reached out to grasp Flora's burnt hand; now realising that this must be causing her pain, he released it hastily. A grizzled older man stepped forward, with a slight bow.

"If you plan on returning to the Dalish, there is a shorter route you can take that will get you there by tomorrow evening. I can mark it on a map."

Zevran went to retrieve their much crumpled map from the pack, along with the inkpen. The human, whom they realised must have been the Gatekeeper, clumsily marked out a route which began in a tunnel leading west from the ruins and emerged in an elevated cave above the river.

The humans began to drift out in small groups, still gazing in shock and delight at their pink, tan and brown fleshy fingers; running palms over their cheeks to confirm that there was skin there rather than bristling fur.

"They barely showed remorse at their Lady's passing," pointed out Zevran, a wry little smile curving the corner of his mouth. "How's that for gratitude?"

"She did it to save them," retorted Alistair, his eyes dark with compassion. "It was a worthy sacrifice."

"Spirits don't really die, anyway," Flora mumbled, staring around the remains of the werewolves' camp. "They just return to the Fade."

Her eyes alighted on a discarded leather satchel, half buried under a fragment of stone ceiling. It must have once contained some semblance of herbal remedy, shreds of dried plants fell out when she shook it upside-down. Brushing it out the best she could with her sore fingers, she crouched down before the crumbled mortal remains of Zathrian and began to scoop the ash and fragmented bone inside the small leather pack. It was a difficult job; her palms were sore and stiff, and the man's remains disintegrated further beneath her touch.

"What are you doing?" asked Morrigan in mild alarm, her lip curling with disgust. "You'd better wash your hands before you prepare dinner."

"Taking him back to the tribe," replied Flora through gritted teeth, scooping the remnants of Zathrian into the satchel. "It seems wrong to just leave him here. I don't know what their customs are for the dead."

"They return them to the earth, and plant a tree at the site of burial," murmured Zevran, a tinge of melancholy edging his voice. "It's the Dalish custom."

Seeing that she was struggling, he knelt down beside Flora, his deft fingers fastening the straps of the satchel closed.

Despite the additional sunlight streaming through the broken dome, the interior of the temple seemed overcast and gloomy. The Lady's tree had withered away to little more than a forlorn root, curled on one side of the cracked dais.

Morrigan had gone on the prowl – as usual, she had not bothered to explain her motivation, but they assumed that it was to search for any valuable elven 'souvenirs'. Zevran had just located the entrance to the underground passageway, which was hidden in an alcove similar to the one that they had slept in. The elf was oddly quiet, sitting on the edge of the dais with a thoughtful expression.

Flora was sitting beside him, gazing mournfully down at her injured palms. The skin was bright pink and raw in appearance as though she had kept her hands pressed against the side of a cooking pot; the result of the transmission of great quantities of energy. Alistair, cursing the fact that they relied so heavily on Flora's abilities that they had brought no healing salves or poultices, daubed the burns with a water-dampened cloth.

"We didn't even bring any bandages," he hissed, infuriated with himself. "I always used to carry them. Sorry, Flo."

Instead, he had to make do with the squares of bright plaidweave that the Dalish had wrapped their food supplies in. Zevran cut the material into strips, then Alistair carefully bound them around his sister-warden's burnt palms. Flora waved her hands around, the garish yellow and black chequered material incongruous against the gloomy temple backdrop.

"Leliana hates this fabric," she said, trying to inject a note of cheeriness into their despondency. "I think it's pretty."

Alistair reached out and gripped her wrist gently, bringing her hand within range of his face. Her raw pink fingers curled over his; he brushed his thumb gently over the backs of her knuckles before pressing his mouth against each burnt fingertip in turn.

"Flora Cove," he murmured suddenly, then grinned at her. "That's a coincidence:  _Cove_  and  _Cousland_. Is that your family name, Cove?"

Flora shook her head, looking down at her lap to hide the flush creeping down her neck.

"No-o, there was another  _Flora_  who lived in the inland part of Herring. So I was Flora from the cove, and she was Flora from the fields. My parents don't have two names."

"Do you… think he would like me? Your father?" Alistair asked, a deceptive lightness in his tone. "I'm not very good at fishing."

Although the question was framed casually, there was deep-rooted apprehension lodged within his hazel gaze. For a brief moment he was no prince, nor she a teyrn's disgraced daughter, and neither of them were Wardens. Instead, he was a young man tentatively seeking assurance that he would be approved of by his sweetheart's family.

Flora smiled at him, patting the back of his hand with her sore fingers.

"Well, nobody's perfect," she whispered, expecting him to laugh and utter some witty rejoinder. Instead he held her gaze with his own intent hazel stare, his eyes searching her face.

"Flora,  _would_  he?"

She put her hand up to his face, touching the growth of stubble along his Theirin jawline, then gave a sad little smile.

"I don't think he'd be happy that I'm… engaging in  _out-of-hours prayertime_ with anyone," she said honestly, recalling her Chantry-fearing parents. "But, you're so nice. I don't see why he wouldn't like you."

Flora looked up at her handsome, kind-hearted brother-warden and couldn't stop the flush on her cheeks from deepening. Alistair leaned forward and pressed his lips gently against the corner of her mouth, exhaling unsteadily against her skin.

As he slid his arm around her shoulders to embrace her, Flora thought about her other 'father', whose face she only held as a blurred memory from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The  _Teyrn of Highever_ , a name which held little meaning to her; representative of a heritage that she could not comprehend and did not want.

" _Ahem."_  Morrigan's acidic voice cut scathingly through the damp air. The witch was glowering at them both, tapping the end of her blackwood staff impatiently on the cracked dais. "When you two are finished, we are ready to leave."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Flora has pretty bad taste in clothing if she thinks that PLAIDWEAVE is a good look, lol! Also, I've always been really interested in onomastics (the study of names). It's fascinating how many common British surnames are derived from some long-lost ancestor's profession (Tailor; smith; cook; baker; cartwright just to name a few!) So Flora's last name of "Cove" isn't really her last name at all – there were two Floras in Herring, so she was 'Flora from the Cove', and somehow in her transfer to the Circle Tower, that got noted down as her surname! She's not exactly eager to adopt the Cousland name, though…


	120. Weep-Eyed Cave

Chapter 120: Weep-Eyed Cave

A sauntering Zevran led the way to the alcove that housed the hidden passageway. The entrance was disguised by vines, but the wooden door beyond gave way easily; indicating that this had been an access route frequently used by the werewolves. There were no elven lanterns in the damp tunnel, which ran between densely packed earthen walls. Morrigan lit two brands alight with her own primal flame, keeping one for herself and handing the other wordlessly to Alistair.

The Warden led the way, pack slung over one shoulder as he held the torch aloft. His boots left clear imprints in the waterlogged earth, the others following in the wake of his long, assured stride. At times the tunnel was narrow enough that Alistair had to turn sideways to fit through. This reminded him oddly of the passage beneath Redcliffe Castle, in which he had jokingly threatened to abandon a wedged Sten.

The air grew stale and damp as the passage meandered beneath the ruined temple; they had to take deeper breaths to gain sufficient air. They encountered no other living creatures save for small spiders and the occasional rat, all of whom fled at their approach.

Zevran hummed a repetitive Antivan tune as they followed the tunnel's writhing turns. In any other circumstance he would have been berated into silence, yet the simple melody was a welcome distraction from the oppressive weight of the crumbling stone above their heads.

When the elf fell quiet, Flora determinedly broke the silence. She regaled her companions with several increasingly morbid Herring folk songs; about sailors falling victim to sirens, storms and shipwrecks in turn. Her hoarse, off-key singing voice added a supplementary layer of melancholy to the already tragic lyrics.

"Does  _everyone_ in these songs end up drowned?" demanded Morrigan, after a seventh unfortunate soul was washed up on an unfamiliar beach and left for the gulls to peck.

Flora thought for a moment, brow furrowing as the satchel containing Zathrian's remains knocked gently against her hip.

"Not all of them," she said eventually, her expression earnest. "Sometimes they get eaten by whales. Or kidnapped and made into Qunari slaves."

Zevran snorted, ducking his head to avoiding several trailing roots.

"My lily, if this is representative of your typical entertainment, I imagine that evenings in the village of Herring are rather depressing affairs."

Flora gave a wistful sigh, fiddling with the satchel's leather strap until her burnt fingers protested. Although she was tone deaf when it came to music, the half-remembered songs distracted her from the increasing soreness of her palms.

"They were good evenings," she protested as Alistair flashed her a grin over his shoulder. "The songs would sound nicer if someone like Leliana was singing them."

After several hours the tunnel began to slope upwards, gently yet inexorably. The earthen walls began to change texture, becoming drier and less clay-like; punctured more easily by roots and trailing undergrowth. They also saw other fleeting signs of life: the remains of a fox warren, several frightened mice, a hare scampering away with white tail flashing. The latter fell dead with one of Zevran's throwing blades lodged in the back of its neck, and the elf let out a cackle of triumph. He sauntered forward, slinging the small corpse over his shoulder.

"There's dinner sorted," he announced, flashing Morrigan a wink. "You're welcome, my night-blooming flower.  _Thank me later_."

Eventually the crumbled earthen walls yielded to uneven grey rock. Small rivulets of water created grooves in the stone, and they could hear a dull roar overhead; the noise echoing around the curvature of the tunnel. It was Alistair who first realised that they were beneath the river; map in hand, he led the way up a steeply hewn ramp and into the back of a sprawling cave. The sound of the water was louder now, it's source evidently nearby.

As they advanced to the front of the small cavern, it became obvious to Alistair whereabouts they were. The cave was wedged into the side of a rocky outcrop; hidden behind a waterfall that plunged a dozen feet to the river below and gave the landmark its distinctive name:  _Weep-Eyed Hollow_.

While Zevran went to search for firewood and Morrigan began to set up her own little corner, the two Wardens pored over the map. The weeping-eyed cave was clearly marked on the river; to their mutual delight, the temple passage had indeed eliminated a day from their journey. It cut diagonally across the forest, unimpeded by landscape or natural impediment, and Alistair estimated that they should now arrive at the Dalish camp by the next evening.

After Zevran had managed to scavenge enough kindling to build a fire, Morrigan ignited it with the head of her staff. The elf, whose blades were the sharpest, began to skin and joint the rabbit while Alistair arranged the bedrolls.

Flora sat glumly beside the fire, her excitement at being within a day of the Dalish camp tempered by the throb from her overworked knee and from her hands. Her burnt palms had stiffened to the point where she could barely move her fingers; which meant that she could not massage the soreness from the throbbing joint. Edging the garish plaidweave bandages to one side she could see the raw scarlet skin of her palm, the flesh taut and shiny. Aching and in pain, Flora suddenly felt rather sorry for herself, more  _ninety_  than nineteen.

It was Morrigan who first noticed her sitting disconsolately next to the fire, with gloom writ plain on her features. Deliberately, the witch sauntered over and squatted beside her miserable counterpart.

"'Tis awful inconvenient that you cannot heal the damage done by your own excessive creation magic," Morrigan murmured, as Flora startled. "Poor design."

"I know, I can't help it," replied Flora despondently over the sound of the waterfall, her fingers curled limply over her aching knee. "I don't understand how my magic works. No-one taught me."

Morrigan gazed at her a moment longer, amber eyes gleaming like lamps in the half-light of the cave. The witch gave a little derisive snort, rising elegantly to her feet; in a continued flow of movement she spun around and transformed herself into a small, black bird. A moment later, it had darted out of the cave opening, deftly avoiding the plunging water.

Flora peered after the departing witch, gazing between the narrow torrents of water to the sunset-streaked sky. The cave was not set particularly high within the cliff, the opening was almost parallel with the forest canopy. The strange yellowish light of the forest had darkened to rich amber and from above, it looked oddly peaceful. Tangled branches draped with trailing mosses, stretched out to their neighbours in a peculiar half-embrace, half-tussle. From the cave's elevated position Flora could see the northern edge of the forest and fields the colour of a bruise in the distance. This was oddly comforting to her; they had been within the Brecilian Forest for almost a week now, and she was eager to leave.

"How are your hands?"

The question came from Zevran, who had just finished arranging chunks of raw meat on the rack above the fire. Flora grimaced, plucking unhappily at the corners of the makeshift plaidweave bandages.

"They hurt," she replied, peeling back the fabric to eye her palm once again. The skin appeared almost as though it had come out in a rash, mottled and pink.

Alistair, who had just finished removing his armour, came to sit beside the fire and overhead her response. A shadow of concern darkened his features, and he reached out to rub his thumb against her shoulder.

Zevran turned over the chunks of roasting meat with the tip of his long knife, a humourless smile curling the edge of his mouth.

"I don't mean to be insulting to my Dalish kin, but I'm rather sick of the sight of trees," he murmured, then swore under his breath as a fragment of flesh fell into the fire. "I'd quite happily never see a tree again, actually."

"I miss seeing buildings," replied Alistair, wistfully. "Proper ones, not these ancient ruins. Temples are far too likely to contain dragons, or demons- "

"Or giant spiders," interrupted Flora, inhaling the scent of roasted hare. "Or werewolves. Though they turned out alright in the end."

"They tried to  _eat_ you," interjected an indignant Alistair. "Remember?"

"To be fair to them," countered Zevran, removing a chunk of well-done meat with the point of his blade. "Who wouldn't want to eat our lovely Florence? I imagine she tastes  _delicious_."

Flora narrowed her eyes as the elf shot her a leer; Alistair sported a similarly dubious expression. Both Wardens had the sense that the Antivan had made an inappropriate comment, but neither could frame their suspicions coherently enough to query him. Zevran gave a low chuckle, passing the impaled meat and blade over to her.

"Enjoy, my tender little morsel."

The sun eased below the tangled forest canopy, the mellow orange sky diffusing into star-pricked navy. Zevran had sharpened each of his blades in turn, including the ones secreted about his person, then charitably offered to hone the edge of Duncan's sword. A grateful Alistair agreed, watching the elf slide the whetstone skilfully up and down the keen blade.

"Do you think the Crows will come after you?" he asked after several moments, rubbing his fingers idly around the back of Flora's neck. She was dozing, curled on her side with her head on his knee, throbbing hands stretched out before her like an offering.

Zevran sighed and glanced out at the moonlit treetops, the moon hanging low like a vast lantern too heavy for its fixture.

"Perhaps."

The elf gave a mild shrug, his attention refocusing on the blade before him. "I find myself surprised that they have not made an effort already. It has been months now; I have clearly failed my directive to kill you both."

Alistair frowned, hazel eyes the colour of bruised apples settling on the Antivan elf. Zevran's face appeared wholly composed, his mouth a stone-carved line set within bronzed, angular features. Every motion of his hand was careful and calculated.

"So do you think they'll send assassins after you, too?"

"Indeed, I expect it. Once we get to Denerim, it is a near certainty," replied the elf. His hand slipped, the whetstone glancing off the edge of the blade and opening up a neat strip of flesh on his finger. "Ah,  _scelera."_

"Well, we'll all be together in the city," replied Alistair after a moment, as Flora opened a sleepy eye. "We'll watch each other's backs."

Zevran half-smiled, inclining his head as he inspected his injury.

"It won't just be our backs," he murmured ruefully, watching a bead of bright scarlet roll down the slender forefinger. "It could be a quick shiv in the belly from the merchant who just took your coin; or poison in the drink you ordered from someone you believed to be an innkeeper. The Crows have a hundred ways of beguiling someone towards death."

Flora sat up and reached out to take Zevran's hand, ignoring the accompanying sting of pain in her palm. Guileless, she took his finger into her mouth, feeling the golden energy congealing beneath her tongue.

"It'll be alright," she mumbled, her speech hampered. "We'll be careful. I can shield us."

Zevran withdrew his finger, with features like carved granite. He glanced at her, somewhat discomfited. Alistair, who had long grown accustomed to Flora's distinctly primal style of healing, had barely noticed; too busy pulling a stray thread from the sleeve of his linen shirt.

"Thank you," Zevan replied, a lecherous remark lingering on the tip of his tongue, but not quite leaving it. "I appreciate your assistance.  _Mi sirenita._ "

The elf patted Flora's cheek as she settled back against Alistair's knee. Alistair himself gazed down at her, reaching out to adjust the silver Chantry amulet resting on her collarbone. His eyes were soft and his touch affectionate, calloused fingers brushing against the hollow of her throat.

They retired to the bedrolls with Morrigan still conspicuous in her absence. No-one mentioned setting a watch; since there was only one entrance to the cave, Zevran had set up several tripwires. All three of them were exhausted from the day's battle and ensuing trek through the tunnel, and both men had fallen asleep within minutes of reclining on the bedroll.

Flora, hands aching, lay fretfully within the circle of Alistair's arms. Unable to fish-rope her due to her sore fingers, he had drawn her as close to his body as humanly possible. Her brother-warden's light snores sounded in her left ear, the firm muscle of his chest pressed against her own back; usually in such circumstances she was able to slide gently into sleep.

Now, she had lain awake for several hours, growing increasingly sulky. She did not even dare to move after her earlier fidgeting had caused a dozing Alistair to harden against her, unconscious fingers sliding beneath her collar.

"Warden!" An impatient voice hissed through the darkness, and Flora opened her eyes to see Morrigan crouched before her. The witch swept her eyes derisively over the bedrolls, lip curling as her gaze settled on the snoring Alistair's errant hand.

"Are you being manhandled?!How  _brotherly_."

"What? No. He's asleep," mumbled Flora, sleepily extracting Alistair's hand from within her shirt. "Where did you go?"

Morrigan ignored her question, instead canting her pointed chin and stalking back towards the fire. Flora untangled herself with a yawn and shuffled in the witch's wake. The dark-haired woman knelt before the flames, her elegant profile etched in scarlet, and rummaged in a small leather pouch. Resting beside the charred base of the campfire was a small stone mortar and pestle. A sleepy Flora came to sit beside her, crossing her legs and yawning.

"Take those  _things_  off," Morrigan instructed, casting a contemptuous look at the plaidweave strips. Flora obediently unwrapped them, wincing slightly as she peeled the fabric away from the reddened surface of her palms. The witch took out several white berries from the leather pouch and popped them into her mouth, chewing them between her teeth as she ground several dark roots against the mortar.

Flora watched Morrigan spit the pulpy mass of berries into the bowl, combining it with the crushed roots. Several pale leaves followed, mixed into the other reagents with the pestle until a granular paste had been formed.

"Neither Flemeth nor myself had a gift for healing," murmured the witch, scooping out some of the tincture with a wooden spatula. "Hold out your hands. We had to create our own ointments and remedies. "

Flora obediently held out her hands with palms raised, allowing Morrigan to apply the paste. The ointment itself was cool and immediately took the edge from the sharp stinging. She exhaled unsteadily as the dark-haired woman continued to smooth on the mixture, meticulously covering each burnt palm.

"The wrappings need to stay in place, and you must keep your hands off things," instructed Morrigan, finally binding the plaidweave back over Flora's ointment-daubed hands. "That includes the fool _._ I did not spend hours seeking out  _sinbelas_  root for you to go smearing it over each other in carnal relation."

Flora, momentarily lost for words, bent double and bowed her head into her lap.

"Thanks," she whispered to her knees, curling fingers blessedly numb. "It feels a lot better."

Morrigan rolled her eyes, pointedly averting her gaze to the forest canopy as if to indicate that the exchange was over. Flora retreated across the stone to the bedrolls, settling back down against the solid form of her brother-warden. With the stinging pain in her palms dulled by the ointment, it did not take her long to doze off; barely registering Alistair's arm encircling her chest once again.

The witch replaced the pestle and mortar in her pack, tidying up the remnants of the reagents before picking her way across the cave floor. More desirous of privacy, she had set up her own sleeping area in the rear of the cave.

As Morrigan padded silent and catlike across the stone, she felt a hand lightly reach out to touch her bare ankle. She looked down to see Alistair staring up at her from the bedroll, withdrawing calloused fingers. He wore an expression of reluctant gratitude on his finely-hewn features, hazel eyes warily appreciative.

"Thank you," the Warden murmured, glancing down at his sleeping sister. "I appreciate it."

"Contrary to what you might believe, Alistair," retorted Morrigan beneath her breath. "'Tis no wish of mine to see her suffer unduly. I am not  _wholly_  evil."

Alistair grimaced, feeling a dozing Flora shift against him. He tightened the arm around her chest, irrationally protective of the girl who had the best defences out of them all.

"I- I know that," he replied, hesitantly. "Thank you, Morrigan."

She raised her eyebrow at him, before giving a little sniff and continuing on her way towards the rear of the cave. Alistair let out a sigh, then pressed his lips fiercely against his drowsy sister-warden's head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Flora's being a whiny little madam in this, she's actually a little bitch when it comes to pain. Can't cope, won't cope! (90s British cooking show reference which no one will get, lol). I like how Morrigan and Flora's relationship has evolved by this point – Morrigan is still a condescending mare, but she's a condescending mare who spends several hours looking for reagents to create a soothing ointment, lol. I just got to the point in game in camp where Leliana just gets up and starts wandering around, singing in people's faces. Even worse, she was in her skivvies since I'd stolen her outfit to give to Zevran. Awkwaaaaaaaaard


	121. Return to the Dalish Camp

Chapter 121: Return to the Dalish Camp

The next day dawned bright and humid; the air already thick with a sticky, damp heat. Even the forest itself seemed alive to the possibility of spring, the birds chattered to one another from mossy branches as their grounded counterparts ventured through the tangled undergrowth. The streams of water passing over the opening of Weep-Eyed Cave gleamed with a million fragments of reflected light, casting dancing patterns over the stone interior.

Flora woke first with her stomach curdling, a sudden twist of nausea in her gut that had her rolling over onto her hands and knees. For a brief, dizzying moment the cave walls lurched around her, then her vision cleared and the urge to retch slowly drained away. The whole episode had lasted less than twenty seconds; for several moments she hunched over on her knees and inhaled unsteadily.

_What toxin did I breathe in that my body is finding so hard to overcome?_ she thought to herself grimly, casting her mind back over the previous few days.  _The hermit's poisoned dagger, the spider venom from Morrigan. Maybe it's the Blight I've taken from Alistair over the months, finally catching up with me._

_Or it could be the excessive arcane discharge from the fight with Zathrian. That's the most likely possibility. There was a lot of magic flung around._

They broke their fast quickly while packing up the camp. Alistair had estimated from the map that they would reach the Dalish by late afternoon, and they were all eager to get underway. The first dilemma was how to get down from the overhanging cave to the forest floor; ideally without plunging into the murky depths of the river. Morrigan fluttered down to the grass, transforming back into a woman with a rustle of dark feathers. Zevran, agile as a cat, managed to clamber down the rocks without a single drop of water landing on his leathers.

Flora was impeded by her stiff hands; they were still numb enough to allow her to climb, but it was a painful process. Awkwardly, she half-fell and half-slid down to the riverbank, managing to get soaked by the water spray in the process. Alistair, who was built for brawn and not for speed, had an even more arduous experience. This was not helped by both Zevran and Morrigan laughing maliciously from the riverbank.

Once all had descended relatively safely from Weep-Eyed Cave, they set off west towards the Dalish camp. Their route was mostly free from undergrowth, there were only a few instances where Zevran and Alistair had to hack through tangled brambles to clear a path. Morrigan had suggested that she simply incinerate the bushes with a blast of flame; the impatient Zevran looked eager, but a cautious Alistair warned her against it.

"You don't want to start any fires," he said, slightly red-faced after hacking through a nest of branches the width of his wrist. Zevran let out a little growl, inspecting the rash that a cluster of spiked leaves had left on his forearm.

"I wouldn't mind setting this entire damned Forest alight," he hissed, rubbing frantically at the purplish blotches that stood out stark against his tan skin.

"Not while we're still  _in_  it, though," replied Flora, wrestling a flowering vine from her hair and sneezing as she inhaled its pollen. "Ooh, I'd kill for some smoked salmon, or some cockles."

"Some  _what?_ " Zevran pounced eagerly, distracted from the itching rash.

Flora blinked at him as they began to ascend a small hill, following the line of a crumbling ridge. The trees here leaned in one direction, blown westwards over generations by a relentless current of air from the distant coast.

"Some cockles. Shells with meat inside."

"Oh," replied the elf with exaggerated disappointment. "You mean scallops."

"No, I mean  _cockles,"_ retorted Flora, scowling at the elf over her shoulder as they picked their way over the uneven terrain.

"Same thing," said the elf blithely, vaulting a rotted trunk that lay prostrate across their path. "They're all just types of clam."

The fisherman's daughter inhaled unsteadily, her hackles rising.

"No, they're  _not_  the same thing! And they aren't clams, either!" she bleated, scrambling far less elegantly over the wooden obstacle.

The argument over scallops, clams and cockles lasted through lunchtime. Zevran, who had decided that baiting Flora was sufficient distraction from the tedium of their journey, continued to goad her with feigned mollusc-related ignorance. Flora, aware that he was deliberately needling her, still could not resist rising to the bait.

"Come now, my lily, you  _surely_ aren't suggesting that a mussel is the same thing as a clam," the elf declared as they sat down to eat the last of their squashed rations. Alistair and Morrigan, for once, wore a similar look of mutual chagrin.

"They aren't! And neither is an oyster," retorted Flora, thoroughly flushed in the face and almost too distracted to eat her salted meat.

Zevran's eyes lit up, and his voice dropped several tones into a suggestive purr.

" _Speaking_ of oysters, my Rialto lily," he began, slithering over the grass towards her. "Did you know that they possess  _aphrodisiac_ properties?"

Alistair groaned, putting a hand on his sister-warden's bound knee. Flora looked mildly confused, her head turning between Alistair and the elf. The grin on Zevran's face became slightly rictus as she stared back at him, uncomprehending.

"You don't even know what an  _aphrodisiac_ is, do you?" the elf said after a moment, his leer dissolving into a wry smile.

"Is it even a real word?" Flora breathed, fascinated. Zevran laughed, bowing his head towards her.

"Yes, it's a real word,  _carina_. But, it matters not; from what I have seen, you and Alistair require no assistance in that area."

Flora shot the elf a slightly perplexed look, while Morrigan let out a small contempt-filled snort.

Fortunately, the vocabulary lesson seemed to have distracted Flora from continuing the seafood debate during the afternoon's journey. The path grew steeper as it snaked back down into the sea of trees; tufts of grass and tangled vines clawing maliciously at ankles. Even the feline Zevran, who boasted that he could dance blindfolded and hand-bound on a railing, lost his balance on several occasions.

All four of them were relieved when they returned to familiar terrain within the bowels of the woods. The trees grew densely enough that their interwoven branches cast the forest floor in a perennial twilight. The shadows pooled between the protruding roots, scant seasonal warmth was able to penetrate the thick canopy above.

For hours, they heard no other living creature save for their own footsteps and laboured breathing. The cheerful birdsong from the morning existed only as a memory; the silence hung hollow-edged and heavy. Even Alistair, usually a reliable source of light-hearted conversation, had fallen quiet. He was preoccupied with looking over his shoulder at his sister-warden, who was dutifully bringing up the rear of the party.

Flora's knee was throbbing and her burnt palms stung; the pain combined with the general soreness of travelling to create a dull and constant bodily ache. Gritting her teeth she pressed forward in Morrigan's wake, focusing on each individual step.

Zevran came to a pause before a clump of trees, untangling a vine from his hair with an irritated scowl.

"Alistair, are you sure that we are going in the right direction? I feel like we are going in circles," the elf complained, smoothing the rumpled white-blond strands back down with the palm of his hand. "And this rash on my arm is getting worse."

Alistair obligingly came to a halt, rummaging in the pack to retrieve the battered Dalish map. Flora went forward to inspect the elf's forearm, bowing her head and inhaling in preparation to breathe out the healing mist.

As Alistair pulled the folded parchment out, there was a rustling in the undergrowth. It seemed to come from all directions at once; an ominous shifting of leaves and crackling of twigs.

Suddenly, without warning, a shape burst forth from the undergrowth, rising up on two limbs and giving a throaty roar. It was a bear, unnaturally large and covered in matted tawny fur. It gave no pause before lunging at Zevran, wielding yellowed claws capable of disembowelling a man in a single powerful swipe. Gagging on the congealing energy in her throat, Flora thrust up her arm in front of Zevran, the golden barrier unfolding from her hands like a second skin.

As the bear launched itself against the ethereal shield, she let out a yelp of pain; injured palms burning as they channelled the stream of energy. From several yards back, Alistair's jaw dropped. Slightly dazed, he lifted Duncan's sword, manfully striding towards the bear and giving a tentative yell.

The next moment he was knocked to one side by something charging past him. A second bear, fur dark as a moonless night, barrelled into the first and sent it crashing through the tangled undergrowth. Flora let the barrier drop, palms stinging as though bathed in acid, her mouth hanging open in confusion.

Alistair arrived at their side, sword raised but uncertain what to do; the three of them clustered together and watched the second bear attack the first. It was the sharp-eyed Zevran who recognised the ink-blade shade of fur, the string of beads woven behind one tattered ear, and most convincingly of all – the gleaming amber eyes, narrowed with focused rage.

"I think that's our witch," murmured the elf as the three of them shuffled hastily out of the fighting creatures' path. The two bears were wrestling, jaws held open in fixed snarls, each trying to get teeth clamped into the flesh of the other. Claws tore through the air, sending lumps of fur flying, raw power emanating from both beasts in visceral waves.

Flora elbowed Alistair, eyes wide.

"We should help Morrigan," she whispered, although she was not entirely sure how to do so. It was impossible for her to use her shield on the transformed witch while she was locked in such close quarters with the enraged bear.

Alistair looked equally bemused, still clutching his own sword and shield.

"How?" he hissed back, pulling her out of harm's way as the two bears crashed into a tree with enough force to splinter it. "What should I do? What  _can_ I do?"

Even Zevran seemed slightly uncertain as to how to proceed, aware that even his sharpest blades would have difficulty penetrating the layers of leather and meat to reach vital organs. Flora gave a little helpless shrug, her eyes wide.

"I don't know," she breathed. Alistair looked at her, dropped his gaze to her hands, and remembered Morrigan's soothing ointment. Taking a deep breath, he raised his sword and charged gamely forward with a yell.

At that moment the tawny bear lashed out with yellowed claws, tearing several slashes into the dark bear's shoulder deep enough to expose raw pink flesh. The bear-Morrigan recoiled back with a growl of pain, rearing up on two legs. The expansion of space between the two creatures gave Flora the opportunity to manifest the golden shield between them, protecting the darker bear from the tawny beast's triumphant killing lunge. Her palms burnt as though she had thrust them into the heart of a campfire as the energy channelled through them once again.

Alistair took advantage of the wild creature's distraction as it heaved itself against the intangible barrier. He raised his sword and hurled himself forward, using his own weight to thrust the blade home into the creature's flank. The bear let out a primal howl of pain, lurching backwards. The bear-Morrigan pressed its advantage, lunging after it and clamping a vice-like jaw around its throat. The struggle was brutal but short – after less than a minute, the tawny creature fell quivering to the earth, spilling blood congealing in its matted fur. Alistair, who had hastily let go of Duncan's sword when the hairy flank recoiled away, went to retrieve his impaled blade.

The dark bear sat back on it's haunches, outline blurring and shifting. There was a brief pulse of energy, and Morrigan was left crouched on the damp leaves. The witch was pale beneath her tan skin, three raw claw marks on her shoulder opened deep enough to see muscle and tendon. The wound had bled sufficient that her entire back was awash with scarlet.

Flora had started towards her even before she had fully changed back into a woman, reaching for the water pouch on her belt. Kneeling down, she put a hand on Morrigan's shoulder and gave her a gentle nudge; prompting the witch to lean forward.

"That was  _amazing_ ," she chattered, fumbling with the cap on the water pouch. "I didn't know you could turn into a bear. I wish _I_  could turn into a bear."

She tipped the water over Morrigan's back, washing the blood away from the three claw marks. Each one was nearly twenty centimetres long, the exposed flesh raw and pink. Morrigan's face was tight and trembling in her effort not to betray any pain.

Alistair, wiping his stained sword on the grass beside the dead creature, eyed Zevran in confusion. The elf was crouched next to the bear, prying out its claws with his own smaller, sharper blade.

"Powdered bear claw is worth a small fortune in the Circle," retorted the Antivan defiantly, storing the bloody claws in a small pouch. "Just turning a little profit."

"I'd like to turn into a fish," mumbled Flora, speech impeded as the healing magic rose in her throat. "Just for a day."

"Focus, girl," hissed back Morrigan, beads of sweat forming on her forehead. "You will not botch this as you did your knee."

Flora snorted, lowering her mouth to the witch's shoulder and  _exhaling._ The golden mist flowed over her tongue, dropping in almost viscous globules over the raw claw-marks. Ignoring the pain in her own stiff fingers Flora began to coax the energy within the wound; knitting together the torn muscle and sinew.

It did not take her long to repair and anaesthetise the wound, her tongue tingling and the edges of her mouth sore from the expenditure of energy. The witch craned her neck to peer over her shoulder as best she could; on seeing no discernible scar, she nodded in reluctant approval. When she tried to stand, however, her legs were shaky and gave way beneath her.

"Alistair, could you help her?" asked Flora, who was having her burnt palms bound back up in the plaidweave strips by Zevran.

Alistair grimaced for a moment, scratching the back of his tousled golden head as the pallid Morrigan shot him a dark scowl.

However, chivalry won out over wariness, and when they set off once more down the forest path the Warden was carrying the witch on his back. Neither looked particularly happy about the situation. Alistair gritted his teeth as he tried to ignore the woman's heavy breasts pressed against his back, while she made frequent disparaging comments about lumbering pack mules.

They continued on westwards for several hours, Flora now taking the lead in case of more ursine ambushers. All of them had been sobered at how dangerous the single foe at been – they, who had faced demons, Darkspawn and dragons, nearly felled by a lone beast from nature itself. Flora had proposed that they gather an army of bears and set them loose on the Archdemon's horde.

Enchanted by her own suggestion, she spent a prolonged period of time envisioning a troop of bears arriving triumphantly on the field and slaughtering everything in sight. This helped to distract Flora somewhat from the throb in her knee and the sting in her hands. So absorbed was she in this glorious vision that she didn't hear Zevran calling her name. Finally the elf swooped his lips towards the side of her face, landing a peck against her cheekbone.

Flora startled and looked at him; Zevran raised his arm and pointed. Ahead of them was a steep ridge, a diagonal path hewn roughly into the earth. A fringe of trees dotted the apex, their trailing branches almost like hair.

"Does this not seem familiar to you,  _mi sirenita?"_

She inhaled unsteadily, as a slightly flushed Alistair caught them up with Morrigan still perched on his back. Just visible above the tree line was the peak of a wooden frame, tensioned with leather.

"The  _aveels!"_ Flora breathed, butchering the name of the elven land-ship. "It's the Dalish camp!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Aravels, not aveels, Flora you relentless moron. So I wanted to show off Morrigan in bear form, rawr. This happened a grand total of ONCE in my game so far – thanks, Morr, bear form would have come in pretty handy in certain spots. Oh well, lol! I like this chapter because it has an argument about seafood. Ironically, I fkng hate seafood – basically all the food items discussed in this chapter make me want to vom. On a random note, Zevran's nickname for Flo – mi sirenita – translates as 'little mermaid', which I thought was pretty cute and fitting. It's Spanish, because Antiva is basically NotSpain, lol. Ooh now I want to go on holiday to Barcelona!


	122. Now We Have Our Army

Chapter 122: Now We Have Our Army

Flora made to charge forward, but Zevran hastily reached out to grab her elbow, pulling her towards him.

"Not so hasty,  _carina._ We ought to think about what exactly we're going to say before we make our triumphant return to the Dalish. Get our story straight, so to speak."

Flora stared at him, understanding dawning.  _Zathrian's death; the ending of the curse. His culpability for the latter._

"The elf is right," panted Alistair, shooting a baleful glare up at Morrigan. "Are you  _sure_  you can't try walking?"

The witch snorted, averting her gaze. "Yes. 'Tis most amusing. For me."

Alistair sighed, hoisting the witch further up his back before joining Zevran and his sister-warden.

"Even if the curse has been lifted, they'll be expecting their Elder back. Do we tell them that he created it in the first place?"

They fell silent for a moment, lost in thought. Flora's stomach rumbled loudly and she put a hand to her midriff, glancing longingly up at the ridge.

"Their – is she called  _First?_ First – Lanaya, she seemed to know more about it than the others," she said after several moments, digging the heel of her hand into her recalcitrant belly to try and silence it. "She told me that Zathrian hadn't told us everything."

"In Dalish custom, she'd be the one to now lead the tribe," murmured Zevran, his eyes also lingering on the ridge. "So perhaps, we tell her only the truth. Inform the others that Zathrian died assisting in the death of Witherfang. Which ended the curse."

Thus decided, they made their way up the side of the ridge. As they neared the proximity of the camp, they were joined by the same Dalish scouting patrol that had intercepted them on their initial foray into the forest. Fortunately, it was a far different sort of reception from when they had been held at arrow-point and dangled from ropes.

The blonde huntress known as Mithra hurried to greet them with a bright and expectant face, her bow still slung over her shoulder.

" _Andaran atish'an,_ friends."

As they continued up the ridge, Mithra explained that their elven sick had suddenly become coherent, their faces had lost their feverish flush, and they no longer needed to be strapped down. They were still weak, but it was clear that the dark presence staining their bodies had dissipated.

When they returned to the camp, it seemed as though the entire tribe had come out to greet them. They crowded against the canvas walls of the tents and  _aravels;_ their faces full of wary gratitude. Jendel was there with his parents, as was the old storyteller, all waiting expectantly on the damp grass. Lanaya, a stiff collar of feathers standing up around her neck, was waiting in the centre of the crowd before the hut that had once belonged to Zathrian.

"Do you know what you're going to say?" Alistair murmured to Flora, who was clutching the small leather satchel. She shook her head, reasoning that she had not planned anything before speaking in front of the Assembly in Orzammar, nor before the nobles in Redcliffe Castle.

Retrieving what she had been looking for, Flora inhaled, summoning her nerve.

_Deep breath, chin up, eyes straight._

"Zathrian died in the battle with Witherfang," she said in her soft northern tones, dispensing with formalities and flowery speech. "He sacrificed himself to end the curse. I have his remains for you to venerate in… in the custom of your people."

Awkwardly using her staff to help lower herself to the ground, Flora placed the satchel containing the remnants of Zathrian's body on the grass in front of the silent Lanaya. When she looked up, the tribe's First – their new Elder – stared back down at her with an unreadable expression. Flora dropped her gaze to the satchel once more, thinking on the fragments of bone and ash that lay within it.

_He was a father who loved his children,_ she thought; and as a daughter who had been loved, she found a small kernel of sympathy within her.

Partly because of this understanding, and partly because her knee hurt too much to stand; she bowed her head to the damp grass, prostrating herself before Lanaya and the remains of the sad father.

The humbling gesture made far greater an impression on the Dalish than any noble human-tongued speech. The elves inclined heads and curled fingers to their breasts in memory of Zathrian; the old storyteller's eyes glowed in silent approval.

Two elves went to take the satchel, their faces solemn and reverent, and slowly the crowd dissipated, murmuring in quiet wonder and speculation.

Lanaya, who perhaps had known that she would become the tribe's Elder from the moment that Zathrian had taken off in a flutter of feathers, gazed down at Flora. Several emotions flitted across her face, before the elven mage let out a small sigh.

" _Ma serannas,"_ Lanaya murmured, as Alistair came forward to help Flora to her feet, keeping his hand on her elbow. "You have fulfilled your word,  _ma melava halani."_

The air hung heavy with expectant promise; neither Alistair nor Flora could look at one another. His fingers tightened almost painfully on her arm, but she was grateful for the solid certainty of his presence. Lanaya gazed at them, her strange whisky-shaded eyes full of mingled resignation and resolution.

"And now the Dalish will fulfil our ancient accord. We will assist you against the spreading darkness, Grey Wardens. Together, we will fight the  _banalhan."_

The Elder continued to speak about the practicalities of this arrangement; about the assignation of an envoy and the logistics of assembling the tribes. Flora, however, had stopped listening. There was a great rushing in her ear, as if the great tidal waters of the Waking Sea were crashing within her skull, drowning out the elven woman's words. Alistair's fingers convulsively gripped her elbow, and although she could sense him nodding assiduously, she knew that he was as lost as she.

At length Lanaya withdrew inside the Elder's  _aravel,_ calling several of her lieutenants with her. The sun was just lowering itself below the horizon, flooding the sky with the colours of firelight; burnt umber, bright orange and brilliant strands of scarlet merging to illuminate the heavens in magnificent display.

Alistair turned Flora towards him, his hand still gripping her elbow. She stared up at his finely-hewn face, hair gleaming gold against the setting sun. He appeared somewhat dazed, and she realised that he was in the same place as she, in a very different sort of wood.

_The tangled swampy undergrowth of the Korcari Wilds. Flemeth's hut in the background, the terrible shadow of Ostagar in the hills beyond. Two warden-recruits, without weapon or armour, standing together before a stagnant pond._

" _We're Wardens," she'd said, her dirty-nailed fingers clamped around the roll of parchment. "We can make them help."_

_The Mages of the Fereldan Circle; the Dwarves of Orzammar; the Dalish tribes of the western Forest. All have promised their aid against the Darkspawn._

_Now we have our army, Loghain._

Alistair reached out for her wordlessly, embracing her with unprecedented tightness. Flora was grateful for the strength of his arms, since she wasn't entirely certain of her own legs.

"Flo, we've done it," he muttered against her hair, calloused fingers clamping her body to his. "Maker's Breath, I can't believe it."

Flora smiled into his chest, feeling irrational tears prickling the corners of her eyes. When she looked up at him, she saw that his hazel eyes were gleaming similarly.

"Duncan must be proud of us now, right?" he whispered, gazing down at her with a myriad of emotions crossing his face. A beaming Flora nodded and he picked her up bodily, spinning her around in the damp grass until she was laughing in dizzy, frantic relief, her legs wrapped around his waist.

"I've  _got_  to be allowed to kiss you now, my dear," Alistair breathed, his eyes delving hungrily into hers. "Just once. To mark the occasion."

In response, Flora threw her arms around Alistair's neck and pressed her mouth to his. He took her face between his hands and kissed her back, fiercer than any previous conjoining of lips; his tongue seeking not to taste, but to conquer her mouth. She gasped against him but he was relentless, inhaling the sweetness of disbelieving triumph. He groaned against her, desperate and exultant, his mouth working relentlessly against hers.

"You're out of luck there," murmured Morrigan to Zevran maliciously, and the elf shot her an evil sideways glare.

"I'm going to find the lovely huntress for our own little celebration," he returned lightly, dumping the pack on the damp grass with slightly too much force. "Of a more  _carnal_ nature."

"When do you think she'll realise that all of your amorous partners are  _redheads?_ " Morrigan called spitefully after him as he sauntered away, deliberately casual.

Zevran turned to make an elaborate bow in her direction, dark eyes sparkling.

"Well, if she does, I simply explain that I have a burning, unrequited passion  _for her brother,"_ he retorted.

Alistair let Flora down reluctantly on the grass, his arms still wrapped around her waist. She smiled vaguely back at him, distracted by the sour and unexpected tinge of Blight under her tongue, mingling with her brother-warden's own taste.

_Did I just withdraw more of the taint from him?_ she thought half-dazed to herself, forcing the rancid matter down her throat.  _Careful, Flora._

"I love you, Flo," he said softly; roused from her reverie, Flora smiled back up at him.

"I love you too," she replied dutifully, and Alistair grinned at her. His pupils were blown wide with adoration, though the unmistakable shadow of lust was beginning to creep in at the edge of his irises. He reached out to touch his thumb gently against her bruised lower lip, feeling the swelling caused by the machinations of his own forceful mouth.

"Are you sure we can't do anything else to commemorate this moment?" he breathed, eyes dropping to the triangle of skin visible at the neckline of her shirt.

Morrigan gave a little hiss of warning behind them, and Flora laughed, shaking her head solemnly.

"No," she informed him, sternly. "Not until we leave this forest."

* * *

 

As the sun ceded prominence to it's paler cousin, the Dalish carried out a ritual for their departed leader. Zathrian's remains were buried within the earth, and the customary tree was planted over them. The mage Lanaya, now formally invested as the new tribe Elder, presided over the rites.

Afterwards, the rest of the Dalish sat clustered around a campfire. The seniors, including the old storyteller, were gathered together in quiet discussion. Those recovered from the curse of lycanthropy were huddled beneath blankets, weak yet thankful. Dalish children, who seemed to be on looser leashes than their human counterparts, laughed and wove among the adults; darting in and out of the shadows. The glow of the campfire kept the encroaching Forest at bay; the fire sending up flurries of sparks towards a star-pricked night sky.

The storyteller had told several old legends, including one about the trickster deity  _Fen'harel_ and the elven goddess  _Mythal._ The redheaded huntress who had been the subject of Zevran's attentions sang a soft Dalish melody in their ancestral tongue, beautiful and melancholy.

Morrigan, who despised socialising, had disappeared to one of the  _aravels that_ they had been assigned for accommodation. She had left the rest of the soothing ointment with Alistair, instructing him on its application.

Flora was sitting cross-legged on the grass, listening in fascination to the huntress' poignant song. Zevran, leaning against a nearby broken pillar, was also listening with his face half-hidden by shadow. She caught sight of his expression, which was still and contemplative, and fell into thought herself.

"Morrigan gave me the ointment. It should take away the pain enough to allow you to sleep," Alistair murmured in Flora's ear, his arm slung comfortably around her shoulders.

Flora nodded, finding herself unable to suppress a yawn now that her brother-warden had mentioned bedtime. She clambered awkwardly to her feet on a travel-stiffened knee, bowing her head politely towards Lanaya and the tribe seniors. Alistair followed, rising far more smoothly, canting his own chin in studious respect.

Before heading over to the  _aravel,_ Flora glanced over at Zevran, who was still standing in the shadow of the pillar with a face like carved marble. Impulsively she picked her way across the damp grass towards him, Alistair trailing in her wake.

Zevran turned as they approached, the solemn expression quickly transforming into his characteristic charming grin.

"My dear Grey Wardens," he murmured, dark eyes reflecting sparks spat from the fire. "Finally, you come to request my assistance in the bedchamber. I am more than happy to oblige. Three is twice as much fun as two."

Alistair had to restrain a splutter of disbelief as Flora blinked at the elf in mild confusion.

"Assistance with what?" she asked then shook her head, dismissing her own query. "It doesn't matter. Zevran, I wanted to say that – if you want to stay here with the Dalish, you're free to do so. Or, free to do anything you want."

Zevran stared across at Flora; she stood a hair's difference shorter than him, her expression earnest.

"What are you saying, my lily?" the elf asked, voice deliberately even.

"The oath you made to me, I release you from it," she said, her eyes searching his face. "You can do whatever you choose to do. I'm sorry that I didn't do it earlier. You've been so helpful that I forgot you were doing it under… under  _duress_."

Zevran continued to stare at her, his face still and watchful as a lion waiting to pounce. Flora swallowed and continued, feeling Alistair's solid and reassuring presence behind her.

"If you do decide to go, thank you for everything," she whispered, dropping her gaze to the elf's leather boots. "You can do anything you want now. You can go back to Antiva and escape the Ferelden rain and the smell of wet dog."

"Ideally, if you do resume your profession as an assassin, we'd appreciate not being your next contract," said Alistair lightly from behind her. "Even though I am a royal bastard - which according to you, means a giant target on my head."

Zevran looked at Flora a moment more, then slowly lowered himself to his knee in a graceful bow, reaching out to take her hand.

"As it happens, I'm rather fond of the mistress I am following _,"_ he murmured, lips hovering inches above her skin. "If it is permissible, I should like to stay until the Archdemon is slain. Is this acceptable to you,  _mi querida?"_

Flora beamed down at him, nodding wordlessly. Zevran kissed the back of her hand gently, giving her fingers a squeeze before returning upright.

"I think I shall see if my huntress fancies an encore," he purred, his tone deliberately casual. "Till the morning then, Wardens."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Finally, the Wardens have done what they set out to do back in Chapter 16! It's taken 105 CHAPTERS! Also, as far as I know, there's no option to free Zevran from his oath in game (I could def be wrong), but it seems super shady not to ESPECIALLY if you're in a romance option with him! 


	123. The Elven Aravel

Chapter 123: The Elven Aravel

Alistair took Flora's hand, steering her back across the damp grass towards the stationary  _aravels._ They were larger than they seemed from a distance, angular canvas structures built on wheeled platforms. Flora thought that, in motion, they must resemble waves moving across the surface of the Waking Sea. The moon hung low and lazy, bathing the camp in a silvery, liquid light.

Alistair clambered up the wooden rungs and onto the platform, reaching down behind him to help haul his limping sister-warden up. The entrance flap opened to reveal rush matting and several straw pallets, with blankets embroidered in traditional Dalish patterns. Several small cedar chests and a barrel had been pushed back against the canvas walls, indicating that this  _aravel_ was primarily used for storage.

"The witch must have taken herself off elsewhere."

Alistair, unable to stand upright, hunched over awkwardly as he removed his tunic. Flora sat cross-legged, not bothering to cover her mouth as she yawned. It was dark enough within the  _aravel_  that she could only see the shadowed outline of her brother-warden, dark against the grey canvas.

He hit his head on the wooden framework and swore under his breath, nearly stumbling. Flora recoiled back against the canvas, pulling in her feet hastily.

"Don't step on me!"

"Maker, can't see a damned thing," Alistair complained, regaining his balance. "Did they expect to fit all four of us in here?"

"Elves are skinnier," replied Flora, exhaling a shifting breath of golden energy onto her bandaged palm and tapping it upwards. The makeshift 'lantern' hovered in the shadowed roof of the  _aravel,_ casting an amber glow over its interior. Alistair crouched down and took her hands in his, gently unwinding the stained plaidweave from first one palm and then the other. From the pocket of his breeches, he lifted out Morrigan's small glass vial, removing the lid.

"Hold out your hands, sweetheart," he instructed, and she did so dutifully, showing him the raw pink of her palms. Carefully, Alistair tipped some of the tincture over the inflamed skin and began to rub it in gently with the thick, calloused ball of his thumb.

Flora hissed between her teeth and he hesitated, hazel eyes searching her face.

"Is it painful?"

"Only at first," she replied, nudging for him to continue. "Then it goes numb."

Alistair persevered, slathering the ointment across both sore palms before tying the plaidweave bandages back up in neat bows. Returning the cap to the vial, he tucked it carefully away in the pack.

Flora's golden lantern was beginning to fade away, the shadows looming large once more within the interior of the  _aravel._ Hitting his head for a second time on the wooden frame, Alistair cursed as he moved the pack into the far corner.

"I wasn't built for elven dwellings," he complained, gingerly probing the back of his skull. Flora gazed up at him, waving her bandaged hands.

"Could you help me with my clothes? I'm not meant to touch anything with this on."

"With pleasure, my love," Alistair murmured, kneeling beside her and removing the leather boots one by one. "Lie back."

Obediently Flora lowered herself to the straw pallet, turning her face to look sideways at a sack of Dalish-labelled grain. Alistair carefully removed her breeches, wriggling them over her knees. The next moment she felt him settle down on the pallet beside her, his bare chest warm against her shirt-covered back. Reflexively, she curled herself into the curve of his body; he enclosed her within the strong circle of his arms.

"Goodnight, Flo."

Their fingers entwined, fish-roping the last two Wardens of Ferelden together in the shadows of the elven  _aravel._

"'Night, Alistair."

Several hours later Flora woke up cold, bare feet freezing where they had extended the reach of the Dalish blanket. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and yawning. The interior of the  _aravel_ was dimly shaded in monochrome; lit by creeping fingers of moonlight. A cold breeze was flapping the canvas within the frame and she shivered, glancing around.

Alistair was sitting on the protruding wooden ledge of the aravel, feet resting on the bottom rung of the ladder. Despite the cold he was bare-chested, his broad shoulders cast in silver by the muted glow of the stars. He was hunched over, staring out at the Dalish camp; though Flora guessed that an entire herd of  _halla_ could charge before her brother-warden, and he would barely raise an eyelid.

Gathering up the blanket, Flora slid on her rear over the wooden floorboards and came to a pause behind him. As she had surmised, Alistair was so deep in the well of his brooding that he did not register her movement. She wrapped the blanket tightly over his bare shoulders then curled her legs around his waist; embracing him from behind and resting her cheek against his back. The warmth that naturally exuded from her body began to seep through the blanket and into his cold-stiffened muscle.

Alistair exhaled, pulling her feet into his lap and running his fingers up and down her bare calf. Flora knew that he would speak when he was ready so said nothing; the rough wool of the Dalish blanket pressed against her cheek.

"When we get to Denerim, that's it," Alistair said eventually, speaking out to the deserted camp. "Confronting Loghain, and this Arl Howe. What if he has us arrested the moment we set foot in the city? For all we know, he's still spreading slander that the Wardens are traitors."

Flora, whose only experience of a city was the strange stepped construction of Orzammar, narrowed her eyes as she tried to envision a human dwelling many times larger than Redcliffe.

"Well," she said eventually, tracing the blanket's pattern of dancing  _halla_ with her fingertip. "We'll let Arl Eamon and the other nobles arrive separately. They can test the waters and see… how things stand. The rest of us can enter the city quietly and just – keep our heads down for a bit."

Her voice was partially muffled by the blanket, but the plan was clear. Alistair nodded slowly, sword-calloused thumb circling over her ankle.

"We could try and get a message to the Queen," he said suddenly, head rising. "She must not know that her father basically left her husband to  _die._  She could aid us."

Flora nodded wordlessly, wondering how much of Loghain's ruthlessness had been inherited by his daughter.

"It won't be as it  _has_  been," she said after a moment, her finger now following the blanket's border of stitched leaves. "It's one thing to send assassins after a pair of warden-recruits in the wilds of Ferelden- "

"And another to have the heir to the throne and a teyrn's daughter killed within the city walls on the eve of the Landsmeet," her brother-warden finished, giving a rueful smile.

Even as Alistair perked up Flora fell silent, resting her forehead against his shoulder-blade.

_The most recent assassins weren't coming for Alistair, they were coming for me._

The same thought had just occurred to Alistair and he inhaled sharply, fingers tightening on her knee.

"Flo," he said, a distinct edge to his voice. "Arl Howe usurped your family's seat and had the teyrn and his wife murdered. He clearly wants all the Couslands dead."

The unspoken ending of his sentence hung in the air between them:  _including the ones that escaped his attention._

"I wish I was just Flora of Herring," she replied, with a self-depreciating little shrug. "I don't really want to be Lady Florence Cousland in Denerim."

Alistair slid off the wooden ledge, landing with a little grunt on the damp grass. Turning around he reached out to embrace her, pulling her against his body. Flora wrapped her legs around her brother-warden's waist, exhaling unsteadily into his broad shoulder.

"Maker, I won't let anything happen to you. I swear it, Flo," he breathed, smoothing a hand fiercely over the top of her head. "I'll keep you safe."

"And Finian? He's a greater target than me, I can't inherit."

"And Finian."

Flora patted him on the back, forcing the anxiety back down her throat.  _We'll be fine,_ she thought to herself sternly;  _as long as they have no rogue Templar on their side, they can't get through my shield. I'm hardly defenceless._

"Do you remember the first time we did this?" Alistair said suddenly, and she lifted her face to peer at him.

"Did what? Hugging?"

Pleased to be distracted from Arl Howe, who had taken on an almost demonic personification in her imagination; Flora cast her mind back over the months.

"Redcliffe? No, the inn on the way to the Circle?"

Alistair grinned down at her, deceptively arrogant features pale as a Tevinter statue in the pewter-hued moonlight.

"In the Chantry, at Lothering."

The memory rose in her mind like driftwood spat onto the sand.

_The Chantry was filled with refugees, who had fled the Darkspawn after the slaughter at Ostagar. They huddled in the pews and slumped in the aisles, unwashed and unfed, their eyes shadowed with fear. Chantry sisters moved between them, the familiar words of the Chant unable to disguise the tremor of fear in their voices._

_Alistair, in ill-fitting Templar armour borrowed from Flemeth, still caught in the darkness between rage and grief. Near-shouting, gesticulating his anger to the unsympathetic ceiling; the grief at Duncan's death compounded by shock that the Wardens were now branded as traitors by the man who had betrayed his king._

_Flora had gaped up at him as his voice rose, drawing curious stares from those around them. She had been similarly poorly attired in a patched and overlarge man's coat, her hair in a tangled topknot on her head; and she had no idea how to cope with the angry young man before her. They had known one another for just over five weeks, and although he had dismantled the nightly barricade between them, her staff still maintained a distinct divide. It had taken the terrible defeat at Ostagar and the loss of the Grey Wardens for him to even reach out and take her hand. She knew that Alistair had been raised in the Chantry, and that he was still not wholly used to being in her feminine presence._

_Yet, looking up at the raw anguish in his face, Flora's natural compassion overcame her caution. Impulsively, she put her arms around her brother-warden's waist and hugged him. At first, Alistair had stiffened in shock and gone rigid as a board; but then, more quickly than she had thought, he settled into the embrace and drew her against him. Both were taken aback at how natural the gesture seemed; despite each spending their adolescence in institutions that discouraged all physical contact._

"I remember," Flora said, wondering at all that had passed since those dark, hopeless early days.

Alistair pressed his face against her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin. Leaning forward, he bore her back onto the wooden boards until he was above her, his weight propped on an elbow. Flora gazed up at him and he rubbed the side of her face with a thumb, winding a long, loose strand of hair around his finger.

"Your hair curls at the end," he breathed, letting the strand drop onto the wooden boards. "You never wear it loose."

"It's too long," Flora replied, clutching plaidweave-bandaged hands to her chest. "It gets in the way. I should cut it all off."

"Don't," he murmured, pressing his lips against her neck just beneath her ear. "It's beautiful."

She smiled at him and he groaned, shifting himself against her. His arousal was obvious, lust darkening his hazel eyes to near-black. Calloused fingers fumbled at her neck, undoing several buttons; Alistair pressed his mouth hungrily to the triangle of exposed flesh. One hand slipped beneath the hem of her blouse to grope for a small, tear-shaped breast.

"What are these  _shenanigans?"_  interjected an acidic voice from the darkness. The tone was so disapproving that at first both Wardens thought that it was Morrigan, despite the clearly Antivan inflection.

Zevran manifested from the shadows, moving languid as a cat, his lips pursed with uncharacteristic disapproval as he surveyed them both.

"Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I believe that we are still  _in_ the Forest, correct? Have you forgotten your vow so hastily, my dear Alistair?"

Alistair withdrew reluctantly and Flora sat up, letting out an unabashed yawn. She gathered up the blanket, sliding over the floorboards back to the straw pallets.

"I don't understand you, elf," hissed Alistair as they went to join her. "One moment you're encouraging us, the next you're threatening to tell Morrigan."

Zevran flounced down onto his own pallet with a petulant sniff, not deigning to respond.

Alistair settled down between the elf and Flora, entwining his fingers within his sister-warden's. Within a few minutes, his gentle snores rang out between the tented walls of the  _aravel._

The former Crow scowled darkly up at the high canvas ceiling, then noticed that Flora was staring at him over Alistair's prostrate body. When she saw that he had noticed her, she contorted her face into a hideous expression reminiscent of a stone Chantry gargoyle.

"You know, in Antiva we have a saying:  _if the southern wind changes, your face will be stuck like that,"_ Zevran hissed evilly back at her.

Flora responded by somehow twisting her features further, her eyes crossed and her tongue curling up to her nose. The elf gaped at her for a moment, then a reluctant smile crept over his face.

"You're incorrigible _, Florencia."_

"Thanks," she breathed back, not having the faintest idea what  _incorrigible_  meant.

"If the bastard prince attempts to violate his vow of chastity and take advantage, simply call out and I will come to your aid," Zevran murmured, the elf's words infused with his particular customary charm. "I would be happy to assist."

"The problem is, I quite  _want_  him to violate his vow," replied Flora, with a tragic roll of her solemn sea-grey eyes. "I really regret coming up with the idea in the first place, actually. I want him to  _violate me. Alistaaair, wake up!"_

Zevran laughed, covering the sound with slender fingers, then reached across Alistair's prostrate body to pat her on the head.

"Goodnight,  _mi sirenita._ Don't let the weevil fish bite."

" _Weever_ fish!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I think the concept of the elven aravel land-ship is so cool! I wish you could link in the text her, lol. There's some amazing images of them if you search. I thought it would be a neat concept for the Wardens and their companions (well, minus Morrigan) to spend the night in one of them. Reminds me a bit of staying in a caravan, which were my favourite holidays when I was younger. Interesting dynamics here – Howe is going after the remaining Couslands, after failing to eliminate the family during the assault on Highever. As far as Howe knows, Fergus is dead, although of course, he's just AWOL; he's just found out that Finian has returned from Orlais and that Florence is a Cousland. The question is – who outside of their party was able to inform Howe of Flo's heritage? I'll give a clue – someone, from the moment they laid eyes on her, knew that she had to be the teyrn's daughter. I'm loving putting my own spin on the characters/plot, it's actually so much fun!


	124. The Road to South Reach

Chapter 124: The Road to South Reach

The next morning arrived warm and spring-like, a light rain dampening the grass just before dawn. Lanaya and several of the senior members of the tribe came to see the Wardens on their way, including the child Jendel and his family. A slender honey-haired elf with intricate  _vallaslin,_ by the name of Caron, would accompany them and serve as emissary to the tribe.

The Dalish scouts had previously tracked a large retinue on the northern edge of the forest; Alistair had identified the livery as belonging to Redcliffe. Caron, trained as a pathfinder and knowing the woods like the back of his hand, led them to a route which would take them to the forest border by the end of the day. Thus, with spirits raised and supplies restocked, the Wardens and their party set off on the northern road out of the Brecilian Forest.

Caron was polite but quiet, taking the lead without being asked and guiding them along an overgrown route invisible to untrained eyes. Morrigan, who had awoken in an even less sociable mood than usual, fluttered above them at canopy-level.

To pass the journey Zevran hummed folk songs in his native tongue, then began to recite increasingly lecherous limericks for the sole purpose of disconcerting Alistair. Alistair, sweating slightly beneath the heavy mail, gritted his teeth and attempted to ignore the lewd lyrics. Flora was barely listening; alternating between nervously looking out for bears and staring longingly up at the dark shape flitting against the canopy.

"I'm content with being a healer," she said out loud, using her staff to keep the dangling vines at bay. "But I wouldn't mind being able to transform into something else, just once. To see what it's like."

"It's an unusual talent," Alistair replied, wiping at his damp forehead ineffectually with mail-covered fingers. "I spent six weeks at the Jainen Circle and there were no mages able to transfigure themselves. I think it's particular to hedge-witches."

Flora tilted her face upwards, squinting against the midday sun to focus on the Morrigan-bird. The next moment she went sprawling flat on her face, having failed to notice a protruding root lying in wait before her.

They ate a quick lunch before continuing on the hidden route; gradually ascending out of the vast shallow basin of the Brecilian Forest. Another warm seasonal shower began to fall mid-afternoon, the clouds drawing filmy and transparent over a limpid sky. Morrigan, who hated flying in the rain, fluttered down to walk alongside them. Almost immediately she began to snipe at Alistair, who retorted with equal pettiness.

The two kept up their heckling for the rest of the afternoon; until the hitherto densely packed trees began to grow sparse, the trunks now parted by metres instead of feet. Ahead, glimpses of muted afternoon daylight were visible. The sharp-eyed Zevran pointed a finger, raising a voice over the squabbling.

"Look!"

Beyond the tangled growth of trees in the distance, they could just about catch a glimpse of farmland; yellow grain bristling like fur on the side of a low hill. Ahead, their overgrown route was widening, transforming into a recognisable road.

Alistair broke off in his bickering abruptly, his head swivelling sideways to meet Flora's wide grey Cousland eyes. Still sodden from the afternoon's rain, she beamed back at him from beneath her saturated hair. They all began to hurry, eager to leave the cloying claustrophobia of the Forest behind.

For the last few paces beneath the tangled overhead canopy, Alistair took Flora's hand. Determinedly he strode ahead, pulling her along behind him until they emerged from the shadows of the wood and stood bathed in mellow sunlight. Dropping the pack unceremoniously on the grass, he turned around and took Flora's face in his hands, pressing her back against a trunk. His mouth sought hers out hungrily; as though he were a starving man and her lips the last source of nourishment in Thedas.

Morrigan let out a derisive snort, transforming herself back into a bird and fluttering skywards. The earlier cloud had dissipated, the waning sun hung low in the sky. They had come out on the northern side of the Forest into cultivated farmland, which spread over gently undulating hills in a patchwork of neutral tones. In the distance, a town presided over by a sprawling stone keep was just visible.

"Grey Wardens? My lord Theirin, Lady Cousland?"

Both Alistair and Flora, distracted by the unwanted epithets, broke apart to locate the questioning voice. Zevran lingered at the edge of the trees, a hand hovering over his blade.

A small contingent of men were waiting on horseback beneath a broken signpost. They wore a forest-green livery, and their doublets bore an emerald portcullis. Beside them, several more horses had been tied to the fence.

Their leader, a wiry individual with a narrow, clever face, strode forward and gave a quick yet respectful bow.

"The name's Dane, Leonas Bryland's lieutenant. The Arl's 'ad men posted at each road from the Forest in readiness to meet you," he explained, dark eyes darting appraisingly over them. If the sight of the last two Wardens in Ferelden, damp and bedraggled, was somewhat underwhelming; there was no hint of it in his expression.

"And to whom does Arl Bryland owe his loyalty?" asked Alistair, eyes narrowed.

"The Arl is loyal to the 'Ouse of Theirin, milord," replied the lieutenant, his gaze steady and voice clear. "He assisted Prince Maric an' Bryce Cousland with the rebellion against Orlais. Went back years with 'em."

Alistair and Flora glanced at one another, surprised at the manifesting relationship between their respective late fathers. Zevran, who was well versed in the seven signs of a lie, stepped forward.

"There is no disassembly in his face," he murmured in Flora's ear. "I believe that he is telling the truth."

"Howe also fought in that rebellion," interjected Alistair, vaguely summoning the memory of an old book borrowed in a moment of boredom from the Chantry library.

Dane's lip curled and he spat without ceremony onto the earthen road.

"The Arl 'as publicly condemned Howe for what he did at Highever," the man replied, his tone scathing. "The Arl of Redcliffe's already at South Reach, awaitin' your arrival, as're the rest of your party."

" _Eamon_  is with this Bryland?"

Alistair exhaled in relief, grateful that the Arl had made it north without impediment. He turned to look at Flora, who smiled hopefully back at him and gave a slight nod.

The Wardens and Zevran were grateful to mount up on horseback, yet Caron appeared distinctly uncomfortable. The Dalish elf made no complaint, however, and soon they were underway. They followed the winding pastoral road towards the town of South Reach, which appeared to be no more than a few hours ride away. They assumed that Morrigan was somewhere in the sky overhead; among the many birds that circled the fields in the hope of unsuspecting rodents.

Alistair spent the journey quizzing the Arl's man on the situation in Denerim. It transpired that Arl Bryland had joined forces with Teagan to petition Loghain for information after the King's death at Ostagar; yet when the teyrn had assumed regency, both nobles had returned to their own holdings, sensing danger. It had been Leonas Bryland who had secretly written to Finian in Orlais to inform him of his parents' murder, although the message had been delayed en route. Zevran, who wanted to show off his increased understanding of Fereldan factional rivalry to Leliana when he next saw her, was also listening intently.

Flora, thoroughly disinterested in political intrigue, wished bitterly that she were no more than a humble fisherman's daughter from Herring. She had a sinking feeling that – against her own wishes – her new status would see her entangled within the complex web of Denerim politics.

The warning cry of a scout on the road ahead roused her from her reverie. Flora looked up curiously; her eyes falling on a figure slumped at the side of the road. The Arl's servant pulled up his horse, approaching the prostrate man cautiously. From the blood pooling at his stomach, it was clear that he had been attacked. As they came closer, the man let out a low, soft groan of pain.

"He ain't one of ours," Dane called, a grimace briefly crossing his face. "Must've been bandits. Maker, don't the Arl got enough to contend with?"

Flora, with the quick instinct of a healer in responding to the sound of pain, was already dismounted and heading over to the unfortunate man. Heedless of the blood, she knelt beside him, already feeling the golden mist rising in the back of her throat. He appeared to be in his middle years, skin pale beneath a darkly stubbled beard.

"The cowards must have fled," called Alistair, standing up in the stirrups and gazing around at the fields. The crops were still young and only waist-high, there was nowhere for an assailant to hide.

Flora's hands, moving over the man's body in search of the wound, came across something lumpen. Brow furrowed in mild confusion, she looked up at the others.

"They weren't very clever bandits; he still has his coin purse."

Zevran's expression was the first to change, face contorting as he gave a hiss of warning.

Suddenly the 'wounded' man lunged upright, quick as a snake. Grabbing the surprised Flora, he held her against him and thrust a stiletto blade to the hollow of her chin. Dane let out a yell of alarm; one of his men started forward but was quickly restrained. Alistair, head snapping around from the surrounding fields, lost all colour from his face in the span of several heartbeats.

Flora gaped for a moment, feeling the man's hot, ale-edged breath in her ear and the knifepoint nudging against her throat.

"Where's your brother, you little  _bitch?"_  hissed the assassin in a thick western accent, caressing the edge of her gullet with the tip of the blade. "Where's Finian Cousland?"

Flora felt a pulse of anger flash over her brain like lightning splitting the sky above the Waking Sea. The golden barrier expanded from her body; a second skin fanning out faster than any human reflex. The man was thrown backwards bodily through the air, crashing through a wooden fence and landing upside down in a haystack.

Ignoring the pain in her knee she lunged after him, hurling herself into the hay with a howl of anger. The structural integrity of the haystack was unable to withstand the additional pressure; it collapsed in a heap of straw.

The assassin, dazed from his flight through the fence, lay sprawled on his back in the hay. An enraged Flora swung her fist into his chin in a punch that would have made any Herring fishwife proud, then grabbed a fistful of straw and thrust it into the groaning man's mouth.

"How dare you!" she squealed as the man gagged, eyes streaming. "Threatening my brother! Taking advantage of my  _friendly and helpful nature!"_

Then the others were there, Alistair lifting her up with trembling hands. Zevran's eyes glittered as he swooped down, his own curved blade already unsheathed.

"I haven't skinned a man in a long time," the elf murmured, eyeing the spluttering assassin. "But I think you deserve such a…  _privilege_."

For a moment, nobody moved. Alistair, trying visibly to settle himself, let out a soft groan; then realised that the Arl's men were looking to him as the highest-status individual present. He glanced over at Flora, who was red-faced and sulky, but calmer.

"Does your Arl have a dungeon?" she asked Dane, who gave a slight nod. "Then let's take him prisoner. He might have some information about Howe, or what's happening in Denerim."

Reluctantly, Zevran withdrew the point of his gleaming blade from the man's collarbone.

"You're lucky my lady is compassionate," he murmured in the sweating assassin's ear. "If it were up to me, I'd turn you into  _boots."_

Between them, Zevran and Flora tied up the man in an amalgamation of Antivan and sailor's knots; he was then slung unceremoniously over the back of Dane's horse. The Arl's lieutenant had apologised profusely over the attack, assuring them that Bryland would see the man sufficiently punished.

"Do you know where Finian is?" asked Flora as they rode along, plucking stray strands of straw from her hair. Dane nodded, casting another contemptuous glance over his shoulder.

"Both Couslands are at South Reach. The rightful teyrn has been recoverin' with the Arl for several months, and the other just arrived wi' an Orlesian bard a few days ago."

This was enough to jolt Alistair from his despondency; he shot a glance over at Flora, whose eyes had widened.

" _Both_ Couslands? The… teyrn?" she ventured after a moment, her voice small.

The Arl's man nodded, his suspicious gaze sweeping over the innocuous fields before them, now seeing assassins lurking behind every haystack.

"Some Chasind brought 'im. He'd took bad injuries from the Darkspawn down south. Oi, Ben, when did Fergus Cousland arrive?"

This was directed at another of the green-liveried men, who thought for a moment.

"Just after Satinalia."

Dane nodded, guiding his horse around a large pothole in the road.

"Aye, that's right, the snow was still on the ground. Arl Bryland knew what happened at Highever, so he had the Chasind bring Fergus Cousland to South Reach, where he could be kept safe."

Flora fell silent, gazing down at the limp reins in her bandaged hands. It was fortunate that her horse was docile and well-trained, since she played little part in directing its movement. Alistair, who was only just now regaining the colour in his face, reached out to pat her comfortingly on the elbow.

"There are no ramparts around here for you to jump from, my lily," called Zevran over his shoulder, recalling Flora's reaction when confronted with the younger Cousland at Redcliffe. "But if you wanted to take your clothes off again, far be it from me to protest."

Flora, who was now faintly green, shook her head.

"I'm not going to jump off anything," she muttered, appearing slightly nauseous. "I won't run away this time."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So this little excursion to South Reach is part of my own created canon, but I definitely think it makes sense within the game's story – in actuality, if Loghain had been regent for months, he would have built up powerful factional control over Denerim and the nobles therein (if they hadn't left the city, it stands to reason that they were loyal to the new regent in hope of patronage and securing their own position). If the Wardens want to make a legitimate impression at the Landsmeet, which seems to be some sort of Great Council (a council of nobles called in a state of emergency during the late 15th century), they need to arrive with a strong faction of their own. Hence, the gathering of the south and western nobility to their cause before they even enter the city.
> 
> I chose South Reach as a good 'base' to consolidate their position before entering Denerim for a number of reasons. Firstly, Arl Leonas Bryland always supports the Wardens in the Landsmeet, so he's definitely not an ally of Loghain. Secondly, it's canon that he was friends with both Bryce Cousland and Maric (the DA wiki entry for the Battle of White River confirms this), so he has the connection to both Flora and Alistair, and it would make sense for Fergus Cousland to recuperate there after his rescue by the Chasind. Thirdly, I wanted to introduce Fergus into the story and it seemed like a logical place to do so. Fourthly, it makes geographical sense for their journey– South Reach is north of Brecilian, and south west of Denerim.
> 
> Sorry this OOC note is so long – I'm a historian who specialises in the Tudor period for a profession, so I'm suuuuuuuper into factional rivalry!


	125. Reunion at South Reach

Chapter 125: Reunion at South Reach

They continued to follow the road as it wended its way between the rolling hills and farmland. At first glance their surroundings appeared a pastoral idyll; on closer inspection, the crops were tangling together from lack of attention, weeds spread gleefully over untended allotments and crows were feasting freely on sprouting tender growth.

"Where are the farmers?" asked Alistair, staring at a plough that had been abandoned in the centre of a half-furrowed field. Dane let out a sigh, regretful eyes sweeping over the neglected farmland.

"Most locals've fled north to the city. They 'eard what happened to Lothering. Don't want to fall victim themselves, poor buggers."

Flora's attention was caught by the town that was indelibly inked on a sad, dark corner of her brain. At once, her dream of the Archdemon perched on the Tower of Ishal rose to the forefront of her mind.

_Are they just retracing their steps mindlessly?_ she thought, glad to be distracted from the prospect of another Cousland brother. Then, a far more ominous notion occurred to her.  _Did the Archdemon return because it sensed our presence there?_

_Was it coming for us?_

Flora looked over her shoulder, half-expecting to see the dark, bat-like silhouette of the dragon rising up over the fields of bristling corn. There was nothing behind her except the emissary Caron's impassive stare and the spreading orange-tinged shadow of sunset.

Ahead the town of South Reach loomed large, several times the size of Redcliffe. It clung to a steep swell of land that rose up from the plain like a barnacle stuck onto the flat surface of a rock. The town was dominated by the sprawling heraldic seat of Arl Bryland; a fortress that ran squat and formidable at the top of the rise. Even from a distance, they could make out forest-green standards hanging proudly from the castle walls. A tall Chantry spire rose up from the clustered buildings, which huddled haphazardly together on the sloping terrain.

The town was not large enough to have a purpose-built city wall, but as they approached they could see men working on constructing hasty defences. Wooden spikes had been driven at angles into the grass, and a makeshift fence stretched halfway across the town's main entrance.

"They know the Darkspawn's coming," pointed out Dane, clearing his throat as they neared the labouring men. "Oi, lads, working late?"

One of the men grinned and gave them a mock salute as they passed, wiping the sweat from his perspiring forehead.

"Will we be seein' you in the Nag's Head tonight?"

"Aye, just got to deliver these guests to the Arl," replied Dane, returning the salute jauntily. "Got a prisoner, too."

The townspeople stood to one side as the horses proceeded in single file on the town's main road; which climbed in gradually ascending angles up the rise. They passed the Nag's Head tavern, a double-storied inn with raucous laughter drifting from open shutters, then past several smithies and a closed-up chandlery. Many of the wooden dwellings had boards nailed over the doors and windows, an air of mournful emptiness hanging over them. Dane explained that many of the townspeople had also fled to Denerim, pre-emptively seeking refuge from the encroaching horde. The Arl had already sent his adolescent daughter to the city for safety.

The nearer they came to the castle walls, the more nervous Flora grew. She fidgeted on the saddle until her horse gave an irritated shake; then sat rigid as a board, the reins held loose in her sweaty and bandaged palms. Alistair, sensing her discomfort, steered his own mount adeptly alongside hers. Reaching out he touched her high, flushed cheek, knowing that anxiety writ itself as solemnity across her features.

Flora tried to smile at her brother-warden, but it came out as a twisted grimace. Unhelpfully, her mind kept casting up memories from her first meeting with Finian.

_The suffocating silence cast by the Templar, the teyrn's son yelling for her to be placed in a mage cage; mingled triumph and suspicion in grey eyes that were so like her own._

"Flo- " Alistair started, interrupted by Dane calling out to someone nestled in a hidden nook within the castle walls. They had arrived beside an iron portcullis; soon after there came an answering shout and the creaking of rusted chains. The gate rose in fits and starts, allowing them entry into a cobbled inner courtyard.

The space was full of wagons and crates and various carts, stable lads leading horses across the flagstones and the Arl's servants rushing back and forth with wine, trays of food and the occasional item of furniture. Flora recognised several wagons belonging to their own company, including that belonging to the dwarven merchant Bodahn. Men clad in a multitude of liveries were milling around – there was the grey keep of Redcliffe, the corn sheaf of Rainesfere, a scarlet hawk and a golden scythe. The green laurel wreath of Cousland burned itself like a brand into Flora's eye; she frowned and turned her face away. Lamp-boys were running around touching blazing torches to iron wall brackets, the sun was setting rapidly and night was drawing in. Scattered everywhere were Mabari, dozing on the open backs of wagons, begging for scraps of food, wandering around and generally getting underfoot.

It was somewhat of a shock after the eerie isolation of the Brecilian Forest to be plunged into such noise and bustle. Zevran's face was bathed in smiles as he surveyed new territory to be conquered; catching the eye of a pale groom and a flaxen-haired serving girl in quick succession. Conscious of Morrigan's scathing observation about  _redheads,_ the elf was deliberately targeting his smiles at blondes.

"As yeh can see, the castle's near-full," Dane called, sliding down from the saddle and handing the reins to an approaching stable boy. "Arl Bryland is playin' host to – on last count – three other arls, three banns, and both Teyrn Cousland's sons. Plus their retainers, an' the company of the Grey Wardens. Accommodation is rather cramped, to say the least."

While they dismounted, as if on cue, there was a cry of Orlesian-tinged delight. Leliana, clad in a fur-edged scarlet gown, tripped prettily down a flight of stone steps and hurried across the courtyard towards them. Greeting first Alistair and then Flora with the customary kiss on both cheeks, Leliana even spared Zevran a grudging smile before stepping back and surveying their faces.

"The Maker told me that you would be arriving tonight," she breathed, pale blue eyes wide with delight. "He has not misled me. I trust that your journey has met with success."

The sharp-eyed bard had already noted the presence of the silent elven emissary, who was surveying the crowded courtyard with mingled distaste and fascination. Meanwhile, Dane was bellowing out to several of Bryland's guards, organising the removal of the bound prisoner to the castle dungeons.

"Did everyone get here safely?" asked Flora tentatively, exhaling in relief when Leliana gave a little nod.

"The Qunari refuses to lodge within the Castle and Oghren is passed out in the cellar, but the rest of us are in the west wing," she explained, gesturing up at the stone steps behind her. "Next to the Arl of Redcliffe's quarters."

"We're next to Eamon?" asked Flora, and Leliana let out a little dizzied laugh, raising a hand to her head.

"So much has happened while you've been running around in the woods! One hardly knows where to begin."

"We weren't  _running around in the woods,"_ muttered Alistair darkly, as Dane returned from the dungeons and headed purposefully towards them.

Leliana's eyes fell on Flora once more, lighting up.

"Flora, you'll never  _believe_  who's here! I must inform Lord Finian of your arrival immediately. He'll want to present you to- "

The bard broke off as she caught sight of the expression on Flora's face. Alistair placed his palm on the small of his sister-warden's back, quiet and reassuring. Tactfully, Leliana changed her approach, reaching out to pull a piece of straw from Flora's hair.

"Anyway, you need to bathe," she instructed, sweeping her refined gaze over the sweaty, travel-stained individuals standing before her. "You can't be presented to anyone in your current condition."

"Sister, can I ask you to sort out their accommodation while I find the Arl?" Dane interjected, with the air of someone who knew exactly how capable Leliana could be. The redheaded Chantry sister had already proven herself invaluable with the logistics of the company's temporary residency at South Reach. Dane, along with the majority of Bryland's retainers, were slightly in awe of her.

The bard nodded enthusiastically, gesturing for them to follow her up the stone staircase.

"Of course, ser," she purred, tossing her elaborately braided hair. "I shall take care of everything. Follow me, if you please."

Alistair and Flora trailed after her, Zevran having disappeared in pursuit of his first conquest of the evening. Although Flora was still slightly stunned by the noise and commotion, she could not fail to notice the sidelong glances that the retainers clad in Cousland livery were shooting her. Hunching her shoulders, she turned her back determinedly on their curious stares and trudged up the steps after the chattering bard.

They followed Leliana along the ramparts, weaving between guards clad in the Arl's emblem and various scurrying retainers. Alistair patted the head of a dozing Mabari as it lay curled up on a crate and it gave his fingers a lazy lick.

Entering the castle tower through a lower door, they came face to face with a young lad clad in forest green and navy Cousland livery. He was carrying a tray stacked with empty ale bottles, and was mid-yawn when he caught sight of them.

"Sister Leliana, Lord Finian requests the pleasure of your company for another game of cards after dinner," the youth began, his gaze passing curiously over Leliana's companions. Suddenly the tray dropped from his hand, glass shattering into fragments over the straw-covered flagstones. He was gaping at Flora, who stared back at him with mild horror.

"I assume that Finian is with His Grace," Leliana replied in a soothing tone as the young man mouthed wordlessly. "If you could get a message to him that the Wardens have arrived."

The bard bestowed a kind smile on the shocked boy, before leading them towards a circular staircase. The west tower was short and squat, only three stories tall but heavily fortified. The walls were a half-metre thick, studded with arrow slits rather than windows. The castle at South Reach had been built more as a fortress than a residence, and the interior was stark and utilitarian. There were no Orlesian rugs or tapestries in sight; the weapons hanging from brackets appeared more for defence than decoration. The flagstones were covered only with rushes and the walls daubed in plain white plaster.

"Can you imagine Arlessa Isolde residing here?" called Leliana over her shoulder as she led them down a bare stone corridor on the second floor. "Although Leonas Bryland is half-Orlesian, he is all Ferelden in décor."

Nondescript wooden doors with no hint as to their contents branched off to either side; and the retainers lurking here mostly wore the colours of Arl Eamon.

"She'd have the place looking like Val Royeaux within the week," replied Alistair, distracted by the sight of several Templar stationed outside a doorway. Their faces seemed familiar, and he recognised them as those that had survived the slaughter at the Circle Tower.

"What are the Templar doing here?" he asked, as the armoured men noticed their approach and came to respectful attention. One of them, a youthful blond-headed officer, accidentally let the pommel of his sword slip through his fingers; the weapon clattered on the rush covered floor.

"Escorting the young Master Connor to Jainen Tower while Kinloch is undergoing restoration," replied Leliana, turning a charming, surface-level smile towards the contingent of Templars.

Flora, who recognised most of them from her time at the Tower, waved her fingers tentatively just as a plaintive child's voice rose in protest behind the door, arguing with some unseen figure. Leliana swept them away tactfully down the corridor; in the background, they could hear one of the Templar teasing the bashful young lieutenant.

"Still sweet on that girl, Rutherford? I remember you mooning over her in the Tower."

Alistair narrowed his eyes, head turning. Before he could speak, Leliana came to a pause before a slightly more ornate wooden door.

"Alistair, if you go in here, I'll have someone bring water for you to bathe. I don't mean to offend, but you both are in a dire condition and utterly unsuitable to be presented to anyone. Flora, I want to burn those clothes. They are offensive to me both visually and _olfactorially_. Come with me."

When Alistair looked about to protest, Leliana flashed her pale blue eyes at him in reprimand.

"This isn't the Wilds, or the Forest. This is a perfectly civilised settlement, she'll be  _fine_ , as will you. Come, Flora."

Flora followed Leliana obediently down the corridor, passing the Tranquil emissary Pether on the way. He bowed his head in a neutral nod of greeting, and Leliana nudged the elf Caron off in his direction with a murmured instruction. Rounding a corner, Leliana ushered a yawning Flora within another nondescript wooden door, and into a whitewashed bedchamber.

"Here, these are our quarters. They belong to Arl Bryland's young daughter, Habren, whom he has sent to Denerim for safety."

It was clear that the chamber had belonged to a girl who prized her Orlesian ancestry. The stark arrow-slit had been decorated with a pair of cornflower-blue curtains, and a painting of the  _Miroir du Mère_  hung over an enamelled dressing table. The four poster bed was hung with ruffled fuchsia silk to match its bedding. There was even a small woven rug placed carefully over the plain flagstones. Several velvet chaises had been moved into the room, shoved unceremoniously against the walls to allow for additional occupants; on one of these, Wynne's books and staff rested. Various other blankets and cushions lay scattered about the chamber.

"I assume that the witch has flown off somewhere," Leliana murmured, steering Flora deftly into a small tiled antechamber. A large copper tub sat squarely in the centre of the room, with a jug and ewer to one side.

The bard could not help wrinkling her nose as she helped Flora to pull the travel-stained shirt over her head.

"Ugh," she intoned, crumpling the sweaty fabric up with her lip curling. Flora sat on the edge of the copper tub and obediently pulled off boots, breeches and smalls. Between them, they managed to extract the leather tie from within her braid and just about comb the worst tangles from her hair.

"I'll get someone to bring water," said Leliana, eyes watering from the effort of wrenching the brush through the matted red strands. "Don't move."

Flora nodded obediently from the bottom of the empty tub, then as Leliana left, realised that she  _could_  not move; the bard had taken her clothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So the timeline of the game says that it takes place over about a year! I had to come up with an idea of what the Darkspawn were doing during that time, so I theorised that they were milling around. I imagine that without the Archdemon's direct instructions they have little organisation or purpose, and I don't think that the Archdemon would be working on a 'human' timescale – it's in no hurry. "His Grace" is how you would refer to a teyrn, if you wanted to be really ceremonial about it. It demonstrates how the teyrn parallels with the position of Duke (the only rank to be referred to as 'Your Grace' within Medieval England). And of course arls = earls, and banns = barons! I also wanted to bring Connor back into my story because his arc seemed a little unfinished in game – I seriously doubt that the Kinloch Hold Circle would take any new recruits while it was rebuilding after Abomination Party Central, so I decided to have the Templar escort Connor across to Jainen Circle, which is actually on an island to the north, so it's a bit of a roundabout route going through South Reach - I'll explain it by saying that Eamon wanted to see his son before going to Denerim, knowing that events might turn against him in the city. Full disclosure: I made up the world olfactorially, but I love it and I might write to the dictionary so they include it lolol


	126. Baths and Leonas Bryland

Chapter 126: Baths and Leonas Bryland

"Are you really going to burn my clothes? I don't have anything else," Flora called plaintively after Leliana, gripping the side of the copper tub. Getting no response but the sound of the wooden door slamming shut, she began to clumsily unwind the plaidweave strips from her palm, then removed the strapping from her knee. It was swollen and stiff from the journey, emitting dull rhythmic throbs of pain.

Flora sighed, then lowered her chin to the sore joint and rested it there, drawing her knees up to her chest. Her mind was full of clashing worries, all fighting for dominance over her thoughts.

_Is the Archdemon still at Ostagar? I've not heard it for two nights now._

_I hope Alistair is alright. From the size of the fancy door he went into, Arl Eamon has already crowned him King in his own mind._

_Fergus Cousland. I wonder if he'll wave a mage cage at me like Finian did._

_Hm, the old teyrn clearly had a liking for the letter F._

Feeling a headache dawning, Flora pushed these conflicting thoughts from her mind and instead began to daydream about the prospect of food other than bread and salted meat. A procession of serving girls clad in plain grey brought in pails to fill the tub; the water was cool but refreshing after Brecilian's cloying humidity.

Wynne came in as Flora was soaping her hair into a lather; the senior mage greeting her with relief and surprising affection.

"It's good to see you again, child. I heard from Alistair that you were successful."

Flora nodded, grimacing as a rivulet of soap ran into the corner of her eye.

"Mm, the Dalish have agreed to help us. Was your journey alright? Ow, owww, my eye."

Wynne let out a little snort, handing the junior mage a washcloth.

"The company was interesting, to say the least," she murmured, perching on the edge of the copper tub. "The Qunari said about two words in total; though the dwarf more than made up for it. I'm surprised at how well Oghren functions under the duress of alcohol. I suspect that he is actually  _more_ functional after drinking."

Flora grinned, passing the washcloth back. Wynne deftly intercepted her wrist, bringing Flora's reddened palm up to her face and gazing at it curiously.

"Excessive expenditure of creation magic," the senior mage murmured, eyeing the inflamed skin with fascination. "Alistair told me about the maleficar in the woods."

"He did?"

Releasing Flora's hand, Wynne gave a solemn nod. "He said that you defended yourself with great proficiency."

Flora looked proud, then shot the older woman a dubious look. "Wait, was he bathing too when you went in?"

Wynne gave a dark cackle of confirmation, a gleam at the back of her eye. "I told him, ' _young man, I'm an old lady now. There's nothing you possess that I haven't seen before.'"_

The senior mage withdrew with the excuse that she needed to write to Irving and update him on their circumstances.

Flora lingered for a while longer in the bath, still determinedly focusing on the prospect of dinner rather than the spectre of the elder Cousland. Then, realising that the bathwater was now grubby and filled with pieces of floating straw, she rose to her feet and clambered gracelessly out of the tub.

_No wonder Leliana looked so appalled,_ she thought, casting a look at the filthy water as she retied her bandages and knee strapping.  _I must have looked a state._

"Florence? Lady Cousland, ah…  _Warden_ … Lady-Warden?"

The voice came from the bedchamber, strange, male, and authoritative despite its hesitancy over how to address her.

Flora stood dripping on the flagstones, cursing Leliana for leaving her only with a pair of boots. Finally, grabbing a woollen blanket that had been hanging out to dry, she wrapped it around herself and padded barefoot into the bedchamber.

The Arl of South Reach was leaning against the four-poster bed, clad in forest green velvet. The gold band of peerage rested on shoulder length sandy hair; the only nod to his  _demi-Orlesian_  heritage was his shaven face. His eyes were dark and weary; set either side of a prominent, aristocratic nose.

Leonas Bryland's initial instinct on seeing Flora clad dripping in a blanket was to retreat; but the rush of recognition that followed was a far more persuasive urge. The Arl advanced across the chamber, lifting her chin with a finger to stare in wonder at her features.

"By Andraste's Sword," he breathed, eyes moving rapidly over her face. "You're the very _spit_  of Bryce. You've got the Cousland nose. And that hair – the teyrn was very proud of his red beard when we were young men fighting together. We used to call him the  _fox."_

Flora, clutching the blanket around her shoulders, could think of nothing to say except the rather banal: "The teyrn sent me away, I'm not Lady Cousland. I'm a mage, I might as well be a bastard."

_I might as well just be Flora of Herring._

"You're a  _Cousland_ mage, and a Grey Warden," retorted the Arl, his voice rising eagerly. "You could be a powerful weapon, if wielded correctly."

_Or a tool,_ Flora thought gloomily; though the Arl interpreted her anxious grimace as discomfort with the situation. Coming to his senses, he recoiled from her as though her skin had burnt him, retreating several steps backwards.

" _Ahem_ \- where are my manners? This is what happens when you remove the women from the castle; they take all semblance of gentility with them. I am Leonas Bryland, my... lady-warden."

"Please call me Flor-  _Florence_ ," Flora said, feeling water running down her legs and pooling around her feet on the flagstones. The wet, heavy ropes of her hair hung down her back, saturating the blanket. "Do you have anything I can wear?"

The Arl coughed to hide his embarrassment, striding over to the valance and yanking open the drawers one by one.

"My daughter had a vast wardrobe," here, he turned around and cast his eyes quickly over her. "She's fifteen, but you look about the same size. Wait, you're  _not_  fifteen, are you?"

"No, I'm nineteen," replied the perturbed Flora, trying to avoid dripping on the Orlesian silk rug. The Arl exhaled in relief, continuing to root through the drawers.

"Hm. Appears as though she's taken most of it to Denerim, the silly chit."

Finally, the Arl found a crumpled heap of Orlesian silk at the back of the nightwear drawer and thrust it in her direction without looking at her. Muttering an excuse and inclining his head politely, he reversed out of the bedchamber with unseemly haste.

Flora unfolded the heap of silk, slightly awed at the cloud-like gauziness of the fabric. It was the finest quality material that she had ever felt in her life, a sunset-toned nightgown that started off pallid yellow and faded into muted shades of violet and rose. Pulling it over her head she felt faintly ridiculous, tugging it down to cover her knees and wishing vehemently that she was in something plain and functional. She could almost hear her father's bemusement, his lip curling over a wiry tangle of grey beard.

_What's that flimsy nonsense? he'd mutter, northern accent running strong through the words. You'll catch your death of cold. Go put on something woollen, then help me get in the nets._

Squeezing some of the water from her heavy mass of hair, she prodded uncertainly at the dull embers in the fireplace with a poker. The door opened once again and she turned around, expecting Leliana or Wynne.

Instead Alistair was shutting the door quietly behind him, clothed in a maroon tunic over a fine cambric shirt. Rich blond hair, freshly washed, gleamed like spun gold in the light of the muted embers. His eyes fell on her and Flora gave a small, self-conscious grimace, trying to pull the material further down over her knees.

"The Arl doesn't know how to address me," she said, finally giving up on elongating the flimsy material for fear of ripping it. "He keeps calling me Lady….. Warden….."

Alistair crossed the room in the space of a heartbeat. His eyes were fixed on her as though he were a Dalish hunter and she some exotically-hued variant of a  _halla._

"He's settled on lady-warden," continued Flora, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as Alistair approached. "Does he call you  _man-warden?"_

Alistair did not reply, instead enfolding her in his arms and drawing her hips to his. The sodden curtain of her hair quickly soaked the sleeve of his shirt, yet he seemed not to notice; instead pressing his face against her neck and inhaling the scent of her freshly washed skin.

"What's wrong with  _Flora,_ man-warden _?_ " she breathed, the words tangling together as he began to kiss a meandering line down her neck. His lips wandered down to her collarbone, lingering there for a moment before continuing downwards over the gauzy material covering her breast. His tongue found her small nipple through the fabric and he drew it into his mouth, alongside the delicate silk of the nightgown.

As she swayed against him, Alistair picked her up and drew her legs around his waist. The thin material gathered over her hips and he let out a raw sound of desire on seeing that she was naked underneath.

In three strides, he had carried her over to the bed and deposited her on the mattress. Her brother-warden's eyes were blown dark with desire, one hand reaching out to stroke her while the other fumbled at his breeches. Gripping her knee and taking himself in hand, he was just bending over her when there came a strident rap on the door.

"Florence! Flor _-ence!"_

Both Wardens instantly recognised the refined, confident voice.

"Leliana has sent me with some smalls for you," bellowed Finian through the wood. "Can I come in? If too many people see me with ladies'  _underthings,_  they'll get completely the wrong idea. I'm coming in!"

Alistair, who had frozen the moment that he had heard the middle Cousland's voice, recoiled from Flora so violently that he fell off the other side of the bed and landed on the floor.

The next moment, the door swung open and a jubilant Finian strode in, finely attired in shades of laurel green and navy. His eyes fell on Flora, who was just sitting up on the edge of the bed, and he shook his russet curls impatiently.

"Are you  _napping?_  Haven't you heard, Fergus is here? It's a Maker-damned miracle. I'm going to take you to him now."

The young lord's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he surveyed his sister's expression, her features a feminine mirror of his own.

"Why is your face so red? It can't be from the bath, they're not so civilised as to have  _heated water_ here. Ah, how I miss Val Royeaux!"

Just then Alistair rose up somewhat sheepishly from the floor, holding a small copper coin.

"Finally! I've been looking for that for ages," he said inanely, avoiding looking directly at Finian, whose nostrils were flaring dangerously. "Look, Flo, I found the coin."

"What coin?" replied Flora, who was not good at disassembly. Alistair groaned under his breath, while Finian let out a little  _harrumph,_ thrusting the smallclothes in her direction.

"Hurry up," he directed, averting his eyes to the ceiling. "Fergus wants to see you."

"When did you lose a coin?" Flora said to Alistair, hoisting the smalls around her waist before going to retrieve her boots. The more eager that Finian sounded, the slower she moved; apprehension manifesting as a gradual build-up of nausea in her stomach.

"I didn't- I didn't lose a coin," Alistair replied, trying to restrain a laugh that would have been deeply inappropriate considering the circumstances. Flora eyed him for a moment, pulling the second boot on with some difficulty due to her sore knee.

"Man-warden, may I borrow your tunic?" she asked, wandering over to Alistair and fiddling with the golden eyelets. "I don't have anything else to put on."

"Of course, my dear."

Alistair removed the rest of the fastenings and handed her the maroon tunic, revealing the finely-made cambric shirt beneath. Flora shrugged her arms through the overlarge sleeves, grateful for the increased coverage over her upper half. The nightgown, although undeniably beautiful, was clearly meant for the bedroom alone.

Impatient, Finian held open the door for them. Flora ducked beneath his arm, feeling anxiety gnawing at the edge of her brain with sharp little teeth. The resolution that she had displayed on the road to South Reach eroded with every step down the flagstoned corridor; trailing in her eager brother's wake. Finian kept glancing over his shoulder, gesturing impatiently for her to keep up.

Instead of returning to the west tower stairs, they continued further within the bowels of the castle. Torches in iron brackets on the walls cast pools of golden light within the shadowed passage; Mabari hounds wandered freely alongside servants and retainers. They emerged on a minstrel's gallery, overlooking a great hall that was slightly larger than the one at Redcliffe Castle. A bard was playing Fereldan folk melodies in one corner, while servants cleared away half-eaten platters of food.

Pausing for a moment on the stone balcony, Flora recognised several of the nobles that had accompanied them from Redcliffe. The Arl of Edgehall was tapping his foot to the melody and trying to catch the eye of a pretty elven serving girl. The Bann of Calon – the one terrified of mages – was deep in conversation with a regal woman in violet, whom she guessed was Bann Reginalda of White River.

For a moment, Flora felt the urge to laugh.  _They're all here because of me and Alistair,_ she thought to herself wildly.  _All of these great men and women, answering the summons of two warden-recruits._

Leonas Bryland himself was leaning beside the vast fireplace, talking in earnest with Eamon and Teagan. As though he could feel her gaze, the Arl of South Reach turned to look up at the minstrel's gallery. He murmured something to Eamon, who raised a hand in greeting, a smile deepening the lines on his face. Flora, too nauseous to smile back, gave a half-grimace in response while Alistair waved properly.

Her brother-warden turned back to her and the pleased expression quickly vanished from his face.

"Flo, you look like you're going to be sick."

Flora grimaced, her feet feeling leaden. Her mind was eagerly summoning unwanted memories of  _mage cages_  and Templars. Ahead, two guards clad in forest green and navy Cousland livery were deferring in respect to Finian as he approached. The young lord turned around before the wooden door and gestured once again, his voice high and imperious.

"Come  _on!"_

Alistair reached out and gave her elbow a quick, reassuring squeeze. Flora inwardly repeated her father's mantra to herself –  _deep breath, chin up, eyes straight –_ and headed towards her like-featured brother.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: So once again, we have Flora meeting a Cousland brother at a castle! Last time, it didn't exactly go well – neither Finian nor Flora were shown at their best; what with him setting the Templars on her, and her plunging into Lake Calenhad to get away! We'll see what happens when Flora meets the eldest sibling, Fergus – who has inherited his parents' deep suspicion of mages. Finian is far more accepting, having spent four years at the University of Orlais in Val Royeaux where mages were valued and integrated far more.
> 
> Also, we seemed to have replaced WYNNE-TERUPTIONS with FIN-TERUPTIONS ok I'll show myself out


	127. Bryce's Children, Reunited

Chapter 127: Bryce's Children, Reunited

Finian led the Wardens through a similarly austere passageway, dominated by retainers wearing the olive laurel livery. It appeared that Leonas Bryland had assigned Fergus Cousland the whole corridor and accompanying rooms for his personal quarters. As Finian strode confidently down the centre of the passage, the teyrn's servants parted respectfully before him, inclining their heads.

"How does your brother have so many in his retinue?"

Alistair posed the question to Finian's navy-clad narrow back, as the old teyrn's middle child wove his way impatiently through the crowd. "Since Arl Howe still holds Highever, as far as I'm aware."

It was as though he'd uttered a curse, or a blasphemy. Those nearby curled their lips at the name, several spat onto the rushes that were strewn over the tiles. Finian darted a contemptuous little smile over his shoulder.

"Some were in Fergus' scouting patrol and stayed with him when he was injured. Didn't trust the Chasind to treat him well, though they saved his life. Others swore an empty oath to Howe at Highever and then waited for a message from either Fergus or myself. When it came, they left and joined my brother here."

"And the Arl allowed them to do so?" replied Alistair, eyebrows rising in surprise.

"Arl Howe barely waited for our parents' blood to be washed from the flagstones before returning to Denerim," retorted Finian scornfully, coming to a pause before a pair of elaborately carved doors. "He went straight back to Loghain Mac Tir once the betrayal was complete."

It was Alistair's turn to hiss under his breath at the mention of a name, though he restrained himself from spitting onto the rushes.

Finian glanced at Flora, who looked as though she were being led to the gallows.

"Ready?" He paused a moment, sea-grey eyes flickering evasively to one side. "I might as well warn you, he's not overly fond of mages."

Before an appalled Flora could respond, Finian swung the carved door open.

"Greetings, brother. I have someone for you to meet!"

The chamber was thick with the distinctive, cloying scent of sickness. Scented logs were burning in the fireplace, but nothing could disguise the congealing miasma that lay beneath a shallow layer of perfumed air. The room was dim, the warm, perfumed glow of firelight only reaching the foot of the bed. This chamber was more ornately decorated than the west wing; the furniture was upholstered with padded velvet and a large oval mirror stood on a panelled armoire. Several retainers stood at the entrance, silent and impassive, constantly ready for instruction.

Fergus Cousland was half-lying on a padded chaise beside the arrow slit window, his feet propped up on a footstool. He had the hollow-cheeked look of a man who naturally ran to stockiness; but had lost mass rapidly through illness and personal tragedy. His colouring was a slight variant on that of his younger siblings – the hair was more ruddy brown than fox-fur red, and the watchful Waking Sea eyes contained more blue than grey. However, the long Cousland nose was unmistakeable, and there were other, more subtle signs of his parentage that gradually became evident. The turn of his head and the way he held his shoulders back, and the curl of the arrogant, wide mouth. These nuances manifested themselves in all three of the teyrn's children; even the one raised in the fishing village.

Fergus Cousland was also undeniably a very sick man. Although he could not have been more than thirty, the gauntness in his face aged him another decade, and his skin was the sallow colour of turned milk. Untamed stubble shadowed the lower half of his jaw. At the open collar of his shirt, the edge of an ugly violet wound was just about visible. Although it must have been months since he was attacked by the Darkspawn, the injury did not seem to have healed.

On seeing Alistair step into the room behind Finian, Fergus bowed his head a fraction. Strings of loose, ruddy hair trembled as he let out a soft and humourless laugh.

"My lord Theirin," the eldest Cousland murmured, his voice little more than a weak echo. "I apologise for not getting up."

"Please, call me Alistair," the bastard prince replied, his own tone sombre as he inclined his head back respectfully. Fergus ran an appraising eye over the young Warden, and a rueful smile curled the corner of his lip.

"You do resemble your brother, Maker preserve him. I'm surprised that I never saw you at Ostagar, though my scouting often had me away for weeks at a time."

Fergus' gaze drifted past Alistair, and his voice sharpened.

"Step forward, girl. Let me see you."

The doubt and defensiveness was evident in his tone; wariness pulsed from the deposed teyrn's son in visceral waves. Flora, who had been content to lurk behind her brother-warden, took an unsteady breath and stepped forward.

Fergus sat up as much as he was able, his eyes swiftly moving over the finely hewn features of her face; taking in the Cousland nose, the sea-grey eyes and the wide, curling mouth. He inhaled sharply, gesturing her to come closer.

Flora went forward obediently, kneeling down on the rushes before him. She could feel cold wetness on her back where her loose, still-damp hair had soaked through the tunic and flimsy nightgown. Fergus reached down and tilted her chin up to the firelight, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Maker take me," he breathed after a long moment, raw disbelief throbbing in the words. "It  _is_ you. Little Flossie.  _Florence_. Andraste, it's been an age. How old would you be now- twenty?"

"Nineteen," Flora replied, keeping her eyes lowered studiously to the rushes. "My birthday's not till the- "

"First day of Solace," interjected Fergus, his voice wondering. He reached down and picked up a heavy rope of hair, the rich russet hue evident even through its wetness.

"Andraste, I don't believe it. Cailan mentioned the new little redheaded mage several times at Ostagar, when she first got assigned to his guard. We kept teasing him, asking if he'd bedded her yet."

The teyrn's son let out an incredulous bark of weak laughter, and for a moment there was a glimpse of the old Fergus, who loved coarse humour and bawdy jokes. Flora could sense Alistair bristling behind her, knowing that if she looked around her brother-warden would have his fingers clenched in tight fists.

"But Cailan never did," continued Fergus, his voice growing distant as his mind meandered through the music and laughter of the upper encampment. "He said that the Warden-Commander had forbidden any man at Ostagar from laying a finger on her. Maker, if I'd known that was  _you_ …!"

Flora continued to stare glumly down at the rushes, the chill of the flagstones seeping through her bare knees. Fergus looked down at the top of her head for a moment, his gaze keener than any of Zevran's blades.

"Finian tells me that you're a healer of some skill," he said quietly, reaching down to scratch the head of a Mabari that had wandered to his side. "I admit, I was hoping that you would have a rather wider range of abilities. I intend on taking Highever back from Howe, and I will need your assistance."

The treacherous Arl's name was uttered like a blasphemy. Flora gazed into the soulful dark eyes of the Mabari, used to her limited repertoire being a source of disappointment. To date, Duncan remained the only person who had never expressed any surprise or dismay at her restricted skill set. She felt a single elongated beat of sadness at his absence, remembering his final words to her on that fateful day.

_You have a great and rare gift, he'd said._

"If she wanted, Flora could take back Highever single-handed."

This came from Alistair, whose initial doubt in her abilities had quickly been vanquished. Fergus tilted his head curiously towards the male Warden, who expanded stridently on his point.

"She could walk up to the main gates and enter the castle, go straight into Howe's chamber," he continued, momentarily forgetting that the Arl had returned to Denerim. "They could launch ballistas, fire blazing arrows, rush at her with swords – and it wouldn't make a shred of difference."

Flora, slightly alarmed at the prospect of multiple ballistae pointed in her direction, said nothing. Fergus raised a dark eyebrow, returning his gaze to the top of her head.

"But you've got a higher purpose to fulfil,  _Grey Warden,"_ he murmured, and there was an unspoken query in his voice. "Finian tells me that you two have been gathering an army."

Flora, realising that she had not yet spoken a single word in the eldest Cousland's presence, cleared her throat.

"We've got the support of the Circle, the dwarves and the Dalish," she said, uncomfortably aware of the contrast between her own rough-edged northern accent and the refined tones of the man before her. "Once we have the King's army, we can challenge the Darkspawn and end the Blight."

Fergus let out a small, unexpected laugh and Flora eyed him with mild surprise. When he replied, his tone was wry and apologetic.

"I'm not mocking you. It's just-  _strange,_ to hear you talk of uniting armies and fighting battles. I remember you as a spoilt little girl who used to shake Highever to its foundations with her screams. You'd throw the worst tantrums in Thedas if you didn't get your way."

She gaped in mild horror at this macabre conjuration of her younger self. Behind her, Finian gave a wry snort of agreement.

"Sorry, Flo, but he's right. You used to yell loud enough to summon the Maker if anyone so much as touched one of your fancy Orlesian dolls."

Flora, who had owned no toys growing up in Herring, continued to blink in appalled silence at this unwelcome insight into her childhood. Fergus paused for a moment, his grey-blue eyes sweeping over her once again.

"Sorry that I'm not embracing you or falling to your feet with tears of joy, Florence," he said abruptly. "It's been a trying few months."

Flora looked up at him, remembering what Finian had said about a murdered wife and child. There was a shadow in the elder Cousland's eyes that had nothing to do with his frailty or sickness, and she felt a sudden wave of sympathy.

"It's alright," she mumbled, shrugging a shoulder. "You're not waving mage cages or chasing me down the halls with Templar, so it's an improvement on meeting Finian."

Fergus let out a thin bark of laughter, glancing over at his taller, slender-built brother. Finian had the grace to blush, folding long fingers defensively.

"I thought she'd be a powerful sorceress!" retorted the younger Cousland, raising his eyebrows. "I didn't want to take any chances."

A man in the green-laurel livery entered, holding a silver tray. On the tray rested a small ewer, a variety of bowls and glass vials. The pungent smell of reagents permeated the room as soon as he arrived, strong enough to make the eyes water.

Fergus let out a sigh, accustomed to the powerful aroma.

"If you'll excuse me," he murmured, settling back against the padded chair. "The only thing that's kept me from joining my Oriana and Oren has been this damned Chasind medicine. We'll talk more tomorrow."

The heir to Highever reached down to undo the first three buttons of his shirt, a slight tremor to his fingers. The top half of an ugly purplish wound was revealed, the flesh still seeping and raw. It curled beneath the shirt, suggesting a length that ran the length of his abdomen. Although it must have been inflicted months ago, it had the appearance of a fresh-inflicted injury. Around the purplish flesh seethed the dark veins of the Blight.

"Blasted Hurlock caught me with a claw, murmured Fergus as the manservant approached with the reagent tray. "The ointment keeps the poison from spreading, but the taint stops the wound healing as it ought."

"Brother," interrupted Finian, impatiently. "Why not let Florence take a look? She has a gift for healing magic."

"Mages have already tried to mend it, the last being the senior enchanter herself," replied Fergus, his eyes closing as the servant began to mix the pungent mixture. "It's no use. They cannot remove the taint."

"But, brother, she's gifted. It's all that she can do – heal and shield – and she's uncommonly good at both," protested Finian, elbowing Alistair for some support.

"One trick pony," mumbled Flora to herself, but her healer's eyes were already surveying the teyrn's injury. It was similar to the Blighted arrow wound that she had cured at Lothering, but larger and more deeply ingrained in the skin. She could smell the taint curling its way into her nostrils; old, stale and rotten. The dozy Mabari licked her bare knee, and she jumped a little.

"Finian is right," Alistair interjected hastily, recalling Zathrian's words from the Brecilian temple. "She has the aid of powerful spirits."

Fergus paused for a moment, looking down at his kneeling sister's head. Her hair hung in wet ropes around her face; with it loose, she looked younger than her nineteen years. He let out a sigh, then inclined his own head in a faint half-nod of assent.

"Fine. Maker knows, it can't do any more harm."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I've looked forward to writing this chapter since I first came up with the concept of Flora as a hidden Cousland mage children. All three Cousland siblings, back together! Even if the elder one is deeply suspicious of the younger. So in my story, Fergus was rescued by the Chasind and brought to South Reach, since Arl Bryland is canonically loyal to the Couslands. He's been recovering for months, though the wound can't heal because of the Blighted nature of it. I also like this chapter because we get our first glimpse of Flora's life before Herring – the memories of which are still locked away in her mind by the mysterious mage who took her from Highever. And to her dismay, it appears that she was a brat! Actually, brat is an UNDERSTATEMENT. Imagine the most spoilt, demanding and wilful child – the sort that makes the parents apply to TV shows starring strict nannies – that was Flo.


	128. The Teyrn and the Taint

Chapter 128: The Teyrn and the Taint

Between them, Finian and Alistair helped Fergus over to the bed, Finian quietly shocked at how light and frail his formerly stocky older brother had become. Even the exertion of changing position had worn Fergus out; his face a sallow green by the time that he settled back against the pillows, coughing.

"Look at the state of me," he murmured, hoarse and slightly despairing. "What hope do I have of retaking Highever from Howe?"

Flora approached the bed and he looked up at her with the customary wariness that most people bore on seeing a mage approach. She was so inured to it by this point that she barely registered his apprehension, clambering up on the bed beside him.

"Where's your staff?" Fergus enquired weakly, his face sunken and obscenely pale against the dark pillows. Flora reached down with still-sore fingers, undoing the remainder of the shirt buttons and opening the cotton to reveal the wound in all its lurid, ugly glory.

"Don't nee- don'  _nee'it_ ," she mumbled back, her words tangling with the golden mist rising in her throat. Thick and viscous, she could feel it rolling over her tongue and congealing over her teeth, to the point where it was almost a relief to expel it from her mouth. Kneeling over him, she coaxed the creation magic into the wound with small quirks of her fingers; teasing it through the inflamed flesh like one would draw thread through a needle.

_**Inhale.** _

She breathed in the old Darkspawn poison and immediately wanted to gag from the fetid sourness of it. There was nothing familiar about this old, rotting taint; and the stench of decay congealed against the roof of her mouth. Her face contorted and she fought the urge to cough, forced herself to swallow the rancid mouthful. Her stomach curdled for a moment, and she felt the muscles of her abdomen convulse.

_I'm going to be sick!_

_**No, you're not.** _

On cue, she felt the stinging prickle of magic manifest in her belly as her body began to reflexively neutralise the poison.

Thus reassured, Flora bent over and  _exhaled_  another lungful of golden mist over the tainted wound.

As usual when healing a serious injury, Flora lost track of time. The jewel tones of sunset through the arrow-slit were soon replaced by rich navy darkness. Servants came in and restocked the wood in the grate, clearing away stained rushes. Someone entered the room and conversed in murmuring tones with those watching – it could have been Arl Eamon, or Leonas himself. Possibly it was both; Flora was oblivious. Someone offered her some water, stroked a hand over her head, she recognised the calloused palm as belonging to her brother-warden.

Flora took the sip without seeing the water pouch, her mind's eye firmly wedged in the bloody laceration.

_Inhale; exhale._

The urge to vomit lessened as she grew accustomed to the rancid taste of rotting Blight, her stomach stoically adapting to this new variant of poison.

_Inhale. Are any organs damaged? There's a minute tear on one lung that could split further; probably the cause of his wheezing._

_Exhale. The other organs seem alright, nestled in fleshy companionship within their constraints of bone. They're not tainted, or he'd be dead._

_Inhale. Lung's fixed. Where's the taint? Is there any left? No, it's gone. Purged white-hot clean as though burnt away. Time to mend the wound._

_Exhale._

"Andraste's…  _Maker_ , look at that."

The voice came from somewhere above Flora's left ear, strident and disbelieving. It took several minutes for her to regain her vision, blinking to purge flesh and sinew from her gaze. To her surprise, the room remained blurred; the voices vague and muffled as though they were underwater. Her stomach gave a sudden, violent lurch and she gulped in a breath of stuffy air.

"I told you!" Finian's voice was jubilant. "I  _told_ you she was good."

"Flora? Flo?"

Alistair's voice in her ear, low and concerned. She stretched out a hand blindly in the direction she assumed he was in, and felt his arm slide around her back to steady her. Slowly, wedged against the comforting familiarity of his chest, the room came into focus once more. The voices sharpened and became more distinctive, one brother exulting and the other in disbelief. One retainer let out an exclamation of shock and delight, calling for others to come quickly.

Flora withdrew from the bed, feeling an irrational surge of guilt when she noticed that the soles of her boots had left dirty marks on the bedspread. She had no idea how long she had been hunched over the deposed teyrn of Highever, but her formerly sodden hair was now hanging in a mass of dry, loose curls down her back. Dimly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fergus clambering up from the bed, brushing aside a servant's attempt to help.

Suddenly the floor seemed to give a slow roll beneath her feet, as though she were standing on the deck of one of the big ships that occasionally sailed past Herring. Flora lurched sideways, Finian and Fergus blending together to create a new Cousland son with mingled features. She heard Alistair's voice rising in alarm, felt him grip her elbow and steer her over to the chaise.

"Put your face between your legs, sweetheart," he murmured, coaxing her head gently downwards. "Breathe deeply, it'll help."

So it was that Arl Eamon found them; entering the quarters of the teyrn's invalid son to discover the shutters flung open and cool night air streaming in. Cousland retainers were murmuring excitedly in small clumps around the edges of the room. Fergus Cousland himself was standing beside the fireplace, shoulders flung back strong and robust, his face animated. Though still hollow-cheeked and gaunt, the miasma of decay that he had worn like a cloak for the past months had been lifted. He was talking to Finian, who was grinning from ear to ear, his narrow and clever face aglow with pride.

Alistair was crouched in front of his sister-warden, who was bent double on the chaise while taking deep, croaking breaths like a beached sea creature. He was murmuring to her, low and affectionate; a hand caressing the back of her sweaty neck.

"My lord Cousland," the Arl said, offering the customary bow. "I cannot express how glad I am to see you hale again."

Eamon gave the jubilant Finian a nod, then turned to the two Wardens. Alistair greeted him with a wan smile; Flora looked up, green about the gills.

"Alistair, it gives me great comfort to see you and Florence again. I heard of your success with the Dalish," started the Arl, his voice low and earnest. "If we call the other arls and banns together now, we can discuss how to consolidate our position before the Landsmeet is called."

"No."

Alistair's decisive reply rang out, the lone word throbbing with inexorable conviction. It was enough to halt Eamon in his tracks, and to draw the attention of both Cousland brothers from the fireplace. The retainers melted away, invisible.

Even Alistair himself looked vaguely surprised at the stridency of his response but pressed on determinedly.

"We've been travelling all day," he continued, the words even and inviting no argument. "And more importantly, my sister-warden needs to recover. Tomorrow, after we've rested, we'll talk as much as you like. For hours if need be. Just – not tonight."

For all the measured politeness in Alistair's voice, it was not a request. Fergus glanced across at Eamon, who inclined his head minutely. After a moment, the grey-bearded arl bestowed a smile on both Wardens.

"Of course. Our main priority is your well-being,  _both_ of you. Maker grant you a good night's rest, and we'll convene after we've broken our fast tomorrow."

Fergus nodded, his mouth half-opening as he watched Alistair help an unsteady Flora to her feet, before carefully steering her out of the room. 

"Ferg, you could've been a touch kinder to her," murmured Finian after a moment, shooting a reproving glance over at his elder brother. "I know you dislike mages, but she's  _mended_ you. Show a hair of gratitude! A smidgeon!"

Fergus barely registered his brother's plea, bluish-grey eyes catching a glimpse of Alistair's arm around Flora's waist before the door swung shut. He turned to the Arl of Redcliffe, brows rising to the exposed beam-work of the ceiling.

"So what exactly  _is_ the relationship between Cailan's brother and my little sister? He can barely keep his hands off her."

As they traversed the minstrel's gallery, Flora veered off suddenly towards the stone balcony. The nobles had left the main hall beneath them; the servants were busy clearing up the remnants of dinner. Zevran was leaning against the vast fireplace, aggressively flirting with the folk singer that had serenaded the peers earlier.

"Hold on, my dear. Don't fall over."

Alistair, rather than being amused at the sight of his sister-warden wobbling about as though she had ingested too much ale, was worried about her body's unusual reaction after inhaling the Blight. He had seen her do it countless times, but she had never before suffered such an extreme and prolonged reaction.

Steering her away from the railing, he turned her greenish face towards his, gazing anxiously down at her.

"Flo, you have to stop doing this… breathing the stuff in. It's not good for you."

"But I'mma  _grordan,"_  she replied back, the words running together and falling out of her mouth in a tangle. "Grordan. Grey… Warden. I'm fine.  _S'just_  because wound was old…rotted – decaying. Stop worrying, man-warden."

Flora's eyes crossed and she stumbled against him, feeling the ship beneath her give another drunken roll.

A tight-lipped Alistair steered her back down the corridor, the expression on his face inviting no conversation. Liveried men from various retinues stepped hastily out of their way, many of them recognising the distinctive cut of the Theirin jaw.

When they had reached their assigned quarters in the west wing, passing the ubiquitous Templars stationed outside Connor's door, Alistair suggested to Wynne that she take his larger quarters. Although it was framed as a request, it was clear that the Warden was not going to take  _no_  for an answer. In truth, the senior enchanter was relieved to have some privacy and a respite from Leliana's lengthy evening prayers.

As Alistair thrust his bleary-eyed sister-warden inside the smaller set of rooms, Leliana herself was dutifully kneeling at the foot of the bed, hands folded in devotion. As Flora nearly stumbled over the Orlesian embroidered rug, Leliana looked up.

"I assume you met Lord Cousland," she started, then a frown flitted across her pretty face. "Is she alright? Is she… _inebriated?!"_

Alistair shook his head stiffly, gripping the gently swaying Flora by her elbow.

"She inhaled something that disagreed with her," he replied, the humour crackling dry and insubstantial. "Can you help me?"

Leliana leapt up to guide the yawning Flora over to the bed, sitting her down while Alistair rifled through the arlina''s ransacked  _armoire._ Between them, they managed to remove Flora's boots and mismatched clothing, manoeuvring her into a pair of blue silk pyjamas cut in the Orlesian style. Alistair dragged the  _chaise_ over to the bedside, while Leliana tied the Warden's untidy hair back at the nape of her neck with one of her own ribbons. At this point, Flora's head was practically in her lap, drifting in and out of sleep.

By the time that they had pulled the covers up under her chin, Flora was snoring. The fire had dulled to embers, casting a reddish glow over the whitewashed walls. Alistair, who had not realised how exhausted he was until he too was horizontal, slumped down on the  _chaise_. It was slightly lower than the bed; and Flora's hand dangled limply in front of his face. He took it, entwining his fingers within hers.

On the other side of Flora, Leliana leaned over to blow the candle out. After checking that her knife still lay beneath the mattress, she slid down against the velvet pillows and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

"What did you think of Fergus Cousland?" she murmured into the red-hued darkness, fiddling with the Chantry ring that had been given to her by the revered mother at Lothering.

Alistair paused for a moment, squeezing his sister-warden's limp fingers within his own.

"I thought he was callous," he said after a moment, remembering how Fergus had not spared a single glance or sympathetic word for his sister after she had exhausted herself on his poisoned wound. "And arrogant. Like you'd expect a teyrn's son to be, I suppose. But he's prejudiced against mages, he wasn't kind to Flo."

"His parents, wife and child were murdered mere months ago," Leliana reminded him gently, casting her words like soft barbs into the darkness. "Is it any wonder he seems hard? And he is not alone in his prejudice against those gifted with magic."

Alistair remained silent, but grudgingly acknowledged her point. Leliana inhaled as if ready to augment the argument, but then fell silent. The reddish hue began to fade as the embers died, the unfamiliar shapes of the furniture throwing strange shadows against the walls. The bard began to murmur her customary night-time prayers to the Maker; as he dozed off, Alistair could almost imagine that he was back in the Chantry, being lulled to sleep by monks intoning the evening chant.

As her brother-warden drifted off, Flora awoke briefly, staring down at Alistair's still, handsome face as he lay below her on the adjacent chaise. To her relief, she no longer felt the curdling in her stomach; only the familiar prickling of her magic as her body neutralised the rotted taint. Several moments later, she had dropped back into a restless sleep, the Blight still lingering sour beneath her tongue.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Trying to type with false nails on is actually REALLY difficult! So although Flora's body is capable of neutralising the Blight (and to the anon who messaged me – YES that does mean what you theorised, good guess!), it has more difficulty with old and rotting Blight, such as the type infecting Fergus' wound. Also, "arlina" is just a term I made up – in this case, it's referring to the daughter of an arl. Habren is an actual character in game; you find her in Denerim talking about clothing!


	129. Oghren's Hangover Cure

Chapter 129: Oghren's Hangover Cure

Flora woke two hours before sunrise with the absolute certainty that she was going to be sick. She could feel bile rising up in her throat like some twisted variant of her magic, tearing her fingers free from Alistair's as she shot upright. She couldn't roll sideways because he had pulled up the chaise alongside the bed; instead, she needed to slither down to the foot of the bed and scramble off. As she did so, her stomach gave another threatening lurch.

The cold flagstones were shocking against her bare feet; the fire dead in the grate, the room damp and chilly. Holding up white-glowing fingers, Flora swung her hand until the ethereal light illuminated the wooden doorway. She stumbled across the room and collided face-first with the door, it yielded beneath her weight and swung out into the passageway.

The corridor was deserted, its shadowed walls punctuated by flaming torches. Flora fixed her eyes forward; thinking of courtyards and fresh air and deliberately not dwelling on the spiral staircase that lay beforehand.

Halfway down the passageway she felt nausea rising inexorably within her throat. Dropping to hands and knees, Flora retched raw bile onto the flagstones. It was quick, violent and oddly cathartic; afterwards she felt scraped-hollow yet far better. Whilst kneeling, she noticed that her palms beneath the ragged plaidweave had now fully healed.

Flora clambered back to her feet and went in search of cleaning supplies, feeling golden mist manifesting in her gullet, soothing the burn of stomach acid. After locating a water-bucket and some rags in a utilitarian servant's room, she returned to the passageway and knelt down. As she wrung out the wet cloth, she felt a surge of mingled confusion and annoyance at her own unruly body.

_I felt my body neutralise it last night; I felt well before I slept. Why have I woken up sick?_

"Are you – alright?"

Flora startled, looking over her shoulder. A familiar young Templar was hovering in the corridor, having just emerged from Connor's room. He had short, curling tawny hair and wore an anxious expression; Flora realised that she knew him. He had been at the Circle the same time as she, and had been fortunate enough to survive its fall to demons and maleficar.

"I know you," she said, pleased with herself for remembering. "Lieutenant Rutherford."

Cullen Rutherford looked down at the incongruous figure in blue pyjamas kneeling on the floor, the unruly dark red hair tied back in a ribbon. It was an image that evoked memories of the Circle; where this particular young apprentice had spent more time assigned to chores than in classrooms.

"I know you too. Who wouldn't remember the mage who became a Grey Warden?" he replied, not mentioning that he had known whom she was long before she had been recruited by Duncan.

Flora snorted, and the Templar let slip a small, shy smile. His eyes settled on the bucket and cleaning rags before her and his brow furrowed.

"Shall I call a servant?"

She let out a little cackle, shaking her head quickly.

"It's all done, and besides, I'm used to this from Kinloch Hold. I might not have learnt any useful spells there, but I left knowing how to clean a floor."

Cullen laughed, then restrained himself with an embarrassed little cough. Reaching for his water pouch, he handed it to her; she took several grateful and unladylike gulps.

"Thank you," she replied, taking a deep breath of air before returning the flask.

"Are you... unwell?" he ventured tentatively. Flora looked perplexed for a moment, squinting off down the passageway as she rested a palm on her abdomen.

"I don't know," she replied, brow furrowed. "I feel fine now. I think- I suppose, it's just a consequence of my magic, or the way my body interacts with the Blight."

For a moment she remembered waking in Weep-Eyed Cave two mornings prior with a similarly curdling stomach.

_There was no taint inhaled in that circumstance. Maybe you_ are  _getting sick._

Shaking the thought determinedly from her mind, Flora beamed up at the Templar. He reflexively smiled back down at her.

"You're here with the arl's son?" she asked after a moment, when it became apparent that the shy young officer was not going to say anything.

"Yes, escorting him to Jainen. He'll be brought back to Kinloch eventually, but it'll be a year or so before the Tower is fully functional again."

They stared at one another for a moment, recalling the horror and fetid stench of the upper floors of the Circle after they had fallen under the sway of the  _maleficari_.

"How is Connor?" Flora steered the conversation away from the Tower, seeing a shadow drop over the Templar's whiskey-shaded eyes.

Cullen gave a little frown, glancing over his shoulder at the entrance to Arl Eamon's quarters.

"Afraid of himself," he replied bluntly, an brief flash of guilt crossing his features. "Frightened of what he's capable of. The Arl caught him trying to 'get the magic out' with a blade the other week."

Flora grimaced in sympathy, recalling the child's pale, anxious little face.

"I might talk to him tomorrow. If it's alright with you," she said, instinctively falling back into the rhythm of deferent mage before authoritative Templar. "You know, I didn't mind my time at Kinloch. And he'll have a much better experience than me, he's not a poor fisherman's daughter with a northern accent."

"I think that's a good idea," muttered Cullen, dropping his gaze to the damp flagstones. Flora eyed him for a moment, then stepped forward and put her hand on his arm.

"I remember that you were always nice to me in the Tower," she said, quietly. "And you didn't tell on me for going onto the roof. Thank you."

Flora patted him on the elbow; to hide a spreading blush, Cullen coughed and straightened his shoulders with a metallic shifting of armour.

"I should get back to my post," he muttered, and she smiled at him, bowing her head in visceral obeisance.

Despite her nausea passing Flora had set her mind on fresh air, and so continued down the corridor towards the spiral staircase. Two Redcliffe-liveried soldiers she recognised as having accompanied their retinue to Orzammar; they talked excitedly at her for several minutes about the possibility of upcoming civil war against the  _usurper Loghain's_  faction. Flora, who was still clinging to the possibility that the whole situation could be resolved peacefully, contorted her face into a smile and nodded like a dutiful marionette.

Descending the curving stone staircase as the first burnt umber streaks of dawn filtered through the arrow-slit; Flora unwound the ragged plaidweave bindings from her palms. Shoving the material into her pockets, she bumped her way through a vaguely familiar wooden door and emerged onto the stone ramparts.

The castle at South Reach was perched on the crest of a hill, overlooking the buildings huddled on the slope below. Beyond the makeshift defences, the abandoned farmland sprawled out for miles in tousled patchwork; squares of gold, russet and green blurring together at the distant dark fringe of the Brecilian Forest. A rising spring sun bathed the squat fortress in mellow buttermilk light; softening its blunt towers and rough edges.

Looking over one side of the battlements into a smaller rear courtyard, Flora could see Sten brutalising a training dummy with a vast two-handed mace. She waved, irrationally happy to see him.

His attention caught by the flicker of movement, Sten squinted up against the orange glow of sunrise and saw Flora flailing her arm around. He eyed her impassively, then inclined his head a minute fraction.

Delighted at getting any response from the stoic Qunari, Flora descended down the steps into the main courtyard, the irregular pressure of the cobbles cold against her bare feet. Despite the rising sun it was still chilly, and she thought wistfully of Alistair's thick maroon wool tunic.

"Lassie! Hey, Sparkles. Good to shee-  _see_  ya."

A dwarf's familiar voice drifted towards her, the ale-soaked words slurring together. She looked around; except for a few stablehands and dozing Mabari, the courtyard appeared deserted.

"Over here!" There came a loud hiccup.

Flora traced the source of the voice to a pair of barrels, stacked outside an overstocked buttery. Oghren, bleary eyed, was standing on his head against the solid stone wall. He leered at her clumsily from his upside-down position, gradually pooling blood augmenting the scarlet in his cheeks.

"Nice legssh… _hic!_ "

Flora tilted her head to gaze at him, the bow in her hair coming loose and trailing its silken ends.

"Why are you the wrong way up?" she asked, as he cackled through a quivering ginger moustache. The stench of alcohol was so potent on his breath that she idly wondered if it were possible to become intoxicated on fumes alone.

" _It'sh_  the best cure for a hangover," replied the dwarf obstinately, his palms spread over the cobbles to keep himself upright. "Why are you up so early?"

"I felt sick," said Flora, "but I don't anymore. Mostly not, anyway."

Oghren raised his bristling eyebrows at her, although in his position they appeared to descend towards the flagstones.

"You should try this."

Flora crouched down beside him, placed her head on the cobbles and thrust her legs ambitiously into the air. Feeling the stone wall against her heels, she gazed out at the inverted courtyard. One stablehand, leading a horse by the reins, cast them a perplexed look.

"Feel any better, lass?"

"Hm," replied Flora thoughtfully. "A bit. Has Arl Leonas got any ale left?"

"Heh, heh.  _A bit."_

They stayed upside-down for a while longer. Flora conceded that she was no longer thinking about her queasy stomach; as she was now preoccupied with the blood pooling within her skull.

Suddenly, a pair of ornately embroidered leather boots appeared in front of her face. She moved her eyes over a pair of breeches, along the fine-stitched seams of a navy velvet tunic with a furred collar, then finally up to a gaunt, aristocratic face.

"By the tits of Andraste," said Fergus Cousland eventually in utter bemusement. "What in the seven hells are you doing?"

Flora's pleasure at seeing her former patient strong and steady on his feet was quickly replaced by resentment. She remembered how she had made herself sick on the rotted Blight mouldering in his wound; and how he had barely looked at her afterwards, as though he could not bear to look on the shameful Cousland sibling who dared to be born with  _magic._

"Oh, this is just how I channel energy from the Fade," she replied blithely, wondering how red her face was. "I thought I'd set fire to a few barns this morning; maybe blow up the armoury. Since I'm a mage, and that's what we do _. Evil doings."_

The groom at Fergus' side let out a small snort as he clutched the teyrn's shield. Fergus himself gazed back down at her, nonplussed.

"Hm," he said after a moment. "Anyway, I'm going to start practising with a blade again. Can't reclaim Highever with these wasted muscles."

"Don't worry," Flora called towards the eldest Cousland's departing back. "The training area isn't on my list of places to  _explode_."

The courtyard began to grow busier, servants hurrying back and forth between larder, pantry and kitchens. Oghren had somehow managed to fall asleep in his upside-down position, his stocky legs sliding sideways in small increments. Flora, although her head was now throbbing, was not inclined to return upright quite yet. She rather liked the thought of an inverted world.

_The Darkspawn dig the other way and rise up in Orlais instead; serves them right for not helping us._

_Duncan would still be alive._

_And I'd just be Flora of Herring, rather than an unwanted Cousland._

"Are we doing acrobatics? Allow me to join."

Zevran turned himself onto his head far more elegantly than either Flora or the dwarf had done. The elf looked sideways at her, his loose white-blond hair mingling with her dark red on the cobblestones.

"Why are we upside down,  _corazon_?"

"Oghren is hungover and I felt sick," explained Flora. Zevran raised his eyebrows, giving a whimsical inverted shrug.

"As good a reason as any."

The snoring dwarf finally toppled over, crashing onto the flagstones. This was not, however, enough to rouse him from his slumber.

Alistair, Wynne and Leliana found them sometime later; perplexion and amusement ranging over their faces.

"What are you  _doing?"_ hissed Wynne, her nostrils flaring the width of her face. With her hands wedged on her hips, the senior enchanter's whole body seemed to be made up of sharp, angry angles.

"I'm joining in,  _carina_  felt sick, and the dwarf is hungover," explained Zevran, whose face had miraculously remained a smooth shade of bronze.

"Or dead," chimed in Flora, her head appearing ready to explode. Alistair reached out to tickle the sole of her bare foot, then hastily grabbed an ankle to steady her as she wobbled precariously.

Wynne's face contorted, and for a brief moment she appeared more terrifying than the Archdemon itself.

" _Get-some-clothes-on-and-come-to-breakfast!"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So a BUTTERY isn't a place where they make butter! It's actually a room in a medieval castle where they would store large barrels (i.e. BUTTS) of alcohol! It's where the word butler comes from. Also, standing on your head is a legit cure for a hangover, google it, lol. I like this chapter because it's quite irreverent and the thought of Flora and the two most comedic companions standing on their heads in a row against the wall made me laugh.
> 
> Hmmmm Flo why could you possibly be feeling sick? Numpty! 
> 
> And I love the idea of Fergus just being like WTF ahahaha


	130. Breaking A Fast

Chapter 130: Breaking A Fast

While her brother-warden dragged Oghren back into the buttery to sleep off his hangover; Leliana took Flora up to the young arlina's room to retrieve some more suitable clothing than the blue pyjamas.

Flora stood in her smallclothes on the Orlesian rug - the warmest spot on the chilly flagstones - as Leliana hissed and flapped, rifling through the arlina's emptied wardrobe. They had tried Leliana's own clothing, but each bodice and pair of breeches looked faintly ridiculous on the young healer. The bard clearly had a far more curvaceous figure, the bustlines drooped obscenely and the trousers fell down in seconds. The senior enchanter's robes were all too big, Wynne stood a proud several inches taller than Flora.

"Did you  _really_  burn my clothes?" asked Flora in fascination as Leliana grew increasingly irate.

"When I think of the dresses that the Arlessa provisioned for us at Redcliffe during Satinalia," the bard bemoaned, remembering the spectrum of rainbow-coloured Orlesian gowns in Isolde's  _valance._

Finally the bard yanked the sunset-hued nightgown back over Flora's head, giving her a man's coarse-knit sweater that she had located in Eamon's quarters. Flora clutched the rough navy wool and felt a lump rising in her throat; it was the type of clothing that her father had lived in, winter or summer, come rain or shine. The sensory memory was so powerful that she pressed her nose to the wool, and was startled not to smell sea salt.

Once her boots were back on Flora dutifully trailed after Leliana; back down the spiral staircase, over the ramparts and across the courtyard. It was far busier now, bustling with retainers and the Arl's own servants. Horses were being led across the cobble while mournful Mabari whined at the heels of anyone carrying food. The sun was a pale lemon orb, casting gentle waves of early morning heat over South Reach.

At the top of a shallow flight of steps lay the entrance to the main hall. The double-height doors were equally as imposing as the surrounding fortress walls, bound with thick bands of iron. The impatient Wynne had already ventured inside, but Alistair was still patiently leaning against the metal-studded door. The ripening sunlight burnished the rumpled golden hair on his head and warmed the olive skin to a rich wheaten shade. With a body bulky and powerful enough to test the seams of Arl Leonas' loaned tunic; he cut a striking figure against the varnished wood.

"My," breathed Leliana, smoothing a hand over her elaborate hairstyle of snaking plaits. "He plays the part of  _prince_ well, doesn't he?"

Flora was also eyeing Alistair, her anxious gaze darting from the maroon velvet tunic to the golden braid edging his shirt. Leliana was right: Alistair resembled more the bastard prince he had been born as, rather than the brother-warden in dented Templar armour that circumstance had forced him to become. This, combined with the spectre of a dozen nobles lurking beyond the wooden doors, nearly brought back the earlier nausea.

"Is there a back entrance?"Flora asked Leliana out of the corner of her mouth. "Can I just sneak in somewhere? They're all going to look at Alistair, and then at me. I don't like it when everyone looks at me."

The perceptive bard glanced sideways, her lips curling in a small smile. Reaching out, Leliana tugged one end of the trailing ribbon, freeing the unruly mass of dark red hair so that it fell loose and heavy around Flora's shoulders.

"This is your Cousland banner," the bard instructed her. "You're a teyrn's daughter and no one in there outranks your family, save for- well, save for Alistair."

_I'm a fisherman's daughter,_ Flora thought obstinately. _My dad is named Pel and he doesn't have a family name because nobody needs one in Herring. Except for me, because there were two Floras._

Leliana could see that Flora was not convinced; and so tried a different tactic.

"Fine, then you're a Grey Warden. Everybody pays due respect to the Grey."

This suited Flora better. Although she had only been the most junior of recruits, a fledgling of a mere four weeks; she had spent much of that time in the Warden-Commander's presence. She envisioned Duncan striding through the camp at Ostagar, his hawkish dark eyes cutting through the darkness like a forge-heated brand.

Plucking stray strands of hair from her face, Flora raised her chin and strode up the steps. Alistair smiled, eyes moving over her in a slow sweep of admiration.

"Warden Flora," he breathed, reaching out to finger a heavy, rope-like scarlet curl. "I just want to take you into the buttery and ravish you."

"You're as bad as Zevran," countered Flora prudishly, Alistair's blatant desire shattering her Duncan-impression. "And Oghren's in there, sleeping it off."

Alistair looked down at the oxblood hair wrapped around his forefinger, slowly letting the strand unravel.

"I don't care," he said, moving his finger to her cheek and tracing the angle of the high sloping bone. "You're beautiful, Flo. Maker, I want you so  _badly_."

" _I_  want my breakfast, man-warden, I am starving," she retorted, at which he grinned and bowed his head in obsequious acquiescence.

"Later, then," he murmured, shooting Flora a look of such wanton promise that she found herself squirming.

"Ah, sweet," purred Leliana a moment later as she joined them at the top of the steps. "Why, Flora, you're blushing!"

"I'm not blushing," replied Flora, pressing nail-bitten fingers to her hot cheeks. "I don't think the blood drained properly from my head after being upside-down."

The main hall was windowless, lit by two vast fireplaces that sat squatly opposite one another. Since it was a warm morning, only a few cedar logs were burning in the hearths, casting a perfumed haze over the long tables. Instead of rugs, sweet-smelling rushes were scattered over the uneven flagstones. There was a raised table at one end of the hall, similar to Eamon's; from which the Arl usually presided over the petty squabbles and territorial disputes within his arling. Servants were a constant, muted presence, replacing platters of food and refilling flagons with weak beer.

Several of the nobles who had originally accompanied the Wardens were gathered at the rear of the hall, clustered beneath the raised table with their most trusted retainers. The Bann of Calon – the one who had been too afraid to look Flora in the eye – was demolishing a vast wheel of cheese. Bann Reginalda was leaning up to the top table, where Finian was neglecting his food and chattering back to her, excitable as a sparrow. Teagan, as a minor lord, had also been relegated to the lower tables. He did not seem to mind, laughing at a comment that Wynne had made while he carved a thin slice from a glazed ham.

Fergus Cousland, as the senior noble present, was also sat on the raised platform. He appeared deep in thought, not joining in the intent conversation between Eamon and Leonas. The chair to his right, in the very centre of the table, sat empty.

As the heavy door swung shut behind them with a soft, fulfilling thud, the magnates of Ferelden looked up to see who had entered. Leliana had already slipped in behind them, quiet and unobtrusive as a whisper.

To Flora's surprise, she did not feel as raw and exposed as she had expected. Many of the nobles had travelled with them from Redcliffe, they had heard her speaking and seen her healing, and she was a known quantity. Their eyes swept over her, and settled on Alistair; presented to them for the first time in the regalia of a fellow peer. Flora imagined her poor brother-warden as a choice cut of meat dressed up by an ambitious chef, presented to a row of scrupulous diners in the hope that they would approve.

Beside her she sensed, rather than saw, Alistair quail. Knowing somehow that this moment was crucial, Flora reached out to give his elbow a quick squeeze.

"Walk like the Warden-Commander," she hissed, grateful that the nobles were gathered at the far end of the hall; then threw her Cousland-red hair behind her and stalked down the aisle.

Sailing between the tables, Flora headed determinedly towards the raised platform, envisioning herself as a tanned Rivaini with dark, feline eyes. She could hear Alistair just behind her, hoping that he was striding, rather than shuffling.

Fortunately, he kept pace with her and his longer legs meant that they arrived at the raised platform together. The nobles cast their eyes once more over her, then transferred their curious gaze to Alistair.

Eamon was the first to stand, slowly rising from his seat. Teagan followed a moment later, following the lead of Redcliffe's arl. Lightning quick glances darted between those present; Leonas rose without pause almost alongside Teagan. Finian twitched impatiently on his seat, waiting for his elder brother to move, and after a moment Fergus did. Once the Couslands had risen, the remainder of the nobles followed suit.

"My lord Theirin," murmured Arl Bryland, inclining his head respectfully.

Alistair coughed, and Flora knew that her brother-warden was caught in the no-man's land between incredulity and disbelief. The nobles returned to their seats, and there was a great exhalation, as though everyone had been holding their breath.

"Alistair," said Eamon, smiling and showing his familiarity with the young prince, whose bastardy had been hastily swept aside in the wake of Mac Tir's usurpation. "I trust that you and Florence are fully recovered from your journey."

Flora did not miss the arl's new use of her proper name, but smiled up at him anyway. She had seen the lone chair on the top table, the one in the centre beside Fergus Cousland and knew that it was certainly not meant for her. Her position in the main hall's hierarchy was mellifluous – on the one hand, she was a Cousland, on the other, she was a mage. She was renowned for being a powerful healer – would this not make her a great temptation for demons? Or, would it make her an unlikely candidate for possession, and therefore no threat? In addition, she was a Grey Warden and therefore either a hero or a traitor depending on whomever was asked.

Her eyes returned to the single chair, and she at once understood how events would unfold. Alistair would be summoned to the raised platform; while she was expected to sit beside Wynne. Alistair would naturally refuse to go to the top table without her, insisting on joining her on the lower table. Then – she wasn't exactly sure what would happen next.

_Ferelden slides into the ocean, or some similar disaster. Dissent and chaos._

"Thank you for coming to our aid and recognising that the true threat is the Blight; and not Orlais, or each other," she said politely, recalling Loghain's apparent desire to drive Ferelden to civil war.

Still finding the entire situation faintly ridiculous, Flora went with her instinct and lowered herself down in a deep kneel of respect, her nose practically touching the sweet-smelling rushes. Long tendrils of oxblood hair, the colouring identical to Finian's and a close relation to Fergus', spread loose over her shoulders and trailed on the flagstones. Her prostrate position also bore the distinct advantage of hiding her derisive expression.

Flora had no idea whether kneeling was the correct  _protocol_  or not – the word itself was not in her Herring-centric vocabulary – but the gesture was met with distinct approval. The nobles glanced between each other, little darting looks that carried many layers of meaning. It may not have been established protocol but this was not the tightly restrictive court of Orlais, where a thousand unwritten rules dictated every word and motion. These were men and women of Ferelden, who were not above responding to the emotive appeal of a pretty girl with Cousland-red hair and a dead teyrn's eyes. Many of them had counted Bryce as a friend, and recognised many of his mannerisms in his youngest child and only daughter.

After assiduously counting ten beats, Flora clambered upright. Finian was trying to catch her attention, rolling his eyes frantically. Before she could continue, Fergus rose once more to his feet and stretched out a hand.

"Little sister," he said in a formal tone. "Please, sit with us. Finn, fetch an extra chair for Florence."

A grinning Finian brought up another wooden chair. Fergus made a gesture and the chair was placed next to his own, alongside the chair that was intended for Alistair. As they ascended to the raised platform, Flora realised that she had accidentally sabotaged herself – the platter of small pastries that she had been surreptitiously eyeing for the past five minutes was now  _thoroughly_  out of reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Arrhhhh! My history nerd is showing. I love a bit of factional consolidation; it appeals to the medievalist in me. Which is what I get paid to do, but oh well, now it's apparently what I write about in my free time too. So I think Flora's position is very odd, and there's no real in-game canon to explain it – which is great, because canon is fab but this is my interpretation; so I have freedom to extrapolate wildly. WILLIAM WALLACE BRAVEHEART STYLE FREEDOM. So this was my reasoning behind the chapter name: the obvious, eating breakfast - but also, the ending of a long period. Then, with Alistair being presented as a candidate as heir in all the proper noble attire, it's the end of the nobles' period of uncertainty as they gather to support him. Also, it's the beginning of Fergus starting to accept his newfound sister.
> 
> I slightly love the image of Flora channelling Duncan to give herself confidence. Then Alistair goes LET ME RAVISH YOU and bam! image shattered, lol


	131. A Counter-Claim To Loghain

Chapter 131: A Counter-Claim to Loghain

The guests of South Reach broke their fast quickly, Eamon noticably itching to begin the discussions. After the servants had cleared away the last of the platters and refilled flagons for a final time; Arl Leonas Bryland ushered them into an adjacent chamber. It was square and plain, the walls roughly daubed in white plaster. A large, oval table sat squatly on short wooden legs in the centre; chairs bristling around its circumference like insects hovering around a flower. A map of Ferelden was inlaid in the centre of the wood, protected by a thin panel of glass.

Not all of the nobles were invited to partake in the discussion. Banns and younger siblings – including Finian and Teagan – sat on benches beside the walls, able to listen in but not to contribute. None protested this, aware that it would be the major nobles who would drive the momentum of their faction. Many of the banns were connected to their regional Arl through bloodline; and would naturally accede to the elder relation's decision.

Flora sat alongside Alistair at the main table, aware that she had been invited to join in her capacity of Grey Warden. Questions about the Blight and possible defence against the Darkspawn were directed towards her; while Alistair was involved more in queries on Loghain Mac Tir and the possibility of civil war. Flora grew increasingly annoyed as the two conversations ran alongside each other, concurrent yet separate. Even Alistair was getting drawn into an argument about the individual culpability of Mac Tir, compared to Howe. Leonas Bryland, who had once counted Nathanial Howe as a friend, was now one of the loudest voices calling for the traitor's summary execution.

Finally, her patience wore thin. Knowing that her hoarse, northern tones could not compete with the cacophony of aristocratic voices Flora stood up abruptly, thrusting her chair backwards with a deliberate scrape of wood over stone.

They stopped and stared at her in slight disbelief. She gazed back at them; thinking  _none of you have fought the Darkspawn, save for Fergus. None of you have seen the Archdemon. When I was on the Tower of Ishal staring down at the slaughter below, I gained a perspective that none of you can rival._

"Don't think of this as two separate situations," she said, dispensing with all pleasantries and artifice. "It all comes back to Ostagar. I've thought about it, over and over, for months. Trying to understand Loghain's motivation."

Flora felt Alistair reflexively cringe beside her, as he always did when Duncan's death was brought up. She put a hand on his shoulder, not caring what the nobles thought, and continued to voice her thoughts aloud in her distinctive, northern drawl.

"Arl Eamon, you've told me that Loghain values Fereldan independence more than anything. Since he withdrew the army at Ostagar and has made no attempt to investigate or challenge the spread of the Blight, he clearly doesn't see it as a legitimate threat. Instead he's trying to end the factional rivalry caused by his usurpation by uniting the nobles against a common enemy. Yet, it's not the Darkspawn he wants them to combat- it's Orlais?"

This was something that Flora had been puzzling about for months, on and off; and now she had said it out loud, it suddenly made a strange sort of sense. Her final query was directed towards Teagan, who nodded intently. "Aye, Warden. Loghain claims that Empress Celene is planning an invasion."

"So, according to him,  _Orlais_  is the true threat. He suggests that there's no Blight at all, just the Darkspawn swarming as they've always done." Flora continued, warming to the subject. She leaned forward, thrusting loose tendrils of hair impatiently behind her ears.

"We need to do two things," she said impassionedly, eager to extract her ideas from her mind and into the open air. "Counter Loghain's  _position_ , and counter his  _policies_. To counter his policies, we need to convince Denerim that there  _is_  a Blight, and that it requires an immediate response. "

"So we need to gather evidence of the Blight and present it to the Landsmeet," said Eamon, nodding slowly. "Redcliffe is housing refugees forced from their homes by the Darkspawn."

"And we could find someone from Gwaren," added Flora, remembering her dream- vision of Loghain's coastal teyrnir overrun by the Blight.

It transpired that Bann Reginalda had been sheltering the mayor of lost Lothering at White River. She assured them that the man had recovered sufficiently from his wounds to travel to Denerim and describe the horrors that he had seen.

"Alistair and I saw the Archdemon," Flora said during a break in the discussion. "And Oghren saw it as well, and Sten. He's a Qunari and they don't lie. He could testify. Oh, and the emissaries might speak too. The Dalish and the dwarves have both noticed the unusual movement of Darkspawn. They've cleared out of the Desp Roads."

"And we saw the Blight-scar on our journey from Redcliffe," added the Arl of the Western Hills.

Eamon let out a long sigh, lifting his fingers to comb them through his salt-and-pepper beard.

"It sounds a most convincing case," he murmured, his voice and mind distant- sixty miles east, in a lofty-eaved council chamber. "These Denerim nobles have grown soft behind their city walls. It's convenient for them to focus their hatred on the Orlesians; they think  _ah, Loghain led us to victory before against the Empire and he can do it again._ They'd rather not think about the far worse prospect of a true Blight. They need to have their noses rubbed in it before the Darkspawn come scratching at the city walls."

Eamon reached down to scratch the back of a dozing Mabari's ear; the creature whined and tilted its head against the arl's palm.

"And as for countering Loghain's  _position_ ," he continued quietly, raising his eyes across the table. "It will be a case of nominating a rival candidate and putting it to the Landsmeet."

The chamber grew silent. All eyes fell on Alistair, who was dressed like a prince but sported a clenched, if characteristically Theirin, jaw. Flora wondered what they would do if he  _plainly refused, shoved his chair back in anger and walked away-_

Alistair inclined his head silently. It was not overwhelming acceptance, but it was an acceptable acquiescence. Flora had to stop herself from yelping out loud, while her brother-warden's face was expressionless; he had gripped her hand with startling tightness beneath the table. She fish-roped him, squeezing his calloused fingers back as hard as she could.

It was decided that the nobles would spent several more days at South Reach, dealing with the logistics of gathering witnesses from around Ferelden who would testify to the Blight. Then, gradually – so not to arouse suspicion – the nobles would drift into Denerim and take up residence. This would have to be done over staggered days to avoid rousing the suspicions of either Howe or Mac Tir. Fergus, whose recovery they intended to keep secret as long as possible, would be used as a trump card. The Wardens and their party would also arrive separately – as Eamon pointed out, the arrest warrant for the Order was still in effect.

"Alistair, your birthright gives you some small measure of protection within the city," the Arl of Redcliffe explained, glancing over at his former stable-lad. "Cailan and Maric were both popular kings and Denerim was loyal to the Theirins. You've the look of your father, more so than Cailan, even."

Alistair had met Maric only once, when the old King had stopped off at Redcliffe Castle during a royal progress. He did not remember much from the visit itself; Isolde's hysteria over the preparations was emblazoned far more strongly in his mind.

"Arl Howe, however, has sworn his own personal war against the Couslands," Eamon continued grimly. The room fell silent for a moment, recalling the murdered teyrn and teyrna. Fergus gritted his teeth, thinking also on his wife and child.

"Howe's men slaughtered Oriana," he said, a cold fury evident behind his carefully measured tone. "And my son. I will not let him take my siblings too. Finian and Florence cannot be allowed within Denerim, it's too dangerous."

"She at least must go, Fergus" countered Eamon, brows drawing together. "She's a Warden, one of our key witnesses. She'll need to gather the support of the Denerim nobles before the Landsmeet."

Flora sat next to Alistair as the nobles argued over their heads, his fingers still entwined in hers. Worried that he was sitting there in the depths of despair, she gave his hand another hard squeeze and peered sideways at him. In response, her brother-warden flashed her a small smile. Flora felt encouraged, even more so when he began to stroke his fingers surreptitiously against her bare knee.

_He can't be that devastated about being nominated as heir if he's groping me under the table,_ she thought, cheerfully.

"Flora will be fine, your lordship," interjected Wynne, her voice placating. "Come here a moment, child."

Removing Alistair's exploratory hand from her thigh, Flora rose from her seat and approached the senior enchanter, who was standing beside the main doorway. Wynne shot her an expectant look, making a small gesture with her hand.

The next moment, a white-gold sheath sprung up around the obedient Flora. The nobles murmured to one another, a ripple of mild alarm passing through the room at such blatant manifestation of magic. However, their trepidation quickly melted into fascination as Wynne, smiling gently, gestured them forwards.

"Any of you may test the strength of her barrier."

Nobody approached at first, none willing to be the one who accidentally killed the teyrn's sister. Finally, Finian drew his own long dagger and stepped forward. He had seen Flora's barrier in action, and was familiar with its potency. Fergus hissed through his breath as the dagger sailed forwards, then glanced sideways off the intangible energy. Finian attempted several more thrusts, each one increasingly futile.

This seemed to be the cue for each noble to attempt to break down the shield. Arl Leonas Bryland lifted an ornamental axe from a wall-bracket and swung it towards her head; it reverberated with a metallic clang. Bann Reginalda's dagger glanced off the golden mist as smoothly as Finian's had done. Flora stood patiently, while several more nobles attempted to shove their blades through her midsection, exclaiming to one another.

Finally Alistair, who had been watching with mounting anxiety, finally raised his voice above the fracas.

" _Enough!_ She's more than proven her capability."

The shield melted away as the nobles stepped back, many sweaty and out of breath. Flora inspected her reddened palms with a thoughtful expression, appearing wholly unruffled.

"Maker's Breath, Finn," breathed Fergus eventually. "You told me Florence was a  _defective_ mage."

"I am," his sister replied with a mild shrug. "You've now seen the only two things I can do: heal and shield."

"I'd  _love_ to know what spirits aid you, child," added Wynne, coming to join them. "But anyway, Lord Cousland – do you now see that she would be fine in the city?"

Fergus gave a slight and reluctant nod, eyebrows still lodged in his hairline.

"Andraste," he murmured eventually, settling back in his chair. "No wonder Cailan had you in his Kingsguard."

As usual Flora felt the customary pulse of guilt deep in her gut –  _might Duncan and Cailan have survived if I had been with them in the valley?_ This hypothetical question was as familiar to her as an old scar.

Then, before the flash of sadness could harden and turn to melancholy, Alistair was before her, a frown on his finely-hewn face. He took her hands within his own, inspecting the palms and fingers closely.

"Do they hurt?" he asked, brushing his thumb gently over the pinkened skin to check that it was not a lasting mark. "They've not long been healed."

"No," Flora replied, watching her palms gradually return to their normal colour. "They're fine. Thank you for asking."

She smiled up at him and Alistair gazed back down at her as if they were the only two people in the room; or even the only two people in the whole of Ferelden. He brought her nail-bitten fingers up to his mouth and kissed the back of her hand very softly.

"Well, that's put paid to him marrying Anora," muttered the Bann of Calon to the Arl of the Western Hills. The Arl snorted, shaking his head.

"Nonsense. He could marry, but keep the Cousland girl as a mistress. Cailan was hardly faithful."

The nobles had drifted into the meeting like fragments of driftwood; but now they departed the chamber united in single purpose.

Before he left, Leonas Bryland paused in front of Alistair and Flora, who were still standing beside the table. He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and tilted Flora's chin, lifting her face towards the suspended candelabra.

"There's something about you that reminds me of your father," he said, the words emerging slow and thoughtful. "Other than your looks, of course. I can't quite put my finger on it. But when you were speaking earlier, I thought of the aftermath of White River. Do you know it?"

Alistair had vaguely heard of the phrase; Flora, who could boast no formal education save for what she had picked up on their journey, had no idea what the Arl was referring to.

"It was part of the war of independence against Orlais," Alistair said slowly, half-recalling a lecture in a hot Chantry classroom. "The Battle of White River. The Fereldans were outnumbered two to one."

"Aye, lad. It was slaughter, a thousand left dead. Only fifty of us escaped that valley, including Maric, Bryce and myself."

"And Rendon Howe. Should've left him there," chimed in Finian, who had been eavesdropping blatantly. "I heard he got carved up like a Satinalia hog."

"Anyway, we had to go into the forests to hide. Maric was despairing – the situation looked hopeless. And your father, child, spoke calmly and measured like you did just now. Laid out what we would do, and where we would go. Came up with the start of a plan. And then Maric was cheered; we went to Gwaren as Bryce had suggested, and began to plan our retaliation."

For the first time since Redcliffe, Flora's mind did not violently recoil from being named the daughter of Bryce Cousland.

_What about your dad? The man who raised you for ten years? He took you in while the Couslands sent you away._

A cold wave of guilt washed over her, leaving her near-breathless.  _I'm Flora of Herring,_ she thought fiercely to herself.  _I'll only be Florence Cousland for as long as they need me to be. Until the Blight is over._

Leonas realised that his fingers were still resting on Flora's face, and withdrew them hastily.

"Anyway, I've had some of my daughter's clothes brought out of winter storage for you," he said, eyes sliding sideways like eels. "You're the same size, and it's not right for a young lass to wander around in nightwear."

Flora thanked him as he made a speedy retreat from the chamber, following in the imperious wake of Bann Reginalda's trailing skirts.

" _Flooo_ rence."

Finian inserted himself between the Wardens, cleanly shaven and smiling. He gave his funny, half-Orlesian moue of greeting, grey eyes edged with wicked humour. "I have a present for you."

Flora reflexively put her fingers to the only present that she had received in her life; Alistair's Chantry amulet hanging solid in the hollow of her throat. Alistair pressed his lips spontaneously against the top of her head, his eyes also resting on the silver necklace.

"A present? For  _me?"_  his sister-warden repeated, rather stupidly.

Finian nodded, reaching inside his velvet tunic and pulling out a leather-bound tome.

"The lovely Leliana and I ran into a bookseller travelling to Denerim," he said, passing it to her with an elaborate half bow. "I saw this and was instantly reminded of you, youngest Cousland."

Flora stared down at the inscribed words on the front cover, her finger tracing the outline of the letters. The first word contained a shape that she did not recognise and she narrowed her eyes.

"That went reasonably well, don't you think?" Finian said cheerfully to Alistair, who gave an ambivalent gesture that was half-nod, half-shrug.

"Arl Eamon didn't whip out a makeshift crown and ram it over my head," he replied, begrudgingly. "So it could have gone worse."

Finian smiled at him with the wide, grey dark-lashed eyes of his sister, similar enough to be disconcerting.

"It has a ring to it: King Alistair Theirin," he said quietly. Alistair grimaced, but it was a soft and resigned facial contortion without true anger to fuel it.

"What does this say? E.. _eh_ …" demanded a perturbed Flora, wielding the book like a weapon.

"Exotic. This is an  _x,"_ replied Alistair, glad of the distraction. "You know what exotic means?"

Flora nodded, returning her gaze to the rest of the title. "' _Exotic… F- Fi-_ oh! Fish!  _Exotic Fish of… The- Thedas."_

She turned awestruck eyes on her brother. "Exotic Fish Of Thedas?"

Finian grinned, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips. "Like I said: it reminded me of you."

Flora slid her finger randomly between the buttery-smooth pages. They fell open to reveal a colourfully inked fish with lurid orange scales and a green streak running jagged over its fins.

"The Gold Snapper of Minrathous," read Alistair over her shoulder. "One handspan in length; freshwater. Most commonly found in waterways near human habitation, due to its tendency to feed on discarded food."

Delighted, Flora impulsively threw her arms around Finian. He picked her up bodily and squeezed her against him, kissing her on both cheeks in the Orlesian manner.

"Our father used to do this all the time," he murmured against her hair, lowering her back to the flagstones. "You used to squeal like a stuck pig."

"Oink," said Flora dutifully, thinking  _maybe I could be both Flora of Herring and Florence Cousland when this is all over._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So at first I came up with lots of super-fascinating (to me and no-one else) chapter names such as FACTIONAL CONSOLIDATION. But I like counter-claim to Loghain; because they want to counter his claim that Orlais is the true threat, AND counter his claim to the throne of Ferelden. So this is how I've chosen to explain this arc of the plot in my story canon; with regard to building up a solid case at the Landsmeet. It seems pretty clear that the Landsmeet is based off the old Medieval relic of the Great Council (summoned in times of emergency or key debate), and preparations for these Councils began long before they actually sat down together!


	132. Sating Lust in the Buttery

Chapter 132: Sating Lust in the Buttery

The two Wardens retraced their steps through the main hall and emerged into the open air, blinking against a startlingly ambitious late morning sun. In stark contrast to the previous bustle, the main courtyard was now near-deserted. Mabari hounds lazily snapped at each other in competition for the sunniest patches on the cobbles; a stable-lad led Finian's prize stallion into the adjacent courtyard. The nobles had scattered to their separate quarters to begin preparations for the Landsmeet. Their quickness to respond was not wholly altruistic: opportunity was aplenty with any emergent royal heir, especially if one could play some crucial role in said heir's ascension.

Flora blinked for a moment against the brightness, venturing half-blind down the shallow steps. She heard Alistair descend beside her, her brother-warden taking a deep gulp of air.

"The cedar smoke always makes me want to sneeze," she said, clutching  _Exotic Fish of Thedas_  protectively to her chest. "It gets right up my nose."

"I'd prefer the smell of wet Mabari," agreed Alistair, reaching out to tap the end of the aforementioned nose gently.

Flora smiled up at him, and he moved his fingers to touch a thick oxblood strand that had come loose from the leather tie. Her hair, the Cousland banner that was almost proof of ancestry in itself, hung heavy over her shoulders like a blanket.

"Maker's Breath, your hair is so beautiful," he murmured, running his thumb down the full length of the strand. "I never realised; you always knot it up."

"It gets in the way," she replied as he slid his fingers fully into her hair, cradling the sides of her skull. "I should cut it off, like Leliana. I said I was going to in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and that was ages ago."

"Don't," Alistair murmured, leaning forward to whisper in her ear. His breath rifled the hair against her skin, soft and heated. "I want to see it spread out beneath me."

A startled Flora gazed up at him wordlessly, feeling something twist within her abdomen even as a blush spread over her cheeks. The tips of Alistair's ears also pinkened in slight awe at his own audacity, though he kept gazing down at her with wolfish, desirous eyes. She heard her brother-warden exhale, his breath made unsteady by a ragged edge of lust.

Abruptly, Alistair took her hand in his, calloused fingers sliding intimately within her own as he led Flora across the cobblestones; heading for any door that appeared to lead somewhere discreet and private. Settling on a small entranceway beside a flight of roughly hewn steps, he pulled her impatiently inside.

The sudden contrast from the sunny courtyard to the dimly lit space blinded Flora for a second time and she stumbled over an uneven flagstone. She heard Alistair come to an abrupt pause beside her, similarly afflicted.

Gradually her vision was restored in small increments as her eyes adapted to the torchlight. They were in the castle buttery, a wide, low-beamed room supported with rows of squat stone pillars. Between the pillars were nestled giant wooden vats, interspersed with smaller ironbound barrels and racks overloaded with bottles. The smell of fermenting alcohol hung thick in the air, the scent of musty grape accompanying each breath. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and spread over the walls like Orlesian lace; bracketed torches casting a mellow, flickering light over the whole dusty area.

The moment that the door swung shut behind them, Alistair guided her up against one of the vast wooden vats. Flora could feel the bulky muscle hidden beneath the thin velvet of her brother-warden's tunic as he pressed his body to hers; his mouth immediately going to the hollow of her threat. She slung one arm around his neck, the sleeves of the overlarge woollen sweater sliding down around her elbows while his lips wandered impatiently across to her collarbone. He was already hard against her thigh, his arousal overt and needful.

Haste making him clumsy, Alistair placed the fish book on the flagstones before pulling the woollen sweater over his sister-warden's head. Underneath Flora wore the same sunset-hued nightgown, the delicate material clinging to the swells of her body. With fumbling fingers, he slid a strap down her shoulder to reveal a small, fawn-coloured breast.

"I miss wearing your shirt," Flora whispered as a low growl of desire escaped Alistair's throat, his mouth seeking her exposed nipple. "I hate dresses."

"Shame," Alistair murmured, tongue tracing languid curls onto her flushed skin. His fingers wandered purposefully over her clothed breast and trailed down to her stomach. Flora inhaled as he gathered the flimsy skirt up around her hips, sliding his hand within Leliana's loaned smallclothes. "I like you in dresses."

A moment later she groped the wooden vat blindly for support, a half-strangled moan clinging to her lips. Alistair smiled against her neck, a dark and predatory grin; the deep-rooted Theirin dominance emerging once again. Relentless he kept his fingers working, permitting no fleeting moment of respite to allow her to catch her breath.

Only when Flora's sweaty forehead dropped forwards onto his shoulder with her limp fingers curling against his neck, did her brother-warden reach for his own breeches. Thrusting them down with ungainly haste, he clawed aside the frilly, Orlesian bloomers and took his length in hand. Exhaling unsteadily into her neck, he pressed himself against her.

"By the tits of the Ancestors- that was one rat-arsed hangover!"

Alistair's face slid sideways in almost comical shock and he withdrew, legs tangling in his half-dropped breeches. With a yelp, he lost his balance and crashed into a nearby wooden wine rack. Several bottles fragmented into shards, cheap ale spilling over the flagstones.

Oghren lurched bleary-eyed around the corner, giving off an odour like fermenting yeast; just as Flora pulled the sweater back on over her head. Alistair, disentangling himself from the remains of the wine rack, returned to his feet with a face like thunder.

"Aye, lassie, any food left? Point me in the direction of breakfast," Oghren instructed, oblivious to her dishevelled attire and flushed face. "Ugh, are we on a ship? The floor is swayin'."

Flora reached down and retrieved the  _Exotic Fish of Thedas_ , clutching it to her chest.

"Have you been drinking in here since yesterday?" Alistair asked, a scowl now ingrained on his features. "You smell like a brewery."

The male Warden's frown was deepened when he realised that a large splinter of wood had embedded itself in his sword-calloused little finger. Tearing it free impatiently only resulted in widening the cut.

As Oghren took another tentative step, he swayed to the side and almost crashed into a freestanding keg. Flora grimaced, watching him shuffle in the vague direction of the door.

"Wait, I'll help you," she said impulsively, "just wait a moment."

Flora turned back to Alistair, lifting his hand to her mouth and taking his gashed finger between her lips. The metallic tang of blood prickled on her tongue for a moment, before the golden mist surged from her throat and neatly sealed the wound. She darted a fleeting glance up at her brother-warden, with wide eyes and a little smile that was not wholly innocent. Alistair glowered back down at her, caught in a heady mix of desire, frustration and gratitude.

As she withdrew his finger from her mouth, the flesh emerged seamlessly sealed; Flora smiled up at Alistair and then reached out her hand to Oghren.

"Here, take my arm. I'll help you to the main hall, you'll feel better if you eat something."

The dwarf gripped her elbow, and together the odd couple shuffled unsteadily out of the buttery. Alistair gazed after them with gritted teeth, it being necessary to wait a few minutes before emerging from the shadows himself.

After Flora had escorted Oghren into the main hall and summarily abandoned him there; she was ambushed by Wynne in the courtyard. Alistair was alongside the elderly mage, his eyes flickering sideways.

"One of you needs to sign the letters that the nobles are sending," the senior enchanter said, arms crossed across her robed chest. "Since it's with regard to the Blight. They should be verified by a Grey Warden, preferably the Warden-Commander."

Flora and Alistair looked sideways at one another, anxious grey eyes meeting hazel. The same name rang like a silent bell in the space between them.

_Duncan._

"Our commander died at Ostagar," said Flora after a moment. Beside her, she sensed Alistair wince at the small accompanying dig of grief, sly and shocking as a stab in the back. "We're just recruits. I was only a Warden for a month before…"

She trailed off, feeling Alistair's eyes on her.

"I was just shy of a year," he added, his mouth a grim line. "Most men in the Wardens had been part of the Order for ten, twenty years. Duncan only started actively recruiting when he suspected a Blight."

Wynne paused, and when she spoke again her voice was softer. Behind them, a servant dropped an armful of parchment; the scrolls were immediately caught by a playful breeze and tossed into the air. Mabari pups chased after them, snapping their jaws in delight.

"Regardless, one of you must claim seniority. The Fereldan Wardens  _must_ be led. One of you needs to name yourself Warden-Commander."

Alistair hastily held up his hands, discharging responsibility.

"Not me. I've got enough unwanted status to last me a lifetime. Flo, you've been making the decisions since we were in Lothering. It should be you."

Flora gaped at him, her fingers tightening on the edge of Finian's book until the tips whitened.

"Me? I can't! I'm a – a  _nobody_ ," she protested, her head moving rapidly back and forth. "It shouldn't be me."

The senior enchanter said nothing, simply turned her pale blue eyes on Flora and waited.

Flora squirmed beneath the woman's penetrative stare, shifting from foot to foot in deep discomfort. For a moment, she fancied that she saw Duncan standing up on the ramparts; tilting his tan Rivaini face to the sun before lowering his dark gaze to her. A myriad of expressions crossed his face – sadness, solemnity and wry amusement – before settling on quizzical, a question in his dark eyes.

_Will you do this for me, little sister?_

Duncan had always called her  _little_ sister, as though there were a variety of 'sisters' of different ages in the Wardens; rather than just the one. Flora supposed that some women might have found it patronising – Leliana certainly would have done – but there was affection in the moniker that reminded her of her father. She didn't think that Duncan had meant it to be a patronising epithet, either.

"Fine," she said out loud. "But it's only temporary. Until they pick someone more suitable."

"Florence Cousland, Acting Warden-Commander of the Fereldan Wardens," said Wynne out loud, testing the nomenclature.

"All two of them," interjected Alistair, grinning in relief that he had not been required to take on this additional burden. Flora elbowed him, flaring her nostrils in a manner reminiscent of the senior enchanter.

"Hush, man-warden. You have to do as I say now."

Alistair dropped to one knee, surreptitiously wincing as his kneecap collided with a particularly awkward-shaped cobblestone.

"Your desire is my command, my darling," he murmured, kissing the back of her hand with solemnity. Flora tapped him gently on the top of his burnished blond head.

"Arise, Sir  _Aristo_ ," she breathed, recalling the Dwarven commentator from the Proving Ground in Orzammar.

Alistair laughed, and it was a proper belly-laugh that drove away the lingering ghost of grief. He rose effortlessly to his feet in a way that made the bound-kneed Flora inwardly envious. He cradled her cheeks against his calloused palms, tracing her fine-hewn bone structure with the ball of his thumb.

"How could I say no to such a lovely face?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OK, by my count it's been a while since they shagged so it's no wonder that Alistair is gagging for it. I just checked and it was TWENTY chapters ago! Whaaaat I didn't even realise. And now it's time for Oghren-teruptions. Awww poor old Duncs, he was such a cool character and I definitely did not exploit him enough when he was still alive, poor sod. Oh well, there's some flashback chapters in the works anyway. My husband just pointed out that at first glance the title of this looks like "Sating Lust in the Butt". !


	133. The Challenges of Correspondance

Chapter 133: The Challenges of Correspondence

Wynne whisked Flora off to Arl Bryland's quarters, where a small solar was located just off the main chamber. Lined with bookshelves, it was used as the Arl's own personal study. A desk and writing tools waited ominously in the centre of the room; a sight which struck terror into a quailing Flora's heart.

"Are you leaving?" she asked in alarm as the senior enchanter swivelled in the direction of the door, robes swirling. "Don't go, I can't spell my full name!"

Wynne smiled, shaking her head as she turned her gaze back on the young healer, who was sitting rigidly behind the desk.

"Child, try and relax. You look as if you're about to be racked, or put in the stocks. Leliana is coming to help you, patience."

Gradually, a series of servants began to deliver various pieces of correspondence for the new (acting) Warden-Commander to sign. An apprehensive Flora picked up the pen as though it were a poison-tipped dagger, then retrieved the first scroll of parchment from the pile. Gazing at the neatly scribed words, they may as well have been written in Ancient Tevinter for all the sense they made to her. However, she did recognise the seal at the bottom – a waxy scarlet tower.  _Redcliffe,_ she thought,  _it must be from Eamon._

Gingerly, she dipped the pen in the inkwell and lowered it to the bottom of the parchment.  _F-L-O-R-A_ slowly emerged, inscribed in her wide, looping hand.

A moment later she frowned, recalling that – for these purposes - she was not Flora of Herring, but  _Florence Cousland._ Lowering the pen back to the paper she uncertainly added  _N-S_ onto the end of  _Flora,_ before embarking ambitiously on Cousland.

Fortunately Leliana entered before she could butcher the spelling any further. On seeing the bard breeze into the room, humming lightly under her breath, Flora let out a squeal of relief.

"Please, help me!" she entreated, round globules of ink dripping down the front of her woollen sweater. "I can't do it,  _I can't do it_."

With a snap of her fingers, Leliana had a moonstruck messenger bring in another chair. Seating herself elegantly within the plush, plum-coloured velvet, the bard leaned over and planted her lips on Flora's cheek in the Orlesian style of greeting.

" _C'est rien, ma crevette._ Let's see what we have here."

Leliana drew the parchment towards her, and read ' _Florans Cuslan'._

Fortunately, the bard had been trained in various types of forgery and doctoring; and managed to correct the spelling in a few adept ink strokes. After writing out  _Florence Cousland, Acting Warden Commander of Ferelden_ for Flora to follow, the bard delved a hand within her bodice and felt around for something.

"The teyrn gave me this for you to use," Leliana said, finally producing a heavy gold signet ring. "Use it in the wax. I'll show you if you don't know how."

Flora took the ring, inhaling in surprise. It was made from the same old gold as her own ring, the one that she had given as a Satinalia gift to Alistair. When she turned it over, she could see the distinctive  _F, C_ engraved on the inside. The symbol on the top was the Cousland laurel, stark and proud, carved out in the gold.

" _Fergus_  sent it? For me to use?" she said eventually, and Leliana inclined her head in confirmation.

"He doesn't hate you, Flora. It just takes some people longer to overcome their prejudice."

"I'm an embarrassment to him," Flora replied, with a little shrug of acceptance. "It's fine. Can you read the letters out to me before I sign, just so I know I'm not putting my name to ' _I love Loghain',_ or ' _Grey Wardens are traitors!'"_

Together they worked through a dozen lengthy letters, Leliana reading through the contents in her mellifluous Orlesian accent. Flora copied out her signature and borrowed title dutifully at the bottom of each one, stamping the laurel seal as a final punctuation on the parchment.

"So, where's your brother-warden?" Leliana asked as they took a few moments respite, pouring herself a small chalice of wine.

Flora was gloomily inspecting her ink-splattered reflection in the dull silver surface of a shield fixed on the wall. She shrugged, making a vague direction towards the town of the South Reach, which clung to the slope below the fortress.

"I think he's helping the men to build the defences. Why is my tongue  _black?"_

"Because you keep biting the end of the ink-pen when you forget how to write something. Here, drink this."

Leliana stretched out the hand with the chalice; Flora took a sip and swilled the wine around her teeth. Not knowing where to spit the inky mouthful, she gulped it down with a little grimace, trusting in the healing properties of her body to negate any harmful side-effect.

"For the first time in a long time, I feel a glimmer of hope," the bard enthused, retying one of her small braids. "The Maker must be smiling upon us. For such a long while, it all seemed so bleak. But with these nobles on our side; we are able to pose a real challenge to Loghain's rule."

Flora returned the bard's optimism with a slightly anxious smile. She remembered Loghain's wolfish face as he towered over her in his tent; the features as rough and immutable as granite. Long before Ostagar she had realised that the teyrn of Gwaren was a ruthless man; though she could never have guessed that his ambition would lead him to abandon his King to the Darkspawn.

They continued to process the correspondence for the next few hours, until the last scroll of parchment had been signed and sealed. They had tied ribbon around each one and sealed them into the small letter tubes that Arl Bryland's ravens would use to convey the messages to the distant corners of Ferelden.

"At last, it is done!" Leliana tied the final ribbon with a flourish, then clapped her hands together. Flora beamed, then bowed her head towards the redheaded bard.

"Thank you for helping me. I would have written nonsense if you hadn't been here!"

"Nonsense," replied Leliana loyally, patting Flora on the back of her ink-splattered hand. "You'd made a good start. Shall we go and see how the defences are coming along?

Together they descended back out into the main courtyard, beneath the gatehouse and into South Reach. Wynne joined them just outside the castle, pleased at seeing the messenger ravens departing from the rookery overhead.

Once they were in the town proper Flora gazed about her curiously, having been too tired from the journey to pay proper attention when they had ridden through yesterday. It was unseasonably warm for early spring; the sun beat relentlessly down on the tops of their heads. Flora pulled at the woollen neck of her sweater, rolling the sleeves up around her elbows.

The buildings spread over the side of the ridge like clumps of seaweed growing over a steep boulder, many with foundations dug into the side of the hill itself. The main road curved downwards in a series of sharp bends, each descending angle lined on both sides with buildings of various sorts. From the variety of boarded-up businesses – a chandlery, a bookkeeper and several cobblers – it appeared that South Reach had once been a prosperous town. Many of these businesses lay sad, hollow-eyed and empty with no movement behind their boarded up windows; the occupants having already fled to Denerim.

The lower they descended, the more tattered the buildings and the more tawdry the businesses became. Grimy taverns sprouted up on corners like mushrooms in the damp, and from the raucous laughter drifting out of open windows many of them seemed to be already serving customers. Someone with a sense of humour had named a whorehouse 'The Southern Reaches'. Like many businesses on the upper slopes it too had been boarded up; the whores and their madam scattered to the winds.

Someone yelled something lewd and incoherent out of an upper tavern window at either Leliana or Flora – possibly both – as they walked past. Leliana responded with a fluid string of Orlesian curses, bright blue eyes flashing dangerously up at the drunk lecher. He withdrew hastily, spilling half of his tankard out of the window as he did so.

The defences had risen higher since Flora had ridden past the previous day. A wall of sandbags had been constructed before the main entrance into the town, nearly six foot high. Leliana smiled and chattered with the blushing young man adding the final layer; while Flora stared at the sandbags and gloomily envisioned an ogre smashing its way through them with ease. She clutched Finian's fish book to her chest tightly, like a talisman, and forced the thought from her head.

Wynne, whose thoughts were running on a similar line, glanced sideways at Flora and murmured, "Better this than have them sit idle. While they focus on defence, they won't yield to despair."

The rest of South Reach's young men were driving pointed stakes into the ground at vicious angles, just at the point where the edge of town met the beginnings of the fields. A half-sheared harvest lay scattered over the road, as if some great wind had plucked the top halves of the corn sheaves and tossed them wildly into the air.

Flat and exposed, there was no shade here from the flat yellow eye of the sun as it glared down with unusual vigour. The men had long divested themselves of vests and tunics, the sweaty, limp garments draped over fences while their owners laboured away half-naked. Arl Bryland – still fully dressed – was sitting on the back of a horse with his manservant Dane, grimly surveying the process of the construction.

"Alistair's gone to get more wood. You can get a good view from up here."

Finian waved at them from the back of an abandoned hay cart, his own shirt untucked and unbuttoned in concession to the warmth, eyes gleefully surveying the labourers. He gave a little feral grin in response to Wynne's archly raised eyebrow.

"Do you judge me, madam?" he enquired, shifting over to make room for Flora as she clambered up beside him. "Now that Fergus has emerged alive and well, there's no longer any need for me to produce the next Cousland heir."

Wynne snorted, sitting herself elegantly on the edge of the cart and tilting her face towards the sun.

"No judgment here, Finian. I wondered if you might be tempted to join in the construction."

Finian shot the senior enchanter a slightly appalled look, holding out his slender, pale and unblemished hands.

"My dear woman, do these look like the hands of a labourer? I'm an  _scholar."_

Leliana had gone to drape herself artfully against the fence, breaking into a folk song about gathering the harvest. It was a popular Fereldan melody, and the men seemed to appreciate it as they hammered the stakes into the dusty earth. The bard made for an attractive sight; the sun glancing off her dancing-embers hair as she shook her head.

"Clever girl," murmured Wynne admiringly, rolling up the sleeves of her robes to expose pale underarms to the sun. "Remind them of what they're fighting for. Why they're doing this. Defending their home rather than running to the city."

Having kicked off her boots Flora was sitting on the lip of the hay cart with her bare feet dangling from the edge. She was oblivious to the half-naked labourers, her attention focused on the fish book open in her lap. Her finger moved painfully slowly across the page as she mouthed the letters and words to herself.

"I'll show you why  _I'm_  doing this in a moment," Finian murmured, flashing them a wicked little smile. Then, in response to his sister's tap and bemused point: "It says  _iridescent._ That means shiny."

" _Iridescent_  scales," repeated Flora, gazing down in fascination at the entry for the  _Val Royeaux Ray._

Eventually Finian sat up a little straighter, grey eyes gleaming like polished silver. He touched Wynne's arm, then gestured to the border of the field where a dense clump of trees sprouted.

The men were carrying branches and trunks of varying sizes, the thickest needing to be carried on several shoulders. As they neared, Finian tapped a rhythmic staccato on his sister's back, nudging her to get her attention.

"Look, it's your other 'brother'," he purred, stroking a hand over his rumpled russet curls in a futile attempt to flatten them. "This is the  _real_ reason why I've been roasting myself for hours."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So a solar is basically a private room in a castle, I modelled Arl Bryland's solar off the solar in Bunratty Castle in Ireland, which I visited ages ago. The room left a big impression on me, it's very beautiful, you can google it! Leliana's name for Flora – ma crevette – actually means MY SHRIMP in French, but it is a term of endearment in France, honestly! It's a bit like "honey", or "sweetie". It's not as weird as ma puce (MY FLEA!)


	134. The Call of the Darkspawn

Chapter 134: The Call of the Darkspawn

Alistair was hauling a trunk behind him with one arm, a massive axe propped against his broad shoulder as though it were weightless. Like most of the other men, he had stripped off to the waist in the unseasonable heat; the cool olive tone of his skin in stark contrast to the paler easterners around him. Alistair had always been athletic in build, but the months of travel and combat had given new definition to the musculature of his body. Without an inch of extraneous fat, his stomach could have been carved from granite by some lascivious sculptor.

" _That's_  the really reason why I'm roasting myself here," murmured Finian, narrowing his eyes for a better look. "Florence, get your face out of that book!"

Wynne squinted in the same direction as the old teyrn's youngest son, using her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Alistair had stopped to converse with Leonas Bryland, the sun brightening his dark blond hair into brilliant gold.

The senior enchanter nodded, quietly impressed.

"If I were twenty-  _thirty_  years younger..!" she mused, trawling her pale blue eyes shamelessly over the bastard prince's powerfully-built form. "You don't find many men like that in the Circle Tower."

"Nor in the University of Orlais," bemoaned Finian, who was also staring brazenly. "It was filled with scrawny intellectuals incapable of snapping a quill in two."

Alistair had caught sight of Leliana, who was still draped artfully over the fence. He went to greet her and after a few moments she nodded, lifting an elegant finger to point at the hay cart.

He looked in their direction; and when his eyes settled on his sister-warden, his expression softened. An involuntary smile curled the corners of the mouth that he had unknowingly inherited from the old king, Maric.

Leaving the trunk and the axe, Alistair strode over towards the hay cart. As he drew nearer, they could see the faint white lines of old scars across the olive chest and abdomen; relics of injuries mended by a lesser healer. His skin gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat, a product of both the exertion and the heat.

Finian inhaled sharply under his breath, blindly groping his sister's shoulder.

"Florence,  _stop looking at those Maker-damned fish!"_

Flora swatted at him irritably, working her way laboriously through the entry for the  _Antivan snapper._

Coming to a stop before them, Alistair nodded politely at Wynne and inclined his head towards Finian. Flora darted her eyes at him over the top of her book; he smiled up at her, slow and desirous. Reaching out, he put a calloused hand on her knee, fingers edging over the bare skin of her thigh.

"How was the letter signing,  _Acting Warden-Commander?"_  he asked cheerfully, sweat-damp strands of hair clinging to the back of his neck.

Flora lowered the book to her lap and rolled her grey eyes pitifully at him, her naturally solemn face even more pensive than usual.

"Turns out I can't spell my full name, brother-warden" she observed laconically.

Alistair laughed, retrieving her hand and pressing a kiss into the centre of her ink-stained palm.

"Can I read with you?" he murmured, releasing her fingers after giving them a gentle squeeze. "It's been a while since we practised together."

Flora nodded and Alistair clambered up into the hay cart alongside them, leaning back against its wooden side and lifting a muscled arm. Flora settled against his chest, oblivious to the sweat cooling on his skin. After six months in each other's constant company, when they were often grubby or blood-stained from battle; mere perspiration was barely worthy of note.

"What's that? Looks mean. Are those  _teeth?!"_

"The Antivan snapper," replied Flora, tilting her head as Alistair pressed his cheek to her ear, arm curling possessively around her stomach. He kissed the top of her ear, breath languid and warm against her skin.

"All fish have teeth," she continued, while his fingers meandered casually over her thigh. "The ones that eat other fish have pointy teeth. The ones that eat plants have  _flat_  teeth."

"Ah, how I missed you, my dear."

On the other side of the hay cart a conflicted Finian grimaced; eager to eye up Alistair, but not so keen on seeing Alistair's hands moving over his sister's body like an octopus. Wynne closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the wood and exhaling slowly, enjoying the unusual sensation of the sun's naked heat against her skin.

The sun sank lower in the sky, it was unseasonably warm for early spring. Finian fell asleep in the back of the hay cart with his mouth half-open. Wynne also appeared to be dozing lightly, a strand of white hair breaking loose from the rigid confines of her bun.

Leliana had ridden off on the back of Arl Bryland's saddle, after sweetly requesting a tour of South Reach's perimeter. The Arl, flattered, believed that this was an excuse to spend time with him; in reality, the bard wanted to inspect the access routes leading into the town.

Together, Flora hesitant and Alistair assisting, the Wardens made their way through the Antivan snapper, the Tevinter silverfin and the tentacled ring-squid of Rivain. The sun bore down relentless on the men in the fields; one by one, they gave in to temptation and lowered themselves down on the scattered hay. Only a few were still working, their movements slow and languid as they manoeuvred the wooden stakes into the dusty earth.

Flora felt Alistair's arm go slack around her stomach and heard a soft snore against her ear. Craning her neck, she realised that he had also dozed off; his handsome head tilted back against the wooden slats of the hay cart.

She had just returned her gaze to the page before her and was puzzling over the meaning of the word ' _littoral';_ when there came a familiar  _pull_ in the back of her brain. It was as though a fishhook had embedded itself within the base of her skull and given it a tug, turning her head reflexively to the left. The  _pull_ was accompanied by a sudden curdling in her stomach, a twist of nameless dread.

Flora glanced over her shoulder at Alistair but his rest appeared undisturbed, he remained asleep and snoring. She lifted his arm gently from her stomach and scrambled down from the hay cart, Finian mumbling incoherently as she trod on his foot.

Looking around at the pastoral scene, the sun edging itself contentedly towards the horizon and flooding the fields with mellow light; it seemed near-inconceivable that the Darkspawn should be  _here_. A horrible thought surfaced in the forefront of her mind:  _have the horde made it this far north?_

A moment later she dismissed it; it did not  _feel_  like a vast number, the pull in her brain was needling yet small. She closed her eyes for a moment, allowing the fishhook embedded in her skull to turn her head fully. When she opened her eyes, her face was turned towards the small cluster of trees that delineated one field from the next, the one from which Alistair had emerged earlier.

Tentatively Flora began to head across the half-harvested field towards the clump of trees, the mown hay gritty against the soles of her feet. The curdling in her stomach suddenly swelled, as though she had taken a bite of orange and washed it down with milk. She quickened her pace, grateful that Alistair had tightened the strapping around her knee earlier, and eventually she was near-running.

A shape appeared at the edge of the woods, but it was a familiar one- two men, carrying a trunk between them on their shoulders. Bare-chested and pale from the winter, they seemed oddly vulnerable against the dark shadows of the trunks.

Deciding that she wouldn't mind if she were wrong, that she would  _happily_  appear foolish if it meant that she had been mistaken; Flora began to wave her arms and yell at them.

"Drop it!" she bellowed, far more fishwife than Lady Cousland. "Drop it, run!  _Run! Alistair!"_

Still in the fringe of the trees the two men gazed at her in bemusement, she gave a little moan and began to run towards them instead.

Just then another shape emerged from the bowels of the wood, moving unnaturally fast, it's silhouette hunched low and bestial against the trees. With a throaty snarl the Hurlock, a half-rotted creature with ribcage partially exposed, flung itself towards the men armed only with tooth and vicious claw.

Entering the treeline a panting Flora flung out her hand – there were still a dozen yards between her and the men – and to her relief, the barrier manifested itself. Golden mist unfolded to create a gleaming sheath around the startled pair; into which the Hurlock crashed like a wave against a sea wall. It let out a snarl of rage and began to hurl itself against the intangible white-gold light, still focused on its original prey. The men let the trunk slip from their shoulders, gaping in horror and disbelief.

"Alistair!  _Alistair!"_ Flora yelled at the top of her lungs, unsure how much of the sound was being absorbed by the surrounding trees.

The Hurlock finally stopped battering the shield and looked around for the source of the barrier. It's flat, dead eye settled on Flora, who must have appeared a tantalising target without discernible armour or weaponry.

"Where's your sword?" Flora challenged it breathlessly, as a thick, animalistic growl escaped the creature's ragged throat. "Did you leave it at home? I didn't forget my shield.  _Alistair!"_

Keeping her eyes fixed on the creature she stepped backwards, drawing it away from the two cringing men and luring it with her taunts. Although it did not understand them, the Darkspawn recognised the overt body language of challenge. Flora waved her hands at it, edging to one side, her eyes focused on something innocuous in the background.

The Hurlock made a lunge for Flora just as she lined up the angle as best she could. Throwing up her hand, the golden shield shot outwards faster than Leliana's fleetest arrow; colliding with the Darkspawn and flinging it backwards towards the object Flora had spotted between the trees.

Her aim had been surprisingly accurate- the creature was impaled on the vicious prongs of a toppled plough. It jerked for a moment, twitching arms and legs, with curved metallic teeth extending from its rotted stomach. Moments later it slumped lifeless, a foul stench emanating from the exposed entrails.

Flora exhaled, shooting a tentative smile at the frightened men as she lowered her hands, the golden shield melting away into the air.

"I think it's just an isolated one, not the whole horde" she said, forcing the tremor from her voice with cheery optimism. "They claw their way up sometimes."

One of the men was trying to say something, vocal cords paralysed with fear. He mouthed at her, his tongue thick and clumsy, and Flora stared back at him in ragged confusion.

A moment too late, she realised what the man had been trying so desperately to say.

_Behind you._

Something hit her hard from the rear; metallic and angular, it collided with the back of her shoulder. Flora fell forwards, using her hands to absorb the shock as she landed heavily on the dew-damp grass. As she gasped for breath, mind scrambling to regain focus; a second Hurlock snarled over her with rancid breath. The creature was armed only with a dented shield, edges jagged with rust, and was using it as a primitive weapon. It brought the shield down towards her face, intending to smash her head into fragments of bone and brain.

Just then an axe blade swung around in a dull scythe of metal. The Hurlock's head was struck brutally from its shoulders, and went bouncing across the leaf-strewn ground. The decapitated body twitched, spewing forth gouts of blighted blood.

Alistair stood there, bare chest heaving, the axe handle gripped between trembling hands. He let the axe drop as he reached down to haul Flora roughly to her feet, his fingers gripping her arms tight enough to leave bruises. His eyes moved over her from head to toe, then back up again; establishing that she was safe and unharmed. Behind him, a silent Wynne entered with her staff poised, ready to incinerate the corpses before they could spread their poison. The two fortunate labourers fled, thanking the Maker for their lucky escape.

Once Flora's health was confirmed Alistair stepped back, blood flooding back into a face pallid beneath the tan. Two high points of colour flared on his cheeks, eyes bright and feverish. Flora stared up at him in alarm; a moment later, her brother-warden did something that he had not done in their entire mutual history.

" _You did it again!"_ he bellowed, in a voice rising with anger and dread. "Flora, you  _did it again,_ Maker's Breath! You went off on your own, and look what almost happened!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Flora did actually act like a massive idiot in this chapter. One of her worst qualities is her recklessness and that really shows itself with this incident. She's very impulsive, and takes risks without thinking. Alistair is fully justified in losing his shit at her, which he's about to do in the next chapter. Incidentally, note how he now seems to be less sensitive to the Darkspawn call than Flora? PLOOOT. MORE LATER. Also, he's FIT in this chapter. MUSCLES etc. And speaking of orange juice and milk, I did once combine Baileys Irish cream with lemon liqueur, with DISASTROUS consequences, lol And the thing that Alistair had never done before is actually SHOUT at her, Flora's a bit like WTF lol


	135. Angry Alistair

 

"Sometimes you drive me crazy, Flora. I mean, absolutely Maker-raving  _insane._ "

Flora gaped at Alistair, so thoroughly unused to him shouting at her that she found herself lost for words. A still half-asleep Finian stumbled into view between the trees, then stopped abruptly as he surveyed the two Wardens. Alistair, the colour returning to his cheeks in a sudden flush of scarlet, was quivering like an over-taut lute string. Very slowly, Finian sidled backwards with gaze assiduously averted, as unobtrusively as possible.

"Why are you so damned  _impulsive?!_ " Alistair was now demanding, while his sister-warden stared up at him in wide-eyed shock. "You're too reckless, you could have  _died_. To a single Darkspawn in… in this random unimportant corner of Ferelden! And your death would have meant  _nothing_!"

Alistair's anger was made more vehement by a bitter sting of fear, the thought that he could lose his sister-warden in the same futile manner that he had lost his mentor. Flora felt the sour taste of guilt clinging to the back of her throat, aware that he had a point.

"Flora, I can't even look at you at the moment."

She cast her eyes downwards miserably and when she looked up again, he had gone, storming back across the field towards South Reach.

Wynne, who had just finished incinerating the second Hurlock corpse, let out a small sigh as she slid her staff back over her shoulder.

"He has a point," the senior enchanter pointed out acerbically. "It was rash of you for you to venture in here alone. We were all here, we could have accompanied you."

"I know," mumbled Flora, her shoulders slumping. "I just- I thought I might have been imagining it. The Darkspawn call, I mean."

A returning Finian put his arm around her waist and gave her a little squeeze. She looked sideways at him, and was suddenly grateful for his presence. Wynne appraised the mournful girl and relented somewhat, reaching out to pluck a stray leaf from Flora's dishevelled oxblood hair.

"He's just frightened, and it comes out as anger," she said softly as they left the wood, the trees quiet after Alistair's sound and fury. "He loves you dearly and he's terrified of the possibility that you might die."

"If I'd waited, those men would be dead," replied Flora, obstinate even in the depths of a sulk. "What else was I meant to do?"

"Let them die," replied Wynne bluntly, which only worsened Flora's mood. "You're a rare species in Ferelden, Flora, and  _you are necessary_."

In truth, Flora was shocked at the depth of her brother-warden's anger. She was no stranger to being shouted at – many of her instructors at the Tower had expelled her from their classrooms with a tirade, accusing her of laziness, incompetency, or both. But this was  _Alistair,_ her brother-warden and best friend. Never in six months had he raised his voice at her; let alone turned his back and walked away.

Still dejected, Flora retrieved her fish book and followed Finian and Wynne back up through the angled streets of South Reach towards the castle. Finian kept up a constant stream of chatter as they walked; she let his words flow over her like the tide across a sand bar, only half-listening. They passed the full taverns and the abandoned whorehouse, reaching the castle gatehouse just as a mild spring rain began to fall. People vanished from the main courtyard into various doorways and arches, reminiscent of mice scattering at the sight of a cat.

Finian rapidly disappeared to find his brother, returning the precious Cousland signet ring that Flora had used to seal the correspondence. Wynne also vanished towards the neglected library, in which the Arl of South Reach did not spend a great deal of time.

Determined not to spend the remainder of the evening sulking, Flora intercepted various retainers until she found one that was native to South Reach. The elven groom led her to an unobtrusive wooden door tucked away in a lesser courtyard. An armoured guard stood outside, flattened against the wall to keep out of the rain.

When Flora requested to enter and speak with the prisoner, the man looked her up and down with a dubious expression.

"Eh, girl, dungeons are no place for pretty young lasses such as yourself. There's  _bad men_  in there."

Recalling that it was her own expanding barrier that had sent this particular  _bad man_ catapulting helplessly through the air, Flora eyed him; wondering whether to wield Warden authority or Cousland name to gain entry. After a moment he relented and allowed her in, perhaps recognising her similarity to the deposed teyrn.

She entered, blinking as her eyes acclimatised to the sudden, musty darkness. A series of roughly hewn stone steps curved downwards into the earth beneath the castle, lit by bracketed torches on the walls. Descending, Flora had the distinct feeling that she was entering the gloomy bowels of South Reach itself.

The steps opened out into a wide, low-ceilinged corridor, with two wings of cells branching off to either side. Two guards were playing Wicked Grace at a table near the steps; nearly sending the pack flying as they rose rapidly to greet her. They wore identical dubious expressions as they led her to the end of the left wing. The majority of the cells were empty, the few occupants leered at Flora as she passed, but made no comment in the presence of the guards.

The would-be assassin was slumped on a pile of straw in the corner of the cell, dirty and unshaven. He sported a weeping cut on his forehead from where he had been launched through the fence, one side of his face covered in brownish dried blood.

When he saw Flora he eyed her sullenly, but said nothing. She pressed her curious face against the bars, gazing back at him. For several long, drawn out minutes she said nothing; this was because she was thinking on what to say but the assassin clearly felt pressure to speak first.

"You want me to apologise?" he said at last, in a raw voice, dark eyes flashing at her.

Flora looked up at him, in mild surprise.

"No," she replied, and then eyed the bare walls of the cell. "Have you had food and water?"

The prisoner gave a surly shrug, but Flora could see no evidence of a bowl or flagon on the other side of the bars. Returning to the guards and their game of Wicked Grace; she requested that some food and ale be brought down from the kitchens. The guards obeyed reluctantly after the senior recognised the distinctive Cousland fox-red hair.

Returning to the end cell, Flora found that the man had relocated himself to the other side of the bars, eyeing her warily from a foot away. She stared back at him, not disconcerted in the slightest. Now that she was not punching or stuffing straw inside it, she saw that his face was older and more weather-beaten than she had first assumed.

"That was a sneaky trick," she said at last, shooting him a reproachful look. "Pretending to be injured. Why not just shoot an arrow at me from behind a tree?"

"Others have tried and failed," he said, with a sullen shrug. "He knows you're a healer. Thought this might work."

Flora remembered the elven ambush on the return from Orzammar.

" _He?_  Loghain?"

A quick back-forth shake of the head.

"Rendon Howe?"

A pause, then a brief, bitter nod. The man looked resigned and beyond care.

Flora mused for a moment, wondering what line of questioning to pursue.  _I should have brought Leliana,_ she thought, gloomily.  _She'd know the right things to say._

"How did he find out that I was a Cousland?" she asked, finally. The man let out a humourless bark and exhaled; his breath had the acidic tinge of an empty stomach.

"I heard Howe complaining that Loghain had stopped funding the assassins, on account that they were going after Couslands, rather than Wardens. Howe said that it had been Loghain that had recognised the Cousland girl in the first place."

Flora remembered the teyrn staring at her on the blood-soaked drawbridge leading into Ostagar, watching her for hours as she laboured away over the mangled young recruit. She had naively assumed that he was fascinated by her healing, as so many tended to be; didn't realise that he was cataloguing her features in his head. The solemn grey eyes, the wide mouth and high cheekbones, the distinctive Cousland banner scarlet hair.

_Cailan didn't recognise me because he was so obsessed with his personal crusade against the Darkspawn, and he was more familiar with Fergus, anyway. Fergus and I don't look as alike; I take more after our father and he after our mother._

The words still sat strangely in Flora's mind, these  _parents_ who she had never seen except in ghostly replica in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Occasionally, she wondered what they had looked like; if their faces were locked away in the sealed part of her mind.

The man coughed and Flora realised that she had been gazing off towards the stone wall.

"Is the teyrn still saying that there's no Blight?" she asked, as the assassin gave a sullen shrug in reply.

"Only saw him the once. He didn't look happy."

 _Good,_ thought Flora childishly, then moved to one side to allow the guard access to the cell. A half-eaten loaf of bread was tossed callously through the bars and onto the straw; a water-pouch looked about to follow until she hastily intercepted it, handing it to the prisoner.

He ate the bread in great ravenous bites, barely stopping to chew. Flora watched him between the bars, wondering.

"What's your name?" she asked after he had drained the water-pouch. The man shot her a surly look, then clambered to his feet and moved to the far side of the cell. He sat down again, pointedly facing the stone wall.

"I'm Flora," she said, gaining no response.

The man did not reply, gazing intently at the stone. Flora, curiosity overruling her rumbling stomach, also sat down against the wall. Under her breath she began to practise her numbers on the rusting cage bars, going back and forth until she lost count. The dungeon was thick with mildew, musty air coating her throat with every inhalation; she was grateful for the woollen sweater's protection against the subterranean damp.

A candle-length passed, and the guards came to check that Flora was alright. Absorbed in her task, she nodded distractedly; relatively confident until thirty.

"Thirty nine, fifty. No, forty. Forty…teen-one."

"Can't you  _count?!"_

It was the first that he had spoken in an hour. Flora looked up, startled, almost having forgotten her purpose for being in the dungeon in the first place. The assassin had turned back around and was eyeing her warily, as a hare would watch a fox through the long grass.

"No," she replied, mildly. "Not well. I'm not good at reading or writing either."

"But you're a teyrn's daughter. Didn't you get an education at Highever?"

Flora snorted, knowing that her dad – the man who had raised her – was equally illiterate.

"I wasn't raised at Highever, I lived in Herring. It's a- "

"Fishing village on the north coast, on the Mhaille Straits."

Flora gaped at him, eyes wide. Throughout the entirety of their journeys, she had never met anyone who had been able to identify her home so quickly.

"I'm from Skingle," he said, naming a village that lay a half-candle's walk west along the coast from Herring. Flora stared at him, unable to stop a smile from spreading across her face despite the odd circumstances.

"My dad gets all his hooks from the smith in Skingle! You don't sound like a coastlander."

The man gave a self-conscious shrug, approaching the bars in a slightly less wary manner than before.

"I ironed out my accent quick when I got to Denerim. Didn't like people treating me like I was some ignorant peasant."

Flora, whose throaty, flat northern tones stood out starkly among the smooth refined vocalisations of the other nobles, gave a little grimace of sympathy. The man looked at her for a moment, then cleared the mildew from his chest with a little cough.

"The name's Symon."

As though he had given away slightly more than intended, the man withdrew once more. Flora didn't pursue the advantage, but settled back against the wall. Her stomach gave a pronounced rumble, and she patted it ineffectually.

It was not half a candle-length before Symon spoke once more, weary eyes returning to her.

"How does a teyrn's daughter end up in a place like Herring?"

"I'm a mage," she said matter-of-factly, holding up her hand and watching her nails gleam gold as creation energy swelled up between her fingers. "I was sent away so not to make the Cousland name look bad. I don't even know why Howe wants me dead, I can't inherit anything."

"Howe's driven near-mad with ambition," Symon replied, with a wry shrug. "He's taken several nobles into protective custody, to guarantee the loyalty of the banns they're related to. They're all locked up in the dungeons of his Denerim estate."

Flora stared at him, willing herself not to sound too eager. "Who?"

Symon thought for a moment, grubby fingers absentmindedly pulling at his straggly beard.

"Bann Sighard's lad, Oswyn. The Bann of the Waking Sea's brother. There's some Orlesian there as well, been tortured; he's in a sorry state. Renedon, or Riordan, I don't recall."

The names meant nothing to Flora, but she still felt a flutter of excitement in her stomach.  _It's knowledge,_ she thought to herself,  _it'll be useful._

"Well, how does a northerner end up working as an assassin in the city?" she asked, her voice sharpening once more. "Hunting  _Couslands._ Skingle is part of Highever's teyrnir, Bryce Cousland was your liege-lord."

Symon cast his eyes to the straw-covered cell floor, abashed.

"It was nothing personal," he mumbled, and there seemed to be a note of genuine shame in his tone. "I have a sick child in the elven alienage in Denerim; I needed to pay his mother for medicine."

He gave a hollow, humourless laugh, shaking his head. "Knew I shouldn't have taken the job. Meina will be expecting the next payment."

A long sigh escaped the man's lungs, his face melancholy beneath the bloodied cut over his forehead. It was an ugly gash, ragged and deep like an unhappy mouth.

"Poor little lad."

Flora recognised the desperation in his voice, and despite the fact that he had tried to kill her two days prior, felt a solid throb of sympathy. Reaching through the bars impulsively, she touched the edge of the painful wound on the man's forehead. He went rigid, but stayed very still.

The golden mist surged from beneath her fingernails as she traced her thumb slowly down the bloodied rend; the torn skin sealing itself in her wake. When she retracted her hand, Symon was gazing at her with a myriad of emotions on his lined face.

"I'll make sure you get some more food later," Flora said impulsively, before scuttling away down the stone passageway, the two guards barely registering her departure as she began to ascend the spiral staircase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Remember that assassin, the wanker who pretended to be injured to get up close and personal with Flo, then ended up getting close and personal with a haystack? That guy! Also, Alistair is justifiably angry at Flora, who was a reckless idiot last chapter. RIORDAN! Poor sod is getting tortured in Howe's basement.


	136. Unrequited Desires

Chapter 137: Unrequited Desires

With every ascending step Flora grew angrier at Loghain for dividing Ferelden at a time when it needed unity most. Emerging back out into the main courtyard, she was surprised to see that it was now dark –  _properly_ dark, with a waning moon hanging low in a starless sky. The lamp-boys were busy embarking on their rounds, warding the castle against the encroaching night.

Light spilled from the half-open door leading to the main hall, and Flora could hear noise and lively conversation beyond. She took an eager step towards the entrance then came to a halt, despite her stomach's insistent rumbling. It took her a moment to identify the cause of the rising guilt in her throat, sour as bile.

_Alistair. He's probably still angry at me, rightfully so. Why am I always so reckless? My shield isn't invulnerable. Idiot, Flora!_

Since Ostagar, the longest duration that she and her brother-warden had been parted was when the Carta had attempted to kidnap her in Orzammar. Although she had no definite way to measure the time, this span of hours must now be challenging even that.

Swallowing the guilt, forcing it back down into her stomach like she did when inhaling the Blight; Flora turned away from the main hall. Instead, she headed to a smaller wooden door, further along the long stone ramparts.

This brought her into the South Reach kitchens, a maze of sprawling interconnected rooms that included pantries and storerooms. Servants scuttled back and forth with full platters of food or empty trays, the cooks bellowed instructions red-faced from the heat and exertion. Cats scampered underfoot, as did the occasional begging Mabari, though most were congregated before the open fireplaces. A myriad of smells filled the air, the prevailing one being roasted meat.

Flora cornered one of Arl Bryland's servants and requested that a proper meal be taken down to the dungeons twice a day for the prisoner. Recognising her Cousland-red hair, the servant acquiesced with a deep bow. Flora looked curiously over her shoulder to see which noble had just entered, then realised that the servant had been bowing to  _her._

Feeling fraudulent and faintly ridiculous, Flora stole some bread and cheese and went in search of an unobtrusive corner in which to have her own lonely dinner. She wandered through the sprawling hallways avoiding the rushing servants and cup bearers as best she could. She passed through a room containing a vast butter churn, a pantry filled with hanging salted meat, and finally a chamber that was devoted entirely to the creation of sugar cakes. Finally, she entered a small, tiled room filled with barrels of fruit and a preparation table.

"Ah, here comes dessert," came an amused, faintly mocking Antivan-inflected voice from the shadows.

Zevran emerged from a small antechamber, flashing her a catlike smile. Freshly washed, he had exchanged his crumpled Brecilian attire for stylish fresh leathers; but there were dark shadows smudged beneath his eyes.

Flora beamed back at him, relieved to see a familiar face. Deciding that this was as good a spot as any, she sat on the edge of a stone counter and retrieved her bread and cheese. The elf sauntered over and leaned against the preparation table, watching her closely.

"Why aren't you in the main hall with everyone else?" he asked after a moment, the corner of his mouth curling upwards. Flora sighed, ramming a hunk of bread into her mouth with slightly more force than intended.

"I'm hiding," she mumbled through the mouthful of food, her own gaze lowered to the flagstones. "Alistair is angry at me- he has cause - and I feel guilty when I look at him."

Zevran quirked a brow at her, leaning over to remove the lid from a ceramic jar before eyeing its contents.

"What could our bastard prince possibly be angry with you for,  _carina?"_

"I don't think before I act," Flora replied gloomily, watching him remove several blueberries and pop them into his mouth. "If I keep acting so reckless, I'm going to get myself killed."

"Ah," said the elf lightly. He paused, then tossed her one of the berries. "Have you ever tried a _blueberry_  before, my sweet girl?"

Flora nodded, biting into it and feeling the tart juice run down her chin. Zevran started forwards, arm twitching as though he were going to wipe it away. The next moment he thought better of it, and brushed his hand self-consciously over his impeccable platinum hair.

"Try this, then. The Arl of South Reach has good suppliers from Antiva and Orlais when it comes to his fruit; it seems that even the Blight cannot stop trade."

He tossed her something else, pale and elongated in the dim light. Flora clapped her hands together to intercept its flight, casting an eye over the curving golden length. She stared at it for a moment, then looked up at him dubiously.

Zevran laughed at her expression.

"It's a  _banana, sirenita._ Have you never seen one before?"

Flora, raised on homely fruits that sprung from the damp Fereldan earth, shook her head before taking a bite.

"It's good," she mumbled, through a full mouth. "Chewy."

The elf's head snapped around to look at her.  _"Chewy?"_

The next moment Zevran was beside her, trying not to smile as he gently extracted the banana from her hands.

" _Querida,_ one must first remove the skin. Here," he handed it back to her.

For several minutes Flora was absorbed in the act of eating, her free hand fiddling idly with the discarded banana skin.

"So what did you do that was so reckless? Life is rather placid here at the castle. Did you greet a noble by the incorrect title?"

"No, I got into a fight with some Darkspawn in the wood," she replied, remembering the terrified faces of the labourers as they turned towards her. "There were two of them, just on their own. Must've clawed their way up through the earth. But I went alone, and Alistair was angry. I understand why: I'm one of the last Wardens in Ferelden. I have to be more careful!"

Zevran nodded without a word, lifting the lid from another barrel. His eyes lit up as he retrieved something glossy and yellow, holding it out to Flora.

"Ah! Another stranger to these rainy climes. Do you know what  _this_  is, my lily?"

Flora nodded, recognition passing across her face.

"I know it," she replied confidently. "It's a lemon, isn't it?"

Zevran took a thin blade from his tunic and sliced the fruit deftly in half, then inhaled the sharp taste of citrus. The scent reminded him of Antiva City; all sunburnt clay and dusty alleyways, exotic blooming vines that clung to the sides of buildings and fresh tannin from the leatherworkers pungent in the air. The streets were lined with sun-faded avenues of trees that hung heavy with fruit all year round. As a boy he had clambered up into their sweet-smelling branches to gather armfuls of oranges and lemons, some to eat and some to sell.

"Lemons aren't native to Ferelden," he replied, squeezing several acidic drops onto the end of his finger. "Have you tried one?"

Flora shook her head, pulling the nightgown down over her bare knees. The elf leaned against the counter beside her, licking the juice from his skin.

"No, I dressed up as one for a Satinalia costume ball when I was at the Circle," she confessed, rolling her eyes. "It was my first winter at Kinloch; I made my costume out of wire and plaidweave. And I put yellow paint on my face. Everyone else came as Tevinter dancers and Orlesian courtesans, though, so I stood out a bit."

"You went to a masquerade as a  _lemon?!"_ repeated Zevran, jaw dropping. Flora nodded, trying not to laugh at the elf's incredulous expression.

"Yes. I couldn't even sit down because of the wire frame. It was fine though, I spent the whole evening standing beside the buffet table anyway."

Zevran began to cackle, placing one slender hand on the counter to steady himself. Two servants entered and removed a silver platter of strawberries, eyeing them both curiously.

"I was  _proud_  of my costume," insisted Flora stubbornly, her grey eyes solemn and earnest. "I still am. I'd rather be a lemon than an Orlesian."

Impulsively, the elf slung an arm around her shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze.

"Well said,  _carina."_ Zevran paused for a moment before continuing. When he spoke again, his words possessed a melancholy, slightly wistful bearing.

"You can't expect Alistair to not fret about you, my lily, you are in an  _exceptionally_  dangerous line of work. Unfortunately, as a Grey Warden during a Blight, everything will carry some element of risk for you."

Flora was silent, fingering the banana peel as it rested on her bare knee. The kernel of guilt rose once more in her throat, lodging somewhere within her gullet. She knew that she was in the wrong, that she should have woken her brother-warden the moment that the fish-hook pull of the taint first tugged at her mind.

"Alistair cannot be blamed," continued Zevran, plucking the peel from her fingers and tossing it into the compost barrel, studiously avoiding catching her eye. "I'm surprised that he can stand the situation at all. If… if you were  _mine_ , I would smuggle you back to Antiva City in a crate of Ferelden apples, Warden or no. I could not stand seeing you in such danger."

Zevran's tone was deliberately casual, and shortly afterwards he removed his arm from her shoulders as a slender cup-bearer with auburn curls entered the fruit store. The lad, catching sight of Flora, offered her a polite bow before turning his gaze eagerly on Zevran.

"Dinner is finished," the servant murmured as the elf's mouth curved upwards in a wicked smile. Reaching out, he ruffled the top of Flora's head companionably.

"I'll see you later,  _mi_   _corazon._ Give me a kiss before I go."

The elf tilted his cheek towards her and she leaned forward; at the last minute he turned his head slightly so her lips landed on the corner of his mouth. Cackling, he flashed her a wink before sauntering insouciantly after his next excitable conquest.

Flora stayed in the fruit store for a while longer, making circuits around the preparation table and wondering what to do. The main hall was directly overhead; she could hear wooden chairs being scraped against the flagstones, the sound of muffled conversation and the occasional roar of laughter.

She ended up returning to the west tower, retracing her route back through the deserted main courtyard and up the stone steps to the ramparts. The crescent moon provided little light; the sky itself was dark and starless, an unbroken expanse of rich navy. It was a mild evening, some residual warmth of the day lingered despite the absence of the sun. The guards patrolling the ramparts stood aside to let her pass, inclining their heads respectfully.

Ascending the steps to the second floor and entering the stone passageway, Flora had to swallow a lump on seeing Alistair's door. The Templar stationed outside Arl Eamon's room eyed her warily; she did not recognise him from Kinloch Hold and wondered if he might have come from Jainen.

Entering their borrowed quarters, Flora saw Wynne slumped over on the arlina's Orlesian chaise. The old woman was snoring, loose parchment drifting from her knees, a quill and inkpot toppled beside her. A deep stain of navy ink had crept over the plum-shaded velvet, seeping into the fabric. Flora fetched a blanket from the bed and draped it over the senior enchanter, tucking it around her shoulders. Retrieving the writing supplies, she placed them carefully on a side table.

It was not late, yet Flora could not summon the polite façade needed to socialise with the nobles. Her elder brother still terrified her with his hard, disapproving stare; and her own lingering guilt tasted sour beneath her tongue. Instead, she changed into the blue silk pyjamas and tied her hair back with Leliana's ribbon, then clambered into the four poster bed. Drawing the quilt up over her waist, Flora propped the fish book open on her knees and began to make her way through several apples pilfered from the fruit store.

She was just brushing crumbs from her chest and looking at a picture of a bronze carp, when there came a quiet rap on the door. Flora immediately thought of her brother-warden and thrust the covers back, swinging her legs out of bed and scuttling across the room.

When she opened the door, it was the shy blond Templar she recognised from her own Circle. He stood awkwardly in the standard-issue armour, auburn eyes directed somewhere over Flora's shoulder into the arlina's bedchamber beyond.

"Cullen Rutherford," she said, having taken especial effort to learn his name after the revelation that he had kept quiet about her frequent excursions up to the Circle roof.

"Warden… ah…  _Lady_  Cousland?" The young officer trailed off uncertainly, his eyes darting towards her face and glancing off again as though stung.

"Lieutenant," she replied, sensing stands of hair wilfully breaking free of the ribbon. "You've known me since I first arrived at Kinloch, you  _know_  my name."

In truth, those early weeks at the Circle were somewhat shrouded in Flora's memory. She had been fifteen and missing Herring terribly, frightened of the Templars and their ubiquitous stern presence. She had not yet become used to being watched as she slept, bathed and ate, and the other young apprentices had quickly discovered how limited her repertoire of spells was. For several weeks they had mocked her mercilessly, until this young officer had reprimanded them with hitherto unseen vehemence. Afterwards he had lingered on the periphery of her life for years; a constant mute observer too adherent to protocol to speak to her directly.

"Flora," amended the blond lieutenant, still impressively managing to avoid looking directly at her. "If it's possible, would you come and speak to the Arl's son? He's feeling – well. I don't want to be presumptuous. He feels – ashamed of himself. Of being a mage, I believe."

_I'm not surprised,_ Flora thought,  _since you're guarding him like a prisoner._

Still, she clambered out of bed dutifully and followed the young officer out of the arlina's bedchamber, closing the door quietly behind her so not to wake Wynne.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I always pictured Antiva City as somewhere inspired by Andalucía – the southern part of Spain that has tons of gorgeous Moorish sandstone architecture, all hot and duty and full of vegetation. I've been to Seville and Cordoba and they are both gorgeous.
> 
> Incidentally, I imagine that a successful Circle must have a pretty eventful social calendar – how else are you going to keep people entertained – and I thought it would be nice for them to have a costume ball to celebrate Satinalia. An opportunity for mages to engage in their favourite pastime – trying to excel and outdo the competition! Except naturally, Flora goes dressed as a lemon. You can kind of see why everyone at the Circle thought she was a weirdo now, lol.
> 
> Poor Zevran still has his lingering crush – he just needs to shag Flora and get her out of his system now, haha. It's actually been nearly THIRTY chapters since Alistair and Flora last got it on! Whaaaat. I almost named this chapter Zevran's Banana


	137. The Eventide Service

Chapter 137: The Eventide Service

The whitewashed corridor was quiet; the majority of the company had remained in the main hall to enjoy some post-dinner music. A lamp-boy was ambling down the passageway, touching a burning brand to each bracketed torch in turn. Pools of amber light sprung up in his wake, softening the stark grey stone.

Cullen Rutherford glanced over his shoulder as he led the way towards Arl Eamon's quarters, taking in Flora's silk pyjamas and her mid-yawn mouth.

"Sorry, were you… preparing for bed?"

Flora shook her head, surreptitiously checking that all her buttons were fastened correctly.

"No," she replied honestly, as the young Templar paused outside the Arl's door. "I was hiding. My fellow Warden is angry with me."

"With just cause?"

She thought, then gave a glum little nod. "Yes, I think so."

Cullen glanced at her a moment longer before pushing the door open. They entered a chamber that had been decorated in the same stark, militaristic style as the rest of the castle. A fire had burnt down to its embers in the grate; the entire room seemed cold, unwelcoming and bathed in gloomy shadow. A shield emblazoned with Redcliffe's emblem lay propped against the wooden armoire, and Flora recognised Arl Eamon's velvet tunic slung over a threadbare chaise.

"What did you do to anger Theirin?" asked the Templar curiously as he guided her across the room towards a recessed doorway. "He doesn't seem like one easily roused."

"I was…  _reckless_ ," Flora replied, as the young officer lifted his hand to the polished wood and gave a smart little rap.

"Reckless," he murmured, not waiting for a response from within before nudging his shoulder against the door. "I can believe it. The Circle Tower roof was a perilous climb and you made it often enough. Master Guerrin?"

The door opened to reveal a small but well-appointed bedchamber, perhaps intended for a high-ranking manservant. A travelling chest had been knocked to one side, its contents sprawled over the flagstones. Connor Guerrin stood in the centre of the room, arms folded and a mutinous expression on his face; clad in the Redcliffe colours of cream and ochre.

"Go away!" he demanded, in a high and imperious tone that was eerily reminiscent of Isolde. "I'm tired of you  _staring_  at me- "

The arl's son broke off rapidly when he caught sight of Flora, recognising her immediately. The haughty expression melted away, and he once more resembled an uncertain ten year old boy, his dark Guerrin eyes wide and unblinking.

"I remember you," he said at last, warily. "Why are you here?"

Flora wasn't sure what to say, not knowing the words that would make this scared boy at ease with the power that lurked inside him. Her magic, limited as it was, had never frightened her even as an untrained child. She had always accepted herself for whom she was and what she could – and could not- do.

_He's lived through what every mage spends their life in fear of: becoming abomination. He's seen what magic can do. Destroy castles; raise the dead. Eviscerate people with a word, destroy free will with a gesture. No wonder he's terrified of himself._

_What can I even say that would reassure him?_

Connor was staring at her guardedly, with a world-wearied expression that suggested there was nothing she could do to move him.

"Did that old woman send you?" he asked, the imperious mien once again rising over his features, an Orlesian mask of impassivity. "You're wasting your time."

"It's rude to call someone  _old woman_ ," replied Flora, reflexively coming to Wynne's defence. "And she didn't send me."

Connor gazed appraisingly up at her, his eyes glittering slits.

"Papa says that you're actually a teyrn's daughter," he said eventually, thin fingers pulling compulsively at a loose thread on his tunic. "Why do you sound like a commoner, then?"

_Because I_ am _a commoner,_ Flora thought, bestowing a slightly forced smile on the young boy.

"It's just… the way I am," she replied placidly, and the boy flinched as though she had struck him. At once, he hunched his shoulders and shot her an accusatory stare; one that was easy for her to interpret.

_It's alright for you. You haven't been through what I've been through. You can resist demons, defeat them, even._

Connor dropped back onto the bed and gazed stubbornly at the stone wall opposite, his pointed jaw set tightly.

"Go away."

A nonplussed Flora stared at him, thinking  _this is the second person who hasn't wanted to talk to me this evening._

The next moment she ducked reflexively as a silver candlestick arced over her head and hit the doorframe with a dull thud. Connor, arm still raised, shot them both a flat, angry glower.

"I said,  _go away!"_

Beside her, Cullen sighed and stepped back to allow Flora to exit the room before him, letting the door close softly in their wake. They returned to the main passageway, noticing that it had become busier in their absence. The nobles were noisily returning from dinner with their retainers, while elven servants holding additional flagons scuttled in their wake. In the background, grooms wrangled recalcitrant Mabari as they begged loudly for scraps.

"Thank you for trying," offered the young Templar, his eyes once more settling on a bracketed torch above her head. "I appreciate it, Flora."

Flora smiled at him slightly bemusedly; Rutherford caught a glimpse of her lips curving upwards and two bright spots of colour flared high on his cheeks.

_It's a wide, prideful mouth;_ he found himself musing, observations mingling together in his mind like drops of wine dissolving into water.  _It's why she looks so solemn, or even haughty – it's just the way her mouth is aligned._

A moment later he diverted his train of thought with wilful force, raising his eyes assiduously once again.

"It'll take more than a candlestick to scare me off," Flora informed him, sternly. As she spoke, the flush on Cullen's cheeks spread outwards, illuminating the skin around his ears a vivid rose-pink. "I'll try and speak to him again."

Avoiding the intoxicated Arl of Edgehall, who mumbled something incoherent in her direction as he half-fell inside his chambers, Flora made her way back down the stone passageway. Eventually she made her way across the minstrel's gallery that overlooked the main hall. The vast space was near empty, save for a handful of servants clearing away the remnants of dinner. The folk singer was still strumming away at a lute near the vast fireplace; while the Bann of Calon slowly turned Leliana on the spot in a graceful rotation.

Instead of turning left towards the Cousland quarters, Flora turned right. She wandered down a series of identical stone passages, not quite sure where she was heading. Numerous chambers branched off to either side, some doors half-open to reveal the austere décor of the rooms within. She passed Bann Reginalda, who was swaying gently as a groom guided her back inside her own quarters.

"The young Theirin is looking for you," the Bann informed Flora, her words slurring together. Despite a slightly dishevelled appearance, she managed to retain her ferociously imperious expression.

"He's a handsome lad, isn't he? Got the look of Maric more than Cailen ever had, Maker rest his soul."

"Is Alistair still angry?" Flora called after the Bann, as the stately woman was carefully manoeuvred inside her own quarters. The only response was a wooden door closed perfunctorily in her face.

Grimacing, Flora continued along the corridor and down another spiral staircase. This brought her out behind a stone colonnade that looked out onto the lesser courtyard, the one with the row of training dummies that Sten had demolished earlier. Still and silent, bathed in moonlight; the hacked-apart wooden bodies and strewn straw had a sad, funereal appearance to them. Several weapons lay thoughtlessly discarded on the flagstones.

_Is this how it appeared at Ostagar, down on the valley floor? Or did the Darkspawn not allow the dead a moment's respite before dragging them back into the Deep Roads?_

_Is that what happened to Duncan's body, too?_

The perennial seed of grief planted in Flora's brain sprouted once again, tendrils of melancholy wrapping themselves around her thoughts and casting a pall over her mind. As if on cue, her scarred knee began to throb insistently.

Then a sound cut through her sadness; a woman's voice rising in song, filtering through the shadows. She recognised it as the  _eventide_ , one of the staple hymns sung in the final Chantry service of the night.

Flora followed the sound to a half-ajar door on the opposite site of the lesser courtyard, light spilling over the flagstones from within. She nudged the door open to find a small Chantry, carved within the solid rock of South Reach itself. It was no more than a dozen strides in length, with the circular solar window high on the far wall and the customary altar below. A statue of Andraste in full battle regalia graced an alcove to the east, her garb fitting to her militaristic surroundings.

Two sisters were leading the closing prayer, their voices rising and falling in contrapuntal harmony as they recited the final verses of the Chant. A lay brother had a bronze incense-holder and was swinging it rhythmically, perfumed wisps of smoke drifting to the vaulted ceiling.

There were only six wooden stalls, three pairs parted by a surprisingly beautiful mosaic-tiled aisle. Two stalls were occupied by elves, their lips moving in silent accord with the Chantry sisters. A third was occupied by a regally dressed woman with steely grey hair and Arl Bryland's hawklike features.

Teagan was sitting in one of the rear pews, head bowed and hands clasped in prayer. Not wanting to disturb him Flora went to sit on the opposite stall; but the Bann opened an eye, smiled, then gestured for her to take the seat beside him. She lowered herself to the wooden bench, grimacing slightly at the pain in her upper back. For a moment she wondered indignantly where this new ache had come from; then remembered the Darkspawn driving its rusted shield against her shoulder as though trying to shear it off.

Teagan Guerrin mouthed silently beside her. Flora knew neither hymn nor prayer; the only words that came to mind was the short verse that her father had uttered most nights before bed.

_Dear Maker,_ she thought, deciding that it was as suitable as any other.  _Be good to me; the sea is so wide and my boat is so small._

"In your name," breathed Teagan, as the sisters completed the final verse.

The other attendants of the eventide service began to disperse, the haughty woman granting Teagan a respectful nod and Flora a curious glance as she passed.

Eamon's brother unfolded his fingers, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the back of the pew before him.

"You didn't come to dinner," he murmured, eyes settling on Andraste's stern expression. "Alistair wore a face like thunder throughout, argued with Eamon and then left before the final course. He's been hunting for you since late afternoon."

Flora pulled a little face; imagining that there could be little worse than eating under the scrutiny of Ferelden's great and good.

"He argued with the Arl?" she ventured, and Bann Teagan let out a sigh, glancing sideways at her. His olive eyes, surrounded by finely etched lines, were sombre and thoughtful.

"It must be the Maker's jest, placing such a heavy burden on a mere slip of a girl."

Flora eyed the Bann dubiously, wondering at the quickness of middle-aged men to underestimate her. Ignoring the implication that she was some delicate flower vulnerable to any stiff wind, she persisted on the subject of her brother-warden. It had now been nearly eight hours since they had last laid eyes on one another; the longest span of time spent parted since Ostagar.

"Is Alistair still angry with me?"

But Teagan was mired in his own roiling thoughts, staring spellbound at the stern face of Andraste, and the stone fingers wrapped around the hilt of her sword

"Are you ready to put on chainmail and lead an army,  _'Lady Cousland'_?" he asked, the olive stare sliding sideways to settle on her face.

Flora grimaced, tried to resist the urge to laugh. The sheer incredulity of the situation was almost beyond her ability to comprehend it – that she,  _Flora,_ could possibly lead an army against the Darkspawn and vanquish the Fifth Blight.

"Yes," she said dutifully, more because it was expected of her than because she truly believed it. "I don't know about Lady Cousland, but Flora of Herring is prepared. If anyone is willing to listen to her."

"Andraste came from a humble fishing village, you know," replied Teagan, shooting her another sideways glance. "And she led an army that forced the Imperium to its very knees."

_And then got burnt alive,_ Flora thought; she had known. The story of the young Andraste and the fishing rod had been one of her favourites as a child.

Teagan turned his stare back on the statue, gazing up at the prophet's severe and uncompromising face. He could just see the girl out of the corner of his eye, incongruously dressed in pyjamas, the distinctive Cousland fox-fur hair tied back with a ribbon he recognised as belonging to Leliana. She had a solemn profile; which was an aesthetic deception as the girl behind it was not particularly serious. He remembered their first meeting in the Chantry at Redcliffe, though his attention had been more fixed on Alistair than the girl fidgeting at his side.

_But, perhaps she is more solemn, now._

Without thinking, the Bann reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. As his fingers came within inches of Flora's neck, her stomach rumbled loudly and she pulled a little face. Teagan withdrew his hand quickly, as though it had passed too close to an open flame.

"I regret missing dinner," she confessed, rolling her eyes sadly at him. "I only had three apples."

"Shall I escort you to the kitchens? I'm sure someone there will be able to find food to satisfy you."

"It's alright," Flora replied, her eyes also settling on the sword clutched in Andraste's cold marble fingers. "I have about six months' worth of praying to catch up on."

Teagan left the Warden sitting in the rear pew, still staring hard at the prophet's statue; as though hoping that Andraste might step down from the stone plinth and offer her services against the Blight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Sorry for the most boring chapter titles ever - who is going to get excited over a notification saying "New Chapter! "The Eventide Service"? I need to make them more sexy sounding. "A Fondling From Teagan"! "The Templar's Lusty Stare" ! OK I'm going to stick with Eventide Service
> 
> I need also to proofread these author notes, they're a complete stream of consciousness and reading back on some previous ones, I def sound like a rambling moron in them! So just as a reminder, Connor is staying with his father before travelling to Jainen Circle (Kinloch is still being repaired after Demons and Blood Mages and Abominations, oh my!) The little prayer is an actual traditional fisherman's prayer, incidentally. 


	138. A Roll In The Hay

Eventually, Flora was the only one left in South Reach's diminutive Chantry. The sisters and lay-brother had departed, taking hushed conversation with them and leaving silence in their wake. Ghostly tendrils of perfumed smoke clung to the stone eaves before dissipating slowly into the damp air. Beside the altar, the eternal flame of the Maker bathed His Bride's stern face with shifting golden light; strangely giving the illusion that her lips were moving.

After some time Flora felt a small flicker at the back of her mind, which was at once both similar and wholly different to the persistent fishhook pull of the Darkspawn. This was more like a candle lit in a dark room, inextricably drawing the eye towards its pinprick flame. She closed her eyes, focusing on the faint prickle of her brother-warden's presence as he approached.

A moment later, she heard Alistair's familiar confident gait against the mosaicked tiles, realising that Teagan must have informed him of her location. Expecting to hear creaking wood if her brother-warden chose to sit beside her, or more angry words if he decided to continue his tirade; Flora was surprised to hear nothing at all.

She opened her eyes and saw the top of Alistair's burnished blond head, his fingers reaching up blindly for hers. To her alarm, Flora realised that her brother-warden was kneeling on the tiled floor between the pews, his head bowed in contrition. He was wearing the same rumpled maroon tunic as earlier that day; although it was now in dire need of pressing.

"I'm sorry, Flo," Alistair muttered, the words directed to her bare feet. "I've been such an idiot, which is exactly what you'd expect from me. Please, can you forgive- "

He did not finish his sentence; horrified at the sight of him kneeling before her in penitence, Flora slithered off the wooden bench and onto the cold tiles. She flung her arms around his neck, and he embraced her back, fierce and breathless. His fingers came up to clutch the back of her head, keeping her clutched tight against him. When he exhaled unsteadily, it was as though he had been holding his breath since the Darkspawn attack.

"I'm sorry," Alistair repeated, and Flora shook her head. She drew back sufficient to look him in the eye; knowing that this was important, somehow.

"No, it was my fault. You were  _right_  to be angry," she replied, reaching up to rest her nail-bitten fingers against his cheeks, feeling the prickle of the day's growth. "I  _was_  too reckless. I keep forgetting that I'm not just…Flora of Herring anymore. You were right. I have to be more careful."

Alistair stared down at her and Flora could see her words resonate within him. They rang true within the confines of his skull; yet conflicted with his natural urge to obsequies, to please and to submit.

"You were _right_ ," she repeated, then brought her mouth to his ear and whispered it again, as though she could press the words into the matter of his brain and make him believe it. "Sometimes you have to shout at people, Alistair. Even at people who you love, or respect."

Alistair held his sister-warden against him, feeling the natural warmth of her body exude through the thin silk of the pyjamas. He pressed his lips fiercely against the top of her head, feeling the cold, sickly tension slowly dissipate from his abdomen.

"I  _was_  right," he repeated, and she smiled at him, her grey eyes bright and clear as silver coins. "You have to be more careful, Warden-Commander."

" _Acting_ ," Flora reminded him sternly, and a strangled half-laugh escaped Alistair's chest. He drew her onto his lap and leaned back against the legs of the wooden pew; reaching up to pull at her lower lip softly with the ball of his calloused thumb.

"I can't think of what I would do if I ever lost you, sweetheart," her brother-warden said, very quietly. "I can't even think of what would happen."

"Well, you might be crowned king, if the nobles agreed," Flora replied, distracted by the perennial rumbling of her stomach.

"Crowned king _?_ " Alistair let out an incredulous snort, his fingers sliding into the loose strands of hair at her ears. "I've walked the length and breadth of this land with you, Flo.  _You_  are my Ferelden."

Flora stared up at him, and it took a moment for her to comprehend the true depth of those words. Alistair  _had_  walked the span of Ferelden at her side, from the high peaks of the Frostbacks in the west to the tangled wilds of Brecilian in the east. She had seen his love for the land blossom like a late-blooming flower, alongside his determination to protect it from those that would leave it barren and ruined.

_And she had been there alongside him; her presence inextricably tied to the land itself in his memory._

She flushed involuntarily; awed at the prominence he had awarded her. Watching the soft curve of her neck redden, Alistair let out a soft groan of mingled devotion and desire, leaning forward to seek her lips with his.

Hidden from Andraste's stern gaze by the tall wooden pew, Alistair kissed Flora until the last gasp of air had been snatched from her lungs. It was the kind of kiss that was no pretext to further pleasure; the sole and final purpose was the act of kissing in itself, his tongue seeking to claim every inch of her mouth for its own.

Breathless, they lay side by side on the mosaic tiles, fingers entwined in the familiar ritual. Flora could feel dampness from the stone foundations seeping through the back of her skull. She turned her head, to see Alistair looking at her as though her face was illuminated by the Maker's light.

"I love you," he breathed, and Flora reached out to touch the side of his face; running her finger along the strong chin that the nobles all referred to as the  _'Theirin jaw'._

"I love you too," she replied and Alistair rolled over, pressing his lips to hers once more. This time, there was a dark, ragged edge to the kiss; his open desire rolled over her like the heated tide. He was already hard against her thigh, his fingers groping her breast through the thin blue silk.

Suddenly remembering where they were, Alistair reluctantly withdrew his hand from inside her half-unbuttoned shirt. A decade spend living in a monastery had instilled a fear of the Maker sufficient even to override the forge-heat of lust. Clambering to his feet then hauling Flora up after him, he wrapped his fingers in hers and led her from the small Chantry.

It was dim in the torch-lit lesser courtyard, a light drizzle falling unabated. Flora couldn't help laughing at the desperate expression on Alistair's face, and then nearly slipped on the rain-slick cobblestones as he came to an abrupt halt. His head swivelled from side to side as he turned, eyes moving from the blazing windows of the west tower to the night guard patrolling the ramparts. Desire and frustration were writ naked on the deceptively arrogant, fine-hewn features.

"I never thought I'd miss that blasted Forest," Alistair hissed, his fingers clenching compulsively around hers. "But at least we had some privacy. This castle is full of  _people._ "

Flora grinned up at him, the thin silk pyjamas offering no protection from the persistent rainfall. Her brother-warden put an arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her damp head, fierce and affectionate. Voices echoed through from the main courtyard, muted grumbles cutting through the sheeting rain.

Suddenly, Alistair's eyes lit up and he strode towards the far side of the enclosed space; pulling Flora along like driftwood in his wake. Built up beside the stone wall were rows of stables, their leaking wooden eaves providing some small protection from the rain. Alistair ducked inside, leading her between the stalls; inhaling the familiar smell of oiled leather and dried hay. The horses were either sleeping or standing placidly, whickering gently as they caught sight of their unusual visitors. Flora reached out her free hand, brushing a velvet nose with trailing fingers as Alistair tugged her impatiently past.

At the end of the row her brother-warden found an empty stall, filled with freshly mown hay. Glancing over his shoulder, Alistair guided Flora inside, hand resting possessively on the small of her back. When she turned to look up at him, his hazel eyes were blown to near-black with wanton desire. He reached out for her without words and Flora went willingly into his arms.

Alistair's lust-clumsy fingers fumbled impatiently at the buttons of her pyjamas. Knowing that he was inclined to tear uncooperative clothing straight from her body, Flora hastily pulled the shirt over her head. Alistair groaned, his gaze warming her skin with unabashed heat.

A difference of nearly a foot in their height meant that he needed to bow his head to kiss her; too impatient for the logistics, Alistair guided her down onto the pile of fresh-cut hay, young enough to still be greenish. His mouth brushed briefly over the silver Chantry amulet before reflexively seeking out a nipple. An ardent scholar of his sister-warden's body, Alistair had made up for past inexperience through quickly learning how best to please her, with all the tools he had at his disposal.

An inadvertent cry escaped Flora's mouth; Alistair smiled against her bare skin and reached up to stifle it with his fingers.

"Shh, my darling," he murmured, each word punctuated by a lazy kiss as he meandered his way down her abdomen. "Bite your tongue."

As Flora squirmed in the hay and tried bravely to muffle herself; Alistair pulled his own tunic over his head, not wanting there to be any impediment between her skin and his. As Alistair's muscled abdomen bore down against her stomach, his mouth sought out hers once again, a week's pent-up desire spilling free. Although her brother-warden was one of the most compassionate people that Flora knew, there was neither kindness nor gentility in his lips, only a desperate and unyielding desire. He mumbled something incoherent into her mouth; it could have been anything from a declaration of love to a blasphemy. She felt a taut thread of heat pulling tight, deep within her belly, her hand reaching blindly downwards towards the lacing of his breeches.

Since both Wardens were aware that they were alone on borrowed time; it was not long before they were sufficiently unclothed in the depths of the fresh-cut hay. Alistair lifted her hips towards his own, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead onto her stomach as he gripped her thighs with almost painful pressure.

"Maker, Flora…  _please-_ " he begged, the words raw and pleading.

Flora gave a little nod and a sudden keen brightness flared in the back of her brother-warden's eyes. As he sunk himself deep between her bare thighs, he groaned as though granted some strange, carnal absolution; head hanging low like a blood-sated predator.

" _Maker_ ," slipped out between gritted teeth, followed by a crude oath gasped against her sweaty collarbone. When he began to move, it was in hard, desperate thrusts, his pelvis driving against hers like a smith's relentless hammer. Forgetting his own earlier instruction to remain quiet, a strangled moan clawed its way from his the depths of his throat. Through the rhythmic, percussive motion of lust Alistair's fears and frustration were exorcised; a damp trickle ran down his cheek even as his lips curled back to reveal bared teeth.

Flora clung to her brother-warden as a storm-tossed sailor would cling to the fragments of his ship, feeling the sweaty muscles of his back working beneath her fingers. Another groan escaped Alistair's lips as he drove himself relentlessly towards climax between her thighs; a flush of arousal warming his cool olive skin. At last she felt him convulse erratically inside her, his lips mouthing silently against her damp neck. As his hips juddered into her own with the force of his own spending, the smallest flicker of doubt ignited in a far corner of Flora's mind.

_Perhaps we should be more careful._

_No; the taint makes us barren. It's fine._

Alistair slumped against her, lethargic and sated, his sweaty chest pressed against her own. Flora rested her head back within the hay, feeling the throb of his heart pulse beside her breast.

_And how does your body react to the taint, Flora?_ This last voice belonged to Wynne, the senior enchanter's face stern and disapproving.

_It neutralises it._

Then Flora felt a calloused thumb sliding between her legs, fondling her with a rough, familiar intimacy. With each increasingly confident caress Wynne's face became more indistinct; and when Alistair's mouth began to meander experimentally down her damp abdomen, all rational thought was driven from her mind.

Sometime later, the last two Wardens in Ferelden lay weary on a makeshift bed of damp hay, salty remnants of sweat cooling on bare skin. Flora turned her head, grimacing slightly at the stiffness that seemed to be creeping over her entire body, and smiled up at her brother-warden. Alistair grinned back down at her; and for a moment, he was as any other young farmhand gazing down at his country sweetheart.

"Maker's Breath," he murmured in Flora's ear, running his fingers through a loose rope of oxblood hair. "You don't know how long I've been wanting to do that for, my dear."

"Five days?" She cast her mind back to when she had first rashly proposed their pact of chastity, in the depths of the Brecilian Forest. Alistair laughed, soft and intimate, his lips brushing against the curve of her ear.

"Let's not go back just yet; I don't want it to… stop being just the two of us."

He rocked his pelvis against the curve of her rear in a gentle, languid thrust of desire.

"Wynne's not in your room," Flora said suddenly, remembering. "She's asleep on the chaise in my and Leliana's room."

The thought of a bed and a lockable door revitalised the lethargic Alistair.

"Well, then. Are you ready to continue this inside, my dear?"

l

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: They might be brazen, but not even Alistair's week-long blue balls aren't enough to prompt him to actually shag in a Chantry, lol.
> 
> Incidentally, the phrase "a roll in the hay" clearly has etymological origins in an era where the majority of people resided in the countryside (and also in one or two-room dwellings, where privacy indoors was at a premium. The phrase enjoyed a resurgence in popularity during the 1920s and 1940s, mostly due to its revival in contemporary American literature cf Mildred Pierce by James Cain. Sorry, I'm a bit of an embryonic etymology nerd, lol. I love history, and words; so it makes sense I also love the HISTORY OF WORDS! And phrases in general, haha
> 
> I know in game it's a very mechanical process to 'harden' a character (SELECT DIALOGUE OPTION A HERE, BAM!) but I wanted to take a more organic, drawn out approach in my story. I'm not sure that 'hardening' is the correct adjective to use – over the course of their journey, Alistair has developed a love for the land and a desire to protect it that he never had while stagnating in a monastery as an adolescent – and if the best way to protect it is as its ruler, then he's slowly coming around to that possibility, as demonstrated in this chapter. And actually, the "You are my Ferelden", is probably one of my favourite bits of dialogue that I've written so far!
> 
> Also, I don't think I've explicitly stated the height difference between Flora and Alistair before! My envisioned Alistair is about six foot three and Flora is about five foot two. She's a munchkin lo


	139. Brothers and Beddings

 

After clambering to his feet, Alistair began to root around in the hay for their discarded belongings. Hurriedly, they flattened hair and adjusted clothing as best they could; hearing the sound of a returning patrol. Several yawning stable-hands emerged from the adjacent quarters, too preoccupied with the horses to notice two Wardens creeping forth sheepishly from the furthest stall.

Rather than abating, the rain was growing stronger, puddles beginning to form narrow rivulets between the flagstones. They skirted around the edge of the lesser courtyard, nearly colliding with a pair of giggling off-duty lamp boys.

Despite Alistair's fingers pulling at hers impatiently; a combination of her old injury and the rain-slick stone caused to Flora slip as they climbed the ramparts. She fell inelegantly up the damp steps, landing on hands and knees with a grunt. Immediately her brother-warden had returned to her side, solicitous and apologetic, helping her up and proceeding with greater caution. When they reached the winding circular steps of the west tower, Alistair hoisted her onto his back, taking the stairs two at a time with no visible exertion.

"Now," he murmured in her ear when they reached the second floor, releasing his grip on her thighs and letting her slide down. "We don't want to draw any attention to ourselves. Let's try and be as soft footed as that damned elf, eh?"

The notion of either physically bulky Alistair or her own clumsy self bearing any resemblance to the catlike Zevran almost made Flora laugh out loud. Instead she pressed her lips together and nodded solemnly. Alistair grinned down at her, desire igniting at the back of his kind hazel eyes once again. Giving her fingers a soft squeeze, he led her around the corner to the passageway where their quarters were situated.

Unfortunately, it seemed as though half of South Reach fortress were occupying the second floor of the west wing. Arl Eamon was conversing with his brother beside Connor's quarters; next to them, the nervous blond lieutenant was listening intently, trying to hide the dark shadows under his eyes. Leliana was beside the arlina's chamber, flirting delicately but purposefully with the infatuated Bann of Calon. Oghren, leaning against a suit of armour on the opposite wall, was inspecting one of his trailing ginger braids. After glancing around surreptitiously, he licked stale mead from the clump of matted hair.

More alarmingly, both Cousland brothers were also waiting outside the arlina's chamber, accompanied by several retainers. The teyrn's eldest son appeared impatient, noble brow furrowed as he talked to his slender sibling. Beside them, Arl Bryland was directing several servants with bundles of clothing inside the doorway.

The sharp-eyed Leliana was the first to spot the Wardens, delicately extracting herself from the eager Bann and beaming.

"Alistair, you finally managed to find your sister-warden, then!" she announced, helpfully diverting everybody's attention to the end of the passageway. "Where was she hiding?"

Alistair froze, fingers still entwined against his sister-warden's warm palm. Their clothing was damp and dishevelled; Flora's pyjama shirt appeared to have been buttoned by an ambitious infant, or by somebody missing the majority of their fingers. As a result of Alistair's enthusiasm, the top two were missing altogether. Straw was stuck to both of them, strands of greenish hay intertwined with her hair and plastered to Alistair's bare forearms.

"I'd say he did more than  _find_ her," chortled Oghren, leering openly. "I hope you two didn't frighten the horses. They're sensitive creatures, you know."

The entire corridor had now turned to look at them. Expressions ranged from Leliana's delight to Eamon's wry amusement; the young blond lieutenant coughed and averted his eyes as an unhappy flush spread down his neck.

"I've had my daughter's clothes brought in from storage," said Leonas Bryland after a moment, trying to stifle a snort. "For when you, ah, want to get dressed."

Most attention was now swivelling towards the elder Cousland, wanting to see his reaction now that his earlier suspicions had been confirmed. It seemed that Finian had skirted the issue delicately the previous evening, murmuring vaguely about the close bond between Wardens.

Fergus stared at them, a muscle twitching rhythmically in his lower jaw. Flora dropped her gaze gloomily to the floor, wondering if she was about to receive a lecture.

"My lord Theirin," Fergus said eventually, a thread of steel running through his over-polite tone. "Are you…  _bedding_  my little sister?"

The pause before the word 'bedding' implied that the teyrn's son had nearly used a far cruder term, before remembering that he was referring to his own younger sibling.

Flora expected her bashful brother-warden to respond with the customary hesitant blushes. She was not sure what would be worse: unconvincing denial or a stuttering confirmation.

Instead, Alistair reached out and took her hand once again, squeezing her fingers tight and reassuring between his own.

"Yes, I have been  _bedding_ her," he replied to the started teyrn, the response simple and matter-of-fact. "For a while, now. And, actually, I intend to keep doing so. Come on, Flo."

Alistair raised a stunned Flora's fingers to his mouth and kissed the back of her hand, his eyes bright and heated as they lingered on her face. The next moment he had opened the carved door leading to the guest quarters; the grander chamber that he had been assigned but not yet used. With his hand on the small of his sister-warden's back, he gently steered her within the fire-lit room.

Pausing a moment before following her inside the chamber, Alistair turned a silverite-edged stare on the others. His eyes settled the longest on Fergus, whose mouth had dropped half-open.

"I'm not Cailan," the younger Theirin informed the elder Cousland. "I don't sleep with women for… for sport. I _love_  her."

With that parting rejoinder, Alistair withdrew into the room and shut the door behind him. Flora had been struck into silence, part in shock at his public declaration of sentiment, and part in awe at the décor of the chamber. Although it bore the tell-tale characteristics of South Reach fortress – the walls were whitewashed with the same plain plaster, the windows mere arrow-slits – the furnishings were of much high calibre. The room was covered in velvet drapery the colour of forest fruits; plush and heavy fabric covering the bed and scattered chaises. The crudely-set flagstones were almost entirely masked by carpeting; and several of the hanging tapestries appeared to be Antivan in origin. In the far corner, a fireplace noisily devoured cedar logs. Most impressively, a vast full length mirror stood against one wall, the gilt-framed glass free from warping or wrinkle.

Fascinated, Flora wandered over towards it; not having seen her own reflection so clearly since Redcliffe Castle. A solemn, finely-hewn face stared back at her with hitherto unseen clarity.

_I do look serious,_ she thought to herself in slight surprise, gazing into her own wide, mournful rain-washed eyes. Her full mouth naturally curved into a pout that seemed almost sulky when her face was at rest. She contorted her lips into a rictus grin, raising her eyebrows in what she believed to be a cheerful manner. The outcome was a hybrid of the manic and the grotesque; Flora quickly let her features return to the usual wistful solemnity.

A moment later Alistair manifested through flame-lit shadow, his hazel eyes dark and purposeful. He embraced her from behind, brawny arms crossing over her stomach as he pressed his lips against her neck. Her brother-warden still seemed incongruous when dressed in the garb of a noble; his body built more for armour than for velvet.

"Why are you pulling faces at yourself, Flo?"

"You told them that you  _love_  me," Flora said, ignoring his question and directing the statement to her own reflection. She watched the firelight catch the burnished head of her brother-warden as he bowed his face over her shoulder.

"Well, it's the truth, my dear," Alistair murmured, his voice muffled against Flora's shoulder. One calloused palm slid beneath her crumpled shirt, his fingers caressing the firm warmth of her stomach.

"But…" Flora started, before trailing off; uncertain how to frame the tangle of thoughts knotted within her weary skull.

While waiting dutifully for her to continue, Alistair's fingers deftly unfastened the remaining shirt buttons. Pressing a kiss against Flora's collarbone, he slid the pyjama jacket gently down her arms. Inhaling at the sight of his sister-warden bare from the waist up, he let out an unsteady groan and buried his face against her shoulder.

"Maker, you're lovely.  _Well_ ," he mused after a moment, gently cupping one of her breasts in the palm of his hand. "You're right, it doesn't seem right to say it out loud, somehow."

Flora eyed him dubiously; when Alistair caught sight of her anxious sea-grey stare, a half-bark of laughter escaped his throat. He turned her around to face him, arms dropping to embrace her waist.

"Not because I'm ashamed of it, Flora, so don't look at me like that. It's because…"

Alistair paused, clearly uncertain how to best articulate his thoughts. After a moment, he leaned forward to brush his lips against hers, feather-light and gentle.

"Because trying to put what I feel for you into  _words_  can't be done, my little fisherman's daughter."

Flora stared up at him, the difference in their height necessitating the tilting of her chin to look her brother-warden in the eye.

"Did you know that all the world's words can be made from only twenty-six letters?" she whispered, repeating the phrase that Alistair had once said to her at Redcliffe Castle; the first time they sat down before the fire with pencil and parchment.

Alistair gazed down at her with impossibly tender affection, one hand caressing the small of her naked back.

"I'm afraid all the world's words aren't enough, sweetheart."

Flora beamed and Alistair let out a soft groan, fingers brushing the edge of her pyjama waistband.

"Maker's Breath, I'd walk from Denerim to Val Royeaux for that smile," he murmured, his voice thickening with growing lust.

"Val Royeaux is full of Orlesians. You don't want to go there," Flora breathed, then reached down to the knotted fabric tie at her waist. With one deft movement, she had pulled the string free and the pyjamas fell with a soft rustle of silk around her ankles. "Come to Herring instead?"

Alistair grinned, and there was something oddly dark and dominant in the curve of his mouth; a brash, impulsive desire that marked him as a member of the dynasty that had ruled Ferelden for generations. Lifting his sister-warden with ease, he crossed the room and deposited her among the velvet cushions and pillows that lay scattered on the bed.

With a fumble of lust-clumsy fingers, Alistair removed his own shirt and breeches, old scars trailing white across the taut muscle of his chest. Flora reached up for him amidst the cushions; he descended upon her with a little growl, greedy mouth seeking out her own. Her arms came up around his shoulders, fingers tangling in the burnished gold hair at the nape of his neck.

From the start it was quick and feverish; there was little preamble before Alistair sunk himself impatiently inside her. Holding his weight up on powerful forearms, he rolled his hips with the same rhythmic pelvic motion used in the saddle to coax speed from horses. It was sweaty, raw and ungentle; without knowing it, Alistair was making love like a ruling prince. Only the artificial stamina granted by the taint allowed him to maintain such a frenzied pace beyond mere minutes. Flora caught glimpses of their frantically moving reflections in the vast mirror opposite, her brother-warden's taut olive buttocks rising and falling rapidly as he penetrated her.

Finally, Alistair shuddered between her thighs, an involuntary cry breaking free from his chest as the muscles of his pelvis convulsed spasmodically. A moment later he rolled off her and stared blindly up at the ceiling, skin uncharacteristically ruddy. His hair was damp and tousled with salt-edged sweat, even more dishevelled than usual.

Beside him Flora gaped like a fresh-caught fish, her lungs trying frantically to reclaim some oxygen. She flailed a hand in Alistair's direction; her fingers coming to rest limply on the flushed musculature of her brother-warden's abdomen. He caught her hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing his lips against her damp palm.

"Maker," Alistair said eventually, turning his head sideways to look at her; he appeared faintly stunned. "Are you alright?"

Flora nodded slowly, eyes wide, moving his hand over to her breast.

"Feel my heart," she instructed and Alistair rested his fingers on her damp skin, feeling the rapid staccato throb within her ribs.

"Was it too…much? Too hard?" he asked after a moment, anxiety flaring at the back of his hazel gaze. The dark Theirin dominance had vanished; and he was her gentle brother-warden once again. Flora smiled and summoned the energy to shake her head, tangled tendrils of hair sliding over the cushion.

"No," she whispered, watching Alistair prop himself up on a stiff elbow beside her. "I  _liked_  it."

Alistair grinned down at her, face alight with tender affection.

"You certainly  _sounded_  as if you were enjoying yourself, my dear," he murmured, peeling a sweaty red strand from her forehead. "Did you intend to wake the whole fortress?"

Flora laughed then froze abruptly, sitting bolt upright in alarm.

"Is Fergus still in the corridor?!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read or reviewed so far! I really appreciate it! TUNE IN NEXT TIME TO FIND OUT: WAS FERGUS IN THE CORRIDOR?


	140. In A Chamber Fit For A King

 

"Surely he wouldn't still be outside?

Cringing back against the cushions Flora lowered her voice, though it was far too late to be concerned about keeping quiet. She was slightly appalled at the prospect of her elder brother bearing unwilling witness to her exertions. "Can you check?"

The ever-obliging Alistair retrieved his breeches, pulling them on before crossing the finely decorated chamber. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, he peered out into the passageway.

"If he is there, tell him that we were… just playing Wicked Grace!" hissed Flora from within the depths of the vast bed; which both Wardens had just thoroughly put through its paces. "A lively and dramatic game."

Fortunately, the corridor was near-deserted. The only occupant was the blond Templar officer; whom Alistair vaguely remembered from their unfortunate visit to Kinloch Hold. The young lieutenant was standing guard outside Arl Eamon's door, staring rigidly ahead with a stiffened jaw. The only hint of movement about him was a muscle twitching spasmodically in his neck.

"When did the teyrn leave?" Alistair asked as discretely as possible, half-leaning out of the door.

Cullen Rutherford glanced at him, before replying with forced neutrality.

"Some time ago. Did you happen to see the elf depart?"

Alistair's exhalation of relief was abruptly halted partway through. He eyed the blond lieutenant with blank-faced confusion.

"What elf?"

Cullen made a small gesture, maintaining a carefully controlled expression.

"Your companion. He entered your chambers shortly before you arrived, expressing a desire to inspect the Antivan tapestries."

For a moment, the Warden stared at the Templar with incredulous disbelief. Then Alistair withdrew back inside the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. Gaze swivelling between the corners of the room, he let out a menacing snarl.

" _Zevran!_  Blasted elf, where are you?!"

Flora, who was sitting up in bed, blinked at him in bewilderment. Then her quizzical gaze was drawn to a flicker of movement in the shadows, just beside the large  _armoire_.

Emerging from a pocket of darkness, the elf sauntered insouciantly across the room. His platinum hair shone in the firelight, and he sported a knowing little smile.

"I must say, Alistair, you've improved your stamina," he purred, while both Wardens gaped silently at him. "Though I detected a definite lack of  _refinement_  in your technique. I would be happy to demonstrate some of my…  _skills_  in that area."

Alistair nearly fell into the fireplace as Flora, incongruously, laughed. Although Zevran's tone was deliberately flippant, there was an odd hollowness within his words that neither Warden detected.

"You're irredeemable, elf," hissed Alistair, finally regaining the ability to speak coherently. "And there's nothing wrong with my…  _technique_. Now, go away!"

Zevran swept a lingering gaze over the bastard prince's bare upper body, before strolling casually across the room towards where Flora was sitting up in bed. She was still trying to stifle her laughter, pressing the blanket against her mouth.

"Fine, fine. Give me a goodnight kiss, at least,  _carina?_  I am but your humble servant, after all, and I return to a cold and lonely bed."

"Your bed is hardly  _lonely,"_  retorted Alistair, watching Flora peck Zevran dutifully on the cheek. "It's never empty long enough to get cold."

The elf rolled dark eyes in response, placing his hand brief and affectionate on a snickering Flora's head.

"You'd be surprised," he replied, and for a moment a flash of melancholy showed through in the murmured words. Then just as quickly, the light insouciance returned: "Do I get a goodnight kiss from you too, my prince?"

This was met only with a glower and a pointed head-cant towards the door.

Alistair shut the door behind Zevran, exhaling with mingled disbelief and frustration.

"We had more privacy in the stables!" he exclaimed, as she let out a cackle.

As one who had resided in communal lodgings under constant scrutiny, Flora was far less self-conscious about the underlying presence of others. Seeing that Alistair was still shifting anxiously from foot to foot, she let the blanket drop from her chest and stretched out a hand to him.

"I'm getting cold," she informed him, pitifully. "Come back."

This was blatantly untrue; both of them were aware that Flora was naturally self-heating. Alistair grinned reluctantly at her, then strode over to the arrow-slit window and pulled back the curtain.

"Leliana?"

Next he peered beneath the writing-desk, raising his voice. "Oghren, are you there?"

"Wynne's under the bed," offered Flora, and her brother-warden laughed, crossing the room towards her.

Pulling back the blanket, Alistair leaned over and pressed his mouth against Flora's bare knee; his fingers moving in delicate caresses over her inner thigh. A moment later, his lips followed in their wake. Flora slumped back against the pillows as her brother-warden bent her knees gently apart and lowered his face between her thighs.

"My techniques don't need refining," he murmured, not taking his eyes from her. Each word was punctuated with a soft kiss against her flushed skin. "But a little practise never hurt anybody."

The next morning dawned damp and rainy, pallid grey light filtering through the arrow-slit windows and creeping in slow increments across the room. A stiff breeze battered itself in frustration against the unyielding walls of South Reach castle. Perched on top of a ridge, Arl Leonas' fortress-like seat acted as a barrier for the town huddled in its shadow; bearing the brunt of the inclement weather against its stony ramparts.

Flora was the first to wake, the insipid sunlight probing at her eyelids until she had no choice but to open them. For several moments she had no idea where she was – in a bed with cerise velvet hangings, surrounded by furnishings far more expensive than those in the arlina's chamber.

Just as she recalled the events of the previous night, Flora felt a lurch of nausea in her stomach. She sat upright and immediately felt a spasm of protest from the aching muscles of her body. As much as she would have liked to blame the stiffness upon the Darkspawn attack; Flora had the distinct suspicion that her discomfort was a result of Alistair's rough affections.

In slight bewilderment she took a gulp of damp air, taking as much into her lungs as possible before reaching out for Alistair's water pouch on the side table. Although the contents were somewhat stale, they sufficed to sate the curdling in her belly. Replacing the pouch, she looked back down at her sleeping brother-warden, determined to tell him about the recurring nausea.

Alistair lay slumped on the mattress beside her, the blanket pulled down to his hips. The fine-hewn face had lost some of its arrogance in sleep; all worldly cares temporarily lifted from his broad shoulders. He gleamed like a forge-heated brand against the murky dreariness of the chamber; olive-toned skin flushed and burnished gold hair a stark contrast to the dark velvet cushion.

Flora reflexively put her fingers to the silver Chantry locket hanging in the hollow of her throat. Unable to help herself, she then reached out to touch her brother-warden's firm jaw. He reached out sleepily for her, pulling her to him without fully awakening. She settled within the warm circle of his arms, feeling the muscle of his chest firm against her naked back. Alistair pressed a drowsy kiss into her hair before sliding back into sleep, snoring gently just above her left ear.

She woke later with Alistair pulling her against him with slightly more force; enclosing her tightly within his arms and kissing the back of her neck with intent. Flora was not sure how much time had passed, the chamber was now filled with watery sunlight and sounds of activity drifted up from the main courtyard below. She yawned, stretching out the residual stiffness threaded through her body before rolling over onto her back and eyeing Alistair. He smiled down at her, his gaze warm with mingled affection and desire. Flora's blue pyjamas lay in a crumpled heap beside the bed; her body was bare against his own.

"Sleep well, my dear?"

As always, the innocuous question hid an unspoken query:  _did the Archdemon show itself?_ Whereas once the sight of its scaled face would have woken Flora in sweaty terror; now more often than not she was able to look it in the eye – not without fear, but at least without the urge to run.

"Mm," she replied drowsily, listening to the sound of a horse being led across the cobblestones in the main courtyard. "I slept well. Do you think we should get up?"

Alistair contemplated this for a moment, a slight frown furrowing his forehead. Both Wardens had been travelling for so long that this temporary hiatus felt peculiar – it seemed as though they should be already up and ready to pursue their next objective. However, they could do little at South Reach other than wait for the nobles to embark upon their staggered departure to Denerim. As agreed, the Wardens and their company would arrive separately to avoid attracting unwanted attention.

"Probably," he murmured into Flora's tousled hair, drawing her close against him. "But let's not. I want you all to myself for a while longer."

Flora smiled at him, nestling obligingly into the crook of his arm. Alistair ducked his head to drop a lingering kiss on her mouth, nudging his tongue experimentally against her lips. Still drowsy from sleep, she allowed him to deepen the kiss, feeling him exhale unsteadily in a rush of warm air on her face.

Alistair rolled over on top of her, resting his weight on his forearms. Immediately his mouth descended once more, seeking to reclaim her own. For some time he kissed her lazy and languid; delighting in the feel of her lips and tongue moving against his own in a practised rhythm.

In contrast to the frenzied urgency of the previous evening; Alistair now made love to his sister-warden with tender gentility in the watery sunlight. Both of them were weary from the night's continued exertions – the Chantry bell had announced the third hour of morning by the time they had finally settled down, exhausted and slick with sweat.

Eventually Flora slumped onto her brother-warden's chest; he curled an arm around her shoulders and rested his chin on top of her head. She yawned, feeling a sudden chill as the sweat dried against her shoulder blades. Nudging Alistair, she pointed a finger towards the crumpled blue silk on the matting beside the bed.

"Could you pass me my pyjamas?"

The ever-obliging Alistair dropped a long arm and retrieved the creased bundle; she clambered into her nightclothes just in time. There was a sharp rap at the door and Alistair let out a groan.

"Flatten your hair, sweetheart," he murmured to her with resignation, sitting upright against the headboard and checking that the blanket was tucked tightly around his waist. Flora ran a hand over her dishevelled head just as the door swung open.

"Good morning,  _mes chéries,"_ Leliana trilled, advancing across the room light as air. She was impeccably groomed as usual, clad in a fuchsia velvet gown that clung to every curve of her buxom body. Her fresh-washed hair had been teased into an elaborate spray at the back of her head. Despite her finery, she seemed oddly naked without the customary bow slung at her back, although Flora assumed that several knives lay secreted about her person.

Leliana shot them both a sweet smile as she opened the wooden shutters across the rest of the windows; allowing a flood of pallid sunlight to warm the flagstones.

"You're about to have some visitors," she informed them archly, refilling a pair of small pewter goblets from her own water pouch. "Arl Eamon, Arl Leonas and the teyrn are both on their way."

"The teyrn?" asked Flora, realising in alarm that this meant Fergus. "Am I going to get in trouble?"

Leliana let out a delicate little snort, sinking onto an upholstered chaise and arranging her skirts over her knee. "You're nineteen. You can do as you please."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Flora lost her concept of privacy when she was taken to the Circle, clearly! Not a great deal happens in this chapter, but after thirty chapters of enforced abstinence I felt a bit sorry for both Wardens! So it was hard enough for Finian to deal with the reality of his sister in bed with a man at Redcliffe Castle (and they weren't even shagging back then), so we'll have to see how big brother Fergus reacts next chapter! Ooooh the parallels it's almost like it's intentional! Rather than mostly accidental!


	141. The Cousland Advantage

 

Despite Leliana's assurances, Flora looked unconvinced, thinking on how her Chantry fearing fisher-father would rage if he saw her in bed with a man to whom she was not married. She had only known Fergus for a handful of days, and yet he seemed no less stern; a dour and frightening presence who already looked upon her with disapproval.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the door opening once more, whereupon a veritable posse of nobles trooped in, accompanied by various retainers clad in rainbow of liveries. Eamon led the charge, a sheaf of letters clutched in his hand.

Alistair, grimly resigned, sat up against the headboard and ran a hand over his hair to flatten it.

"Our bedroom appears to be turning into a council chamber," he commented lightly, but there was no ire in his voice. Alistair seemed nearly at ease in the presence of the peers; to a far greater extent than he had done while at Redcliffe.

The corner of Arl Eamon's mouth turned up slightly, while Teagan let out a muted laugh.

"Brother, I remember spending several mornings interrupting you in the bedchamber during those taxation riots," the Bann reminded the elder Guerrin, while Leliana let out a pretty little laugh. "Isolde was deeply unhappy."

There was a low cough from behind them. Eamon, Leonas and Teagan drew to one side to allow Fergus Cousland to pass between them. As the highest-ranking noble in the chamber, both arls and the bann inclined their heads respectfully towards the deposed teyrn. He was accompanied by two liveried retainers clad in Highever navy and forest green. Flora suddenly felt exceptionally aware of her dishevelled, half-loose hair, the rumpled blankets and Alistair's bare chest. To her mild horror, she realised that – in her haste - she had put her pyjama shirt on inside out.

A silence fell over the chamber as everybody waited for Fergus to speak. His eyes, which tended more towards blue than grey, settled on his younger sister as she gazed back at him anxiously from the bed. When he spoke, the words came out slow and deliberate as a withdrawn sword.

"So," he stated, and there was no humour in the smile that pulled at one side of his mouth. "It's true, then. Finian did inform me, but I wanted to see it with my own eyes."

"It does bring political advantage, Fergus," murmured Eamon diplomatically, his eyes flickering towards Teagan. "Having a Cousland girl as the mistress of a Theirin."

Fergus acknowledged this with an incline of the head, his eyes still resting on the deeply uncomfortable Flora. At that moment in time, she would have happily exchanged all of her limited repertoire for Morrigan's ability to whirl herself away in a flapping of feathers.

"True, Eamon, but she is still my sister and not two decades old. I won't have her become anybody's political pawn _,_ " replied the teyrn, eyes narrowing. "She's not old enough for this sort of…  _arrangement."_

"She's old enough to have survived Ostagar," said Alistair, in a tone that reminded the others in the chamber that the teyrn was  _not_ the highest ranking noble present. "She's old enough to have gathered an army from the four corners of Ferelden."

"Most girls in Herring have  _two_ children by my age," added Flora solemnly. "And not necessarily by their husbands, neither."

She was promptly ignored by all present. Raising her eyes to the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling, she reached for Leliana's chalice and took a sip of water.

Fergus let out a long sigh, and something within him seemed to yield. He walked over to the arrow-slit window, Leonas stepping to one side to allow him to pass, and gazed down into the courtyard below. The sun was rising over the overgrown fields, the dark fringe of Brecilian Forest just visible in the distance.

"You know, when you were born, our father had great ambition for you," the teyrn murmured, watching a red-headed dwarf plead with the castle steward for access to the buttery. "He and the old king Maric were close, and Cailan was only six years old. A betrothal would have been a natural step. But then your…  _magic_ manifested, you were sent away and Mac Tir's daughter made the match instead."

Flora spat her water across the blankets in quite possibly the least ladylike gesture ever witnessed within South Reach. Fortunately, most eyes were on the teyrn as he mused beside the window; and it was only Leliana who contorted her face in horror. Flora could feel Alistair's body rigid against her own, and knew that their minds were running in disbelieving parallel.

_I would have been married to Cailan,_ she thought to herself numbly, barely noticing the water as it seeped through her shirt to her skin.  _I remember the way his body felt against mine as Sten and I got him down from the Darkspawn cruciform, cold and dried-out like leather. That man could have been my husband!_

Fergus continued to stare out of the window, and Alistair nudged his thigh insistently against Flora's, his own eyebrows lodged within his hairline.

"Apologies for waking you," said Arl Leonas, after several more moments of uncomfortable silence. "There are a few items of business that need to be resolved."

As it turned out, Leonas had come for the Warden-Commander's signature while Eamon wished to see Alistair. Fergus had come ostensibly to deliver the Cousland seal; in reality, this task could have easily been delegated to a retainer. The deposed teyrn of Highever had come to see with his own eyes the relationship between his little Cousland sister and Alistair Theirin.

Resting each letter against her bent knees, Flora took Teagan's offered inkpen and recalled the words that she had written dozens of times the previous afternoon.

_Florence Cousland, Acting Warden-Commander of Ferelden._

The title still seemed somewhat fraudulent; Flora felt faintly ridiculous using it.  _It's just until they find someone more qualified than me,_ she thought grimly to herself, using Fergus's ring to stamp a wax seal onto the parchment.

Fergus himself was now eyeing her from the end of the bed, bearing a mien not dissimilar to a disapproving Wynne. She glanced up at him and flinched; his gaze was sour with mingled grief and regret.

As Arl Eamon finally finished extrapolating upon arrangements that had been decided yesterday, the nobles finally took their leave. Leliana let the door close with a sweet parting smile; they could hear her light-heartedly humming to herself as she trotted down the passageway.

The moment that the door swung shut, Alistair turned to Flora and gripped her elbow so hard that it almost hurt.

"You were almost married to  _my brother,_ " he breathed incredulously, shocked eyes searching hers. "Maker's Breath! What a peculiar coincidence."

"I'm glad I wasn't," Flora muttered darkly under her breath, while Alistair bore down on her with a clear view to stake his claim.

The rest of the day was spent in like fashion to its predecessor – administration, preparation and logistical planning - and the next few days fell into a similar pattern. Wynne spent hours in the fortress' surprisingly well-stocked library – despite his brusque demeanour, the Arl of South Reach was an avaricious reader. She also kept in regular contact with Irving, receiving updates on the rebuilding of the Circle Tower on Lake Calenhad.

Leliana, who quickly grew tired of the puppy-dog eyes of the Bann of Calon, decided instead to refine several old skills that had lapsed. To this end, she was most often found in the training ground, while Zevran patiently instructed her in the use of the garrotte and the throwing blade. The elf, determined to cure himself of his unrequited desire for their resident healer, spent many hours in Leliana's company. Although they were no longer frequently engaging in amorous congress; Zevran had grown fond of the bard's sweet, razor-edged temperament.

Sten occasionally assisted Alistair in the construction of the defences; but the other men were wary of the vast Qunari and his brutally honest assessment of their town's many weaknesses. Unable to stand the waiting, he disappeared on various scouting missions throughout the villages that bordered South Reach; familiarising himself with the lay of the land. On occasion Oghren accompanied him, whenever he could be dragged from the buttery and the larders. The dwarf, who was determined to replace the fat he had lost through travelling, was taking full advantage of Arl Leonas' hospitality.

The other nobles had begun to put their plan into action; Bann Reginalda and a small retinue departed for Denerim early the next morning. The rest continued to correspond with seconds back in their own holdings; and with contacts they possessed within the city itself. Eamon kept Connor close at his side, waiting on the contingent of Templars to arrive from the Jainen Circle. The Cousland brothers had a spy lodged within Highever, a woman who had defected from Howe and was feeding them information about the garrisons that the treacherous Arl had put in place.

Alistair went frequently back down to the town defences to assist in their construction, spending several afternoons labouring over the makeshift barricades. Despite his doubt over their durability in the face of the Darkspawn; the young Warden never allowed these misgivings to manifest on his face, understanding the importance of keeping hope alive in the face of imminent darkness.

Flora spent several hours each morning dutifully adding her borrowed title to various articles of correspondence, sprawled in the patch of sunlight within Leonas' solar. To her mild surprise, Morrigan – who had manifested on the evening of their third day at South Reach – deigned to offer her assistance. The witch lounged catlike on a chaise beside Flora, yellow-eyed and primal in her movements; enjoying the startled expression of anyone who came in.

Together, with Morrigan reading and Flora signing, they processed a huge amount of the logistical paperwork that accompanied the consolidation of their position; from mundane requests for additional horses to essential correspondence updating Lord Harrowmont on the situation. Despite the occasional derisive comment over Flora's inability to read the various missives herself; Morrigan displayed remarkable patience.

Inevitably after some time, there would come the hurried sound of footsteps from outside; shortly followed by the door crashing against the stone wall. Hissing between her teeth, the witch would attempt to restrain the piles of paperwork from scattering in the sudden rush of incoming air from the ramparts. Each time that Alistair came to retrieve his sister-warden – a few hours apart was the longest that he could tolerate – his grin of delight on seeing her was spontaneous and wholly genuine. He would stride across the Arl's small study and take Flora in his arms, kissing her as though it had been months rather than mere hours since they had last been together. With a snarled insult, Morrigan would transform into a small bird and make her escape through the solar window.

More often than not the kiss would turn into something more; necessitating the hasty removal of clothing and the use of the Arl's writing desk. Even with the departure of Bann Reginalda and her retinue, South Reach was still crowded enough for the two Wardens to find little privacy. Alistair's inherent chivalry had prompted him to loan his more comfortable chambers to Wynne; which meant that he and Flora were sharing the arlina's room at night with Zevran, Leliana and sporadically Oghren.

Both Wardens were also much in demand – Arl Eamon frequently requested Alistair; while Fergus summoned his sister to the Cousland rooms. Most times he had no specific purpose, but merely stared at her face, trying to reconcile the hesitant, solemn girl standing before him with the spoilt child of his memory. Flora tried not to say too much in the teyrn's presence; aware that her soft, lowborn speech distressed him.

"There's a great deal of our father about you," Fergus said mid-afternoon on the fourth day after the Darkspawn attack; reclining thoughtfully back on the chaise. They were alone in the luxuriantly appointed Cousland quarters that seemed so at odds with the stark austerity of the rest of South Reach fortress.

Flora stood in the centre of the Orlesian rug and shifted her weight surreptitiously onto her good leg; wondering glumly if the teyrn was implying that she looked like a man.

After staring at her a moment longer, Fergus clambered to his feet and went to a wooden dresser, topped with a freestanding mirror. He pulled the drawers open impatiently while gesturing her forward, clearly looking for something. Flora went forward dutifully, catching sight of her own anxious face in the reflective surface. As she came to a pause, Fergus withdrew a square container of polished wood. He opened the lid with some hesitation, a shadow falling over his blue-grey eyes.

"My man Namon managed to take this before he escaped Highever. It's one of the only Cousland heirlooms that Howe hasn't claimed as his own."

Fergus held up a delicate golden hairpiece, the burnished metal crafted exquisitely into interweaving laurel leaves. It wasn't quite a crown, but it wasn't far from one either. The gold shone brilliantly in the dim light, casting an array of dancing pinpricks onto the polished surface of the dresser.

"The _Cousland wreath._ It used to belong to our father's great-grandmother," the teyrn's son said, his voice distant and shadowed with melancholy. "During the Orlesian occupation the Emperor Florian took it for one of his mistresses. Eventually, it made its way back into our family. Our mother used to wear this whenever we hosted the local banns."

Flora looked at her eldest brother with some trepidation, seeing his eyes vague and lost in memory. Fergus gestured her further forward, then lifted the brilliant gold hairpiece. Flora watched his hands rise in the mirror, lifting the burnished laurel wreath and placing it gently on her head.

"Do you remember Mother wearing this?" he asked her, a raw edge of hope creeping into his tone. "She wore it at Satinalia, the last one before you left."

Flora stared at her pale face in the mirror, faintly appalled. It was as though she had suddenly grown a third eye in the centre of her forehead; her reflection appeared intrinsically  _wrong._ Her mirror-twin gazed sadly back at her, the golden wreath gleaming in stark contrast to her dark red hair. Fergus looked so eager, his keen eyes seeking out her own; that Flora determinedly searched the far corners of her mind, straining to retrieve the smallest scrap of memory from the first five years of her life.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember," she said eventually, the metal laurel leaves cold and uncomfortable as they rested heavily on her ears. Fergus said nothing, lips folding tightly in response as he lifted the wreath from her head with more care for the headpiece than her own hair. She could see the disappointment writ naked on his face _._

"It's a cruel joke that the Maker has played on us," Fergus said eventually, his fingers moving unconsciously over the burnished wreath. Flora somehow knew that when he referred to  _us,_ he only meant himself and Finian; and that she was still very much a stranger.

"To lose our parents, and my son, only to be compensated with a sister who is less Cousland than any of our own servants. You are as much use to me as a sheath without a sword."

It was a cruel barb, but one that was driven by grief rather than true vehemence. Yet it stung no less for its foundation in sadness; Flora dropped her head in a bow and left hastily.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I like the title of this chapter because actually, there's several layers of advantages and disadvantages present. Yes, it's an advantage having Flora as mistress of the king; but while she is disadvantaged by magic, she can never marry into the noble family that being a Cousland should have guaranteed. And although being a Cousland brings advantage in itself, her mage status puts her simultaneously at a disadvantage. Even when looking at her magic itself – her gift at healing and shielding comes at the cost of being unable to cast any other school of school.
> 
> The Flora-Cailan potential betrothal occurred to me pretty much straight away, seeing as teyrns are basically dukes, and a Medieval king would always go for a duke's daughter (barring a foreign bride, obviously. And Flora, being born in 9:11, would have been born when Cailan was six years old, a clear rival to Anora (herself four years older than Cailan). But then Flora turns out to be a mage, so she gets shunted off quietly "off to a relative in Orlais" – actually, to a small fishing village in her father's teyrnir. (TERYRNIR? TERNYRER? TRYNRYNR? You'd think, being Welsh, I'd actually be used to words that were full of consonants, lol) Incidentally, Alistair shagging Flora immediately after finding out she could have been married to his brother- stay classy, dude! PLANT YOUR BANNER!
> 
> Also, Fergus is kind of a dick in this chapter – I know that originally he was a jovial, carefree banter-happy noble, but the deaths of his parents, wife and son has temporarily broken him. He also has a major problem with Flora's magic – following the alternate reality situation to its logical conclusion, if Maric had married his son to the Teyrn of Highever's daughter rather than the Teyrn of Gwaren's – then Bryce Cousland would be at court alongside the King, and Renden Howe most likely would have gone after a different target other than Highever. All this is pure speculation, of course. Anyway, next chapter- Flora is about to take Wynne up on a suggestion that the senior enchanter made ages and ages ago, right after Ostagar
> 
> Haha does anyone even read these ridiculous author notes? This one is almost 400 words long! Well as a bonus prize to anyone who reads this far: with regard to the most recent reviews…..ding ding ding! Correct! More to come...


	142. Too Much Herring Not Enough Highever

As Flora made her way across the minstrels' gallery, not even the smell of dinner wafting up from the main hall below could distract her from the waves of sadness swelling within her belly. She felt stinging tears spilling from the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision until it was near-impossible to see clearly. She bumped into someone and apologised, lurching around them blindly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the familiar blond Templar lieutenant gaping at her, with the young Connor hovering beside him.

"Are you - ?"

Flora did not hesitate, charging down yet another whitewashed plaster passageway. She had now become thoroughly disorientated; the back hallways of South Reach fortress were maze-like in their militaristic uniformity. The angry face of Highever's deposed teyrn rose up in the forefront of her mind:  _you are as much use to me as a sheath without a sword._

When she finally stumbled across her intended destination, it was entirely by accident. Shoving her way through the doors, she emerged in the fortress' high and lofty library. The ceiling eaves were many feet above her head and every wall was crammed with perilously tall shelving. Books burst free from their wooden constraints, spilling out across the flagstones. Long reading tables ran parallel to the centre of the room; but this close to dinner, they had few occupants. Bann Teagan appeared to be making notes on a long scroll of parchment, a pile of books resting precariously beside him. Wynne was wearing a small wire-frame pair of reading glasses as she scribed another reply to Irving.

Flora went straight to the senior enchanter and sunk onto the bench beside her; her fingers reaching tremulously out to touch the senior's enchanter's sleeve.

" _W-y-ynne?"_  she bleated, then let out a strange sound that was part sob and part goose-like honk.

"One moment, child."

Wynne licked the end of the ink-pen and continued to transcribe her thoughts onto the parchment. Flora waited patiently, taking several moments to inhale and calm herself down, scrubbing her cheek with the back of her hand. Further down the bench, Teagan gazed at her over his pile of books. He raised an eyebrow, faint lines of concern indenting the noble brow beneath his auburn hair. Flora tried to smile back at him, yet it came out more as a grimace.

When Wynne had finished, she lifted her spectacles from her face and folded them measuredly, turning to look at her young counterpart. Flora had the sense that the delay had been deliberate, to give the Warden a chance to compose herself.

"You know when we were travelling to the Brecilian Forest, on Fero's Way," Flora began, grateful that her voice seemed relatively even. "You asked me if I wanted you to try and… unlock the part of my memories that had been sealed off. The Highever memories. Would you – would you still be willing to try?"

Although the wording was convoluted, Wynne understood immediately. She let out a heavy sigh, pale blue eyes moving over Flora's tear-stained face.

"What's prompted this, then? You seemed adamant against it when I first proposed the idea."

Flora inhaled, remembering the hollow disappointment in Fergus' eyes when he had lifted the Cousland wreath from her head.

"It has to give us an advantage, doesn't it?" she whispered, fiddling with one arm of Wynne's metal spectacles. "I mean, in Denerim. It'll strengthen our position if I know who I am, if I know about Highever and… my parents?"

It came out more tentative query than assured statement of fact. Wynne said nothing, only watched her closely as Flora continued, trying hard to mask the emerging tremor in her voice.

"What advantage can  _Flora of Herring_ give? She's noone. Who would even listen to her?"

"Well, First Enchanter Irving," replied Wynne, her own tone sharpening. "Lord Harrowmont of Orzammar. The Dalish elves. They all pledged their aid to a northern girl from a fishing village, not to the daughter of a teyrn. Don't sell  _Flora of Herring_ short."

Flora fell silent, damp grey eyes gazing into Wynne's own. She swallowed as the senior enchanter nodded slowly, removing the spectacles from Flora's nervously twisting fingers.

"Still, it is undeniable that you being a Cousland will lend us some advantage in Denerim, for gaining influence with the nobles before the Landsmeet. Are you set on this, child?"

Flora gave a glum nod of resignation and Wynne exhaled; inclining her own head in acquiescence.

"I'll begin preparations, then. We will start after dinner; it will not be a straight-forward process."

"Flo?"

Alistair's voice rang out anxious and clear, heedless of their muted scholarly surroundings. He had clearly been in the middle of drill practise, his sword still hung at his side and a shirt had been pulled hastily over a sweaty torso. Spotting his sister-warden at the reading table, he covered the space in a few strides and straddled the bench beside Flora. Reaching out he took her face between his hands and rubbed thumbs over her damp cheeks, assured in his own movements.

"That nervy blond Templar told me that you were ' _distressed'_ ," he murmured, noticing how her lower eyelashes were clumped and wet. "What's wrong, my dear?"

" _Me,"_ Flora replied, the despondency clear on her face. "I am. I'm too Herring and not enough Highever."

"What do you mean, sweetheart?"

"I'm nothing but a disappointment to Fergus," she replied, miserably. "I might look like a Cousland, but I don't  _sound_ like one, or act like one. And I- I don't remember anything about our parents. I think he's ashamed of me."

Alistair gazed at her for a long moment, his eyes searching her face. When he spoke, his voice was warm and intimate; each word a reassuring caress.

"Then he's a bigger fool than I am," he said, and there was a raw honesty in his tone that reverberated through the space between them. "Because you're perfect."

Flora blinked up at him as Alistair slid his fingers into her hair, stroking his thumb gently over the curve of her ear.

"And I'm the luckiest man in Thedas to have you as my…  _sister-warden_."

As Alistair smiled down at her; Flora flung her arms around his neck, knocking over an inkwell. He rose easily on powerful thighs, lifting her with him in a tight embrace. His lips sought out hers and she yielded her mouth to him willingly; letting him bear her down onto the surface of the reading table. Wynne hastily removed her letter to Irving and retrieved the toppled inkwell, raising her eyebrows resignedly at Teagan.

"Young love," the senior enchanter murmured diplomatically, glancing over her shoulder. "Shall we leave them to it?"

As the older mage followed the bann out of the library, they ran into the nervous young Templar, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. Fortunately, Arl Eamon's son no longer accompanied him.

"Is she- is Flora alright?" he asked, craning his neck to see around the wooden door, which was still open at a slight angle. Wynne let out a little sigh, as Teagan cleared his throat and averted his eyes.

"Yes, but Alistair is with her now. I would give them some privacy, son."

Even with the warning obvious in the bann's tone, Lieutenant Rutherford could not resist nudging the door open a few inches further, peering around furtively. A pile of books lay scattered across the floor, knocked carelessly from the reading table. The object of his secret desires was sprawled on the polished wood, Cousland-red hair dishevelled and coming free from its leather tie. One side of her shirt gaped open, displaying a stiffened nipple crowning a small, bare breast. The Theirin prince was bent between Flora's parted legs, one large hand possessively on a strapped knee as his cool olive face ducked between her thighs. She was flushed and squirming; a sweaty palm resting against his burnished blond head as her fingers tangled loosely in his hair.

The Templar officer stared, transfixed by a sight that he had only allowed himself to envision in snatched moments of privacy, the pleasure always mingled with guilt. Each time he had spilled himself over his fist with her name on his lips; the sour taste of shame had followed soon after. As if in a trance he watched the girl of his unreachable fantasies slide off the table and drop to her knees before the Theirin prince. Her half-giggling lips parted in readiness as he fumbled with the lacing of his breeches.

Lieutenant Rutherford withdrew quietly, heart racing, letting the door close behind him. Bann Teagan had already stalked off down the passageway; but Wynne lingered, pale blue eyes moving sympathetically over his taut, pained expression.

"Cullen," she replied, familiar with the officer from his residency at the Circle. "I would transfer your affections elsewhere, dear boy. There are many other pretty girls in Ferelden."

He averted his gaze, embarrassed at the transparency of his own desire.

"You know, Flora's the same age as me," he muttered, deliberately not glancing at the doorway. "We were both born in 9:11. I'm three months earlier; my birthday is in Cloudreach. Hers is the first day of Solace. Alistair is… her senior, isn't he?"

"Aye, but only a year," replied Wynne, yawning and affecting tiredness so that the courteous young Templar was obliged to take her arm. With him thus restrained, the senior enchanter was able to steer Cullen Rutherford gently away from the library door.

"He looks older than two decades," muttered the lieutenant darkly as they approached the winding staircase that led to the west wing of South Reach. Wynne had to hide a smile, hearing the bitterness in the young man's tone.

"Alistair has the look of his father, Maric," she replied, diplomatically changing the subject. "Now, tell me of the circumstances at the Jainen Circle. Are they ready to receive the Arl's son?"

* * *

 

Later on, Flora - with uncharacteristic timidity - elected not to go to dinner and face Fergus' continued scorn. While the nobles clustered eagerly into the main hall, lured by the smell of roasted boar; she instead went direct to the castle kitchens. After a pointed gesture from the Arl of Redcliffe, Alistair reluctantly followed Eamon into the main hall; glancing at Flora over his shoulder as he went.

Flora was far more comfortable in the kitchens of South Reach than she was on the raised dais in the main hall, under constant scrutiny. Although Fereldan nobility did not adhere to the ridiculous stricture and ritual of their Orlesian counterparts, often eating with fingers rather than elaborate cutlery, basic table manners were expected to come as standard. Flora, inherently clumsy, usually ended up with sauce around her mouth or spilt stew down her front; all the more graceless for being watched.

In the kitchens, however, she was free from the judgement of others. The cook and scullery servants were familiar with her – she had been in each day to request that a meal be sent to Howe's imprisoned assassin, the unfortunate Symon. With her own scavenged plate of food, Flora found herself an unobtrusive corner to sit in, next to Finian's dozing Mabari, Jethro.

The kitchen was also convenient because of its adjacent maze of underground service tunnels. Hewn from the solid rock of the ridge were a series of pantries and storage rooms, connected by short, shadowed passages. Some of the niches were filled with hanging salted carcasses, wax-wrapped cheeses and racks of vegetables; but many of them stood cobwebbed and empty. The servants hated using them because of the claustrophobic musty darkness that pervaded the entire area – the air was too dank for torches to stay lit for long. Flora, who was her own light source, did not mind them. From the service tunnels she could reach the west tower, the main courtyard, the gatehouse – nearly every part of the fortress.

Now Flora decided to take the tunnels back to their quarters, holding up her fingers to cast a gleaming pale gold light over the cobweb-covered stone. She passed a row of hanging deer, their wrinkled death-mask faces staring sadly at her through the shadows. A nervous Jethro trotted in her wake, keeping close to her heels; the Mabari clearly felt the same way about the tunnels as did the servants.

"I'm not giving it to you," Flora said sternly to the whining hound. "This is my post-dinner snack."

Jethro was eyeing a cold cooked potato, wrapped in wax paper, clutched in her other hand. Flora held it out of reach of his snapping jaws; continuing to wend her way down the damp stone tunnels.

Suddenly, the Mabari stopped pleading and came to a sudden halt, ears pricked. It turned its low head around, staring unblinkingly back into the darkened passage at their rear. Flora continued a few steps, then noticed that the hound had stopped. She paused, turning to eye the rigid creature.

"What?"

Slowly, the dog's lip curled back over its jaw and it let out a throaty snarl of warning; staring into the inky darkness behind them with hackles rising.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So the conversation that Flora is referring to took place way back in Chapter 93, where Wynne first proposed the notion that the Highever memories were not obliterated, but simply locked away. Bearing in mind Flora's aversion to having anything probing her mind, it's not a suggestion that she would take Wynne up on lightly. But it's a great opportunity for some flashbacks to Ostagar, and to the Circle, and later on to Flora's life in Herring itself; which I've been eager to explore in more detail.
> 
> Also, poor Cullen, it must be awful seeing your secret crush get it on with someone else right in front of you – I die a little every time Tom Hardy shags someone on screen before my very eyes. WHYYYY CAN'T YOU BE MINE? WHY CAN'T I GET WHAT I WANT?
> 
> The ending of this chapter feels a bit like being at the panto (which will mean bugger all to anyone not British). HE'S BEHIND YOOOOU!


	143. Preparations For The Ritual

 

Flora frowned, squinting off into the dark passageway and seeing nothing. The service tunnels branched in different directions around her, secretive and clandestine. The air itself felt heavy and oppressive; as though the weight of South Reach fortress itself was bearing down on her head.

"Hello?"

There came no response, only the continuation of a damp-edged silence. Flora rolled her eyes, reaching down to pat the growling Mabari's head as she turned back around.

"Calm down, there's nothing-"

From the mass of shadows to their rear came the distinct sound of a footstep, the thud of a man's boot landing hard against the stone. The Mabari launched into a frenzied barking, the sound magnified and multiplied into a cacophony by the hollowed tunnel walls.

An alarmed Flora threw up her hand, summoning a shifting ball of white-gold energy, and near-punching it forwards. It sailed down the passageway, illuminating cobwebbed walls, damp flagstones and the mournful dead-eyed hanging deer. The tunnel appeared to be empty. Flora stared for a moment, feeling her heart thud painfully against her ribcage.

"Is someone there?"

Gaining no reply, she swallowed her fear and reached down to place her fingers on the Mabari's twitching shoulder-blades.

"It's nothing, Jethro. Probably just the sound of the people above us. Come on, let's go."

They continued down the tunnels, making their way to the cellars of the west tower without further incident. Flora returned to the arlina's quarters and settled down cross-legged on the bed to wait for the others. To distract herself from the prospect of what was coming next, she unwrapped the cold baked potato and shared it with the still wary Mabari.

The others seemed to take an age to finish in the main hall; and Flora grew increasingly nervous as the hours passed. She changed into another of the arlina's Orlesian nightgowns and got into bed, then grew impatient and clambered out again. She built a fire in the empty hearth and then fumbled around futilely trying to light it; eventually needing to fetch the Templar outside Arl Eamon's quarters to assist her. The officer – fortunately not the young blond lieutenant she had collided with earlier – cast her a derisive look as he set the flames roaring, muttering something along the lines of  _aren't you a mage?_

The warm scent of burning cedar made Flora drowsy, and she slid down the pillows with an unladylike yawn.  _Exotic Fish of Thedas_ was balanced on her knees and she forced herself to read the caption on the earmarked page.

"St- Starkhaven Min…Minanter  _Trout,"_ Flora pronounced, her finger trailing laboriously across the page. The perfumed smoke drifted across the room, curling in frail wisps around the plum bed hangings. She yawned again, her head dropping forwards until her forehead rested against the mournful inked fish.

Then all at once the door was opened and half of South Reach suddenly seemed to enter the room in a lively stream of chatter. Flora gaped, sitting abruptly upright as the book slid away. She pulled the nightgown down over her knees self-consciously as she caught sight of Fergus Cousland following close after Zevran. Considering that this whole venture had been prompted by his scorn; his face was neutral and coolly appraising.

Wynne came next, carrying a periphery of arcane paraphernalia in her arms. She was assisted by Alistair, whose face predictably lit up on seeing his sister-warden. Finally, Morrigan sauntered in, carrying nothing, her dark lips curled upwards in a smirk.

"Are you trying to cook yourself, child? It's roasting in here," declared Wynne, fanning herself with one hand while flicking her fingers impatiently towards the fire. Immediately the flames died down to flickering embers, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

"My lovely  _sirenita_  might be cold. She's wearing very little, after all," leered Zevran, then cackled in the face of twin glares from both Alistair and Fergus.

Wynne hissed between her teeth, placing her untidy armful of glass apparatus, books and lyrium vials on the bed.

"Alright, then. Flora, you haven't changed your mind about this? I don't want to set the ritual up for no purpose."

Flora shook her head, her grey eyes wide and solemn. Alistair, who could interpret every minute fluctuation in his sister-warden's expression, went over to sit beside her; putting an arm around her shoulders and pressing his lips against her hair.

"What memories will there even be, from five years old? I can't remember much even before the age of ten," he asked, watching the senior enchanter begin to open the books to various pages and spread them over the blankets for quick reference.

Wynne uncorked several of the lyrium vials, giving each a quick sniff before replacing or discarding each in turn. In her element, she seemed thoroughly at ease surrounded by the magical paraphernalia.

"Yes, but remember – one corner of her mind was magically sealed at that age. The memories within should be relatively fresh. Besides, I have theorised that her memories will be of unprecedented quality."

"I do have a good memory," piped up Flora, and was immediately dismissed by Wynne's brisk shake of the head.

"No, not because of that. After all, you have a strong bond with the spirits and they've been with you from a young age. I'd not be surprised if – when channelling  _your_  memories – we glimpse  _their_  perceptions, too."

Flora fell silent, thoughtful. Alistair was also quiet, but his eyebrows were twitching. As Wynne directed Zevran to drag in the vast copper tub from the adjacent bath chamber, the male Warden leaned forward to mutter in Flora's ear.

"If the spirits are always watching, does that include when we're…  _you know?_ Being intimate?"

She thought for a moment, then gave a small, ambiguous shrug. Immediately, a flush rose to warm Alistair's cool olive cheeks. Morrigan, who had exceptional hearing, interjected snidely across the room.

"I don't know why you're blushing, fool. You have no shame in taking her behind the flimsiest veil of privacy as it is.  _I saw you_  both in the herb garden after lunch yesterday. Flora, 'tis a miracle you managed to clean the dirt from your breeches. You  _were_  kneeling for an awfully long time."

An unabashed Flora laughed, then remembered that a scowling Fergus was still in the room. Immediately she folded her lips together and cast her gaze to the flagstones, assuming an almost pious contrition.

"That wasn't us, that was… Zevran and Leliana," improvised Alistair. Zevran snorted, abandoning the tub in the centre of the arlina's Orlesian rug.

"Strange," muttered Fergus, through gritted teeth and a stiffened jaw. "Since I distinctly remember being in the company of the Chantry lay-sister for the entirety of yesterday afternoon."

Wynne took pity on the flushing Alistair, raising her eyebrows and rolling up her sleeves.

"Alistair, could you fetch the large mirror from the other chamber? Zevran, assist him."

Alistair, grateful for any excuse to escape the teyrn's glare, disappeared out of the door with reddened ears. Zevran, eyes lighting up in delight, followed with a gleeful cackle.

"So,  _how_ long are we talking…?"

Snorting and shaking her head, Wynne lowered her staff inside the copper bathtub. A gout of water began to spurt from the gnarled wooden head, gushing noisily against the metallic bottom. Flora slid off the bed and went to kneel beside her, resting her chin on the edge of the tub and watching the water gush forth in fascination. She reached out and parted the stream with a finger, watching the flow divide evenly in two. Wynne lowered her voice a moment, taking advantage of Fergus muttering darkly to himself.

"But seriously child, are you being…  _careful?_  You and Alistair. I know it's all very exciting – first love – but you're not getting carried away?"

Flora eyed the senior enchanter in surprise, at first not gleaning her purpose. Wynne gave a pointed little cough and a meaningful look. Morrigan, bat-like hearing activating once again, interjected impatiently.

"I believe what the old woman is trying to ask is: do you let the fool  _finish_ inside you?"

"Oh," replied Flora, watching the water level rise to fill two-thirds of the copper tub. Although she had never heard the term before, in her newly experienced position she was able to decipher its meaning.

"Yes, I… I suppose so. But we're both tainted, since we're Wardens. You warned us about this before."

"I've warned you  _twice._ "

Wynne lifted her staff, testing the temperature of the water with her hand. It was cool, but not freezing. She lifted one of the lyrium vials and uncorked it, letting the iridescent blue dust fall into the water. Flora reached down to help her swirl the powdery substance into the water; feeling the distinctive prickle of lyrium against her skin as it dissolved.

"Yes," replied the senior enchanter slowly, her voice careful and even. "But I've been thinking about it. Since your creation magic runs so potent, it reacts oddly to the Blight – you know it can neutralise corruption, you've healed enough defiled wounds. And even though Alistair is also a Warden, it might not make a difference. Your creation magic negates the taint.  _His_ taint."

Flora shook her head, pulling the cork from another vial of lyrium with her teeth and dumping the contents into the bath with far less finesse than the senior mage had done.

"No, the taint is definitely affecting me," she replied glumly, splashing her hand around to quicken the dissolution of the sparkling crystals. "I think I've inhaled too much of it. My bleeding has stopped."

The water had taken on an opalescent turquoise shade, pinpricks of lyrium catching the firelight in multi-faceted brilliance. For once, Morrigan and Wynne glanced at one another with a rare mutuality of expression. The witch's dark lips dropped open, her amber eyes widening as though someone had just slapped her, hard and shocking.

"Oh, dear. Stopped for how long, child?" asked Wynne, her voice deliberately casual. Flora peered down at her own reflection in the opaque water, breaking up a clump of congealed lyrium by prodding at it with her finger.

"Don't know," she replied more cheerfully, her northern accent breaking strongly through the words. "A while. I'm not good at counting beyond thirty."

Just then Alistair and Zevran returned, manhandling the large mirror between them. Zevran was cackling, and Alistair was somehow even more red than he had been when he left.

"Where would you like it, my seasoned madame?" enquired Zevran, managing a half-bow despite the heavy burden on his shoulder. Wynne, composing herself swiftly, gestured to the Orlesian rug.

"Place it flat there, just beside the bathtub," she murmured, sweeping the mass of writhing thoughts neatly to the back of her skull. "Now, where were we? Ah, about to add the- "

"So this will restore Florence's memories?" interrupted the teyrn abruptly as he roused himself from his reverie. Wynne turned her pale, china-blue gaze on him in sharp disapproval.

" _Theoretically._  I would ask you not to interrupt during the preparations, nor the ritual itself. It's dangerous enough without any distractions."

Flora grimaced as Alistair's head swivelled around to face the senior enchanter in sudden, flaring alarm.

"Dangerous?" he asked, watching Wynne added several drops of a translucent liquid to the water. "Wait,  _dangerous?_ Why?"

The vibrant blue shimmered for a moment, turned briefly cloudy, then darkened to a rich navy.

"Flora will need to enter the Fade, which is inherently dangerous in itself," the elder mage replied, rising to her feet and crossing to the arrow-slit. Retrieving a spool of golden thread from the pocket of her robe, she began to stretch slender strands over the window. "It's likely that such a ritual will attract demons to her location. These wards should prevent them from crossing the Veil. Morrigan, could you salt the doorway?"

The witch flared her nostrils at the instruction, but obligingly retrieved a small leather pouch from the supplies on the bed. Zevran, who was lounging back against the pillows, raised his eyebrows suggestively. Morrigan returned the gesture with a deathly glare.

" _Demons?!"_ Alistair's face crashed into worry, and even Fergus appeared to twitch behind his mask of studied indifference. "Demons, Flo? Really?"

"Flora will be fine," Wynne said briskly, returning from the window and heading over to the doorway. "Though it's a good idea to have a Templar present, just in case. And Zevran, out with you. The fewer distractions, the better."

"In case she gets possessed?  _No!"_ Alistair's voice rose sharply, Theirin dominance lending command to the word.

Wynne shot him a chiding look, leaning into the passageway as Zevran sulked out.

"No, she'll be fine. If she got to fifteen and avoided possession without Circle training; the spirits clearly look after her in the Fade. I mean, the Templar will be protection for  _us._ Come in, Cullen."

The young blond Templar entered, his nostrils flaring at the sight of the arcane preparations. Still, he remained silent, fingers moving nervously over the hilt of his sword. As his amber-coloured irises passed over Alistair they narrowed imperceptibly; recalling the scene from the library earlier.

"Alright," murmured Wynne, her own voice distant as she mentally ran over each step of the ritual. The navy water gleamed, dark and opaque. Tiny specks of lyrium glittered within its depths, like a fragment of the night sky had fallen into the bathtub. "Flora, get in."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So next chapter is going to be flashback heavy – I've planned for four separate flashback chapters (not all bunched together), focusing on the four main parts of Flora's life: Ostagar, the Circle, Herring and finally Highever.
> 
> Also, in case there was anyone who hadn't actually worked it out by now – Flora is up the duff, lol. I've read quite a few fanfictions where a Warden gets pregnant, which statistically is impossible – so I wanted to try and work out a way to justify it. Flora's body is uniquely attuned to creation magic – which allows her to heal and shield, but prevents anything else. She's 100% pure distilled cleansing/healing/repair magic, which has basically neutralised the taint in Alistair's sperm (biology! I vaguely remember SPERMATOZOA as being a thing from GCSE Biology… these author notes get weirder every chapter!) and also contributes to her accidentally withdrawing more of her brother-warden's taint every time they snog. I will be revealing later how her body doesn't neutralise the taint in her own blood…
> 
> So, that's my canon! Wait, fanon? I don't know the lingo, I'm new here, haha. Anyway, Alistair and Flora are fcking morons; so caught up on the lust-train that they stop using their brains, lol. WHY DOES NOONE EVER LISTEN TO WYNNE?
> 
> And for pure trivia (and to start working out timings), in true Sixteen and Pregnant fashion, Flora conceived the very first time they slept together, at Ostagar. Remember when Alistair did her like four times in a row? Yes, THEN. And working on the timing – they've been at South Reach nearly a week, then they were in Brecilian for about a week, and it took about a week from Ostagar to Brecilian; so considering the way pregnancy works, she's just about six weeks pregnant. What an idiot lol


	144. The Ostagar Memories: Part One

 

Flora sat shivering in the navy water, which reached up to her collarbone. She could feel the thin silk of the nightgown billowing around her ribcage, and was suddenly grateful for the opaqueness of the lyrium-infused liquid. Dark red tendrils of hair floated around her, like seaweed caught in a shallow rock-pool.

"It's  _freezing_ ," she complained mutinously, drumming her fingers against the rim of the copper bathtub to hide her nerves.

_Relax. It's not like a demon invading your mind, or a maleficar. This is different. It's fine._

_**It's fine.** _

Alistair reached out to pass a hand clumsily over the top of her head, the corners of his mouth taut and unhappy.

"It's  _not_ freezing," corrected Wynne. "I need something from Highever to act as a foci."

After a moment, Alistair reached a hand inside his tunic and retrieved the small gold ring engraved with  _F - C_ that Flora had given him months prior, as a late Satinalia gift. Wynne took the ring with a slight nod, dusted it with a translucent powder, then dropped it into the bathtub between Flora's knees. After a moment, it hit the metal bottom with a soft clink.

Flora sneezed at the excess lyrium in the air, rubbing at her eyes. Wynne inhaled, centring herself, then made a small gesture towards Cullen, beckoning him to kneel at one end of the bath, behind Flora's head.

"Can you watch for any arcane disturbance? There's bound to be some fluctuation."

The young officer gave a tight nod, placing his hands in preparation on the edge of the copper tub. Wynne glanced over at Morrigan, who sauntered over while arching her fingers. Arcane magic began to crackle between her palms; and a sour, acrid smell punctuated the cedar-scented air.

"Ready, Flora?" asked the senior enchanter. For a moment Flora's eyes met Fergus'; and she was gratified to see that her elder brother appeared somewhat concerned, his brow crossed with furrowed lines. She gave a little nod, hearing Alistair exhale unsteadily beside her.

Morrigan leaned down, the threaded animal bones around her neck giving a soft rustle. She reached out dark-painted nails and rested a slender palm against Flora's forehead. There was a sharp, splintering crackle of energy, like a bolt of lightning splitting the arcane-charged air; Flora's eyes rolled back and she slumped unconscious in the water. The young Templar reached out hastily and gripped both sides of her head, keeping it above the water. His trembling thumbs settled either side of Flora's neck, feeling out the soft, steady throb of her pulse.

Wynne tossed a prismatic crystal into the hearth, and for a moment the flames flickered a deep violet before returning to their original scarlet hue. Alistair gazed at the slack, pale face of his sister-warden, and felt a lurch of bitter resentment towards the teyrn.

"Alright," the senior enchanter murmured, unable to stop excitement creeping in at the corners of her words. "Let's see what memories we can retrieve. It's unlikely that we'll reach the Highever ones this evening – I imagine that we'll need to sift through more recent recollections first."

Alistair recalled the brief exchange with Flora from earlier, and felt the flush return inadvertently to warm his cheeks.

"What if it shows memories of – well –  _us?!"_ he hissed, his eyes flicking nervously from Wynne to the scowling Fergus. "Me and Flo?  _Together?"_

"Ha! 'Tis amusing you believe yourself to be so  _memorable_ ," Morrigan interjected snidely, at which Alistair shot her a glare. Wynne gave a wry shrug in response, stirring the water with a carved silver rod retrieved from the sleeve of her robe.

"I have no control over what memories are brought to the surface of her mind," the senior enchanter murmured, adding a drop of thick red liquid to the navy water. "We'll have to see. The recollections could be either profound or mundane. Morrigan, keep watch on the fire."

Nobody asked her what a change in the fire would mean; but the words hung ominous in the air.

Morrigan approached the large mirror, the surface of which still reflected the fire-lit wood and plaster ceiling. A reluctant Alistair joined her, kneeling beside the gilded edge. He could see his own hollow cheeked mirror-twin staring back at him, made older with worry.

For a brief moment, the bathwater lightened to a cloudy shade of teal. Wynne reached down with a silver vessel, no larger than an eggcup, and scooped up some of the milky blue water. Once she had done so, the water returned to navy once again. Keeping her arm stiff and steady, Wynne brought the cup sideways and spilled the contents over the polished surface of the mirror. The liquid spread out to cover the glass in an iridescent sheath, stretching itself unnaturally thin. Beneath the arcane-infused water, the mirror darkened; the liquid on the surface quickly evaporating with a soft hiss.

An image emerged in the opaque coal-black glass, clear-edged and distinct; and they heard tinny sounds. Voices, distant and somewhat muffled, echoed around them as though people were whispering in the adjacent room.

_The villagers who lived on the borders of the Korcari Wilds told their children stories late at night to stop them from wandering within its boundary. Witches live in the wilds, they said, their half-belief in the old tales lending an ominous conviction to the warnings._

_It happened to be true, there were witches in the wilds; but there were also far worse things than renegade mages dwelling within the marshes and mires._

_Against the dismal, rotten backdrop of yellowed foliage; the King of Ferelden stood triumphant, withdrawing his sword from the ribcage of a sagging Darkspawn corpse. He was standing knee-deep in a muddied swamp, magnificent and gilded as an Orlesian statue. Beside him stood a slender man in his fifth decade, a frightened look on his bureaucrat's face. As Cailan let out a savage grin of triumph, the other man lowered a dagger grasped in shaking fingers._

" _Your majesty, let us rejoin the others," he begged, eyes bulging with the stale remnants of terror. "It is far too dangerous to scout in so few numbers. The Darkspawn are swarming just to the south. We need to return to Ostagar before sunset."_

_Cailan countered the man's worry with a brilliant, uncaring shrug._

" _We have the shield-mage, Dora," he retorted, gesturing behind him. "What harm could possibly befall us?"_

_The man shot Flora a suspicious glare over his shoulder, clearly unhappy about their separation from the accompanying Templars. There had been three of the Chantry militia in their patrol, clearly taking no chances with their king and a young, inexperienced mage._

_Flora stood unhappily in the swamp, feeling the water lapping over the top of her boots and creeping down her leggings. The Grey Warden attire was too big for her; and even after the seamstress' alterations, the grey and blue looked shapeless and ill fitting. Her hair was tied hastily back in a braid, although most of it had escaped the leather tie during the frantic pace of the day. The freckles on her nose stood out stark against the unusually pale skin of her face. She glanced sideways at Cailan, thought about correcting him then slid gloomily back into misery. All she wanted was for this horrible afternoon to be over._

_Then Flora felt it, the strange, still-new sensation of something clawing at the corners of her mind. In a sweeping gesture she brought up her staff, creating a gleaming barrier before her and the King. The Darkspawn erupted seemingly from nowhere, bursting from the swamp as though it was their native habitat. There were a half-dozen at least; Flora had managed to bring the shield up before her and Cailan, but the nervous man was too far away._

" _Come closer!" she squealed stuck-pig-frightened at him, seeing the raw terror writ on his face despite the shifting barrier of light between them. He cringed back against the trees, cowering as three Darkspawn converged on him with rusted weapons raised. One of them slashed out, a testing strike; the tip of the blade gouging the man's stomach. He let out an inhuman sound, slapping a hand over his hacked belly._

_Then there was a whirl of dull silver, a metallic gleam that seemed to dance through the shadows. A wordless yell accompanied a surge of raw power, cleaving through a pair of Darkspawn in one scything blow. In the space between heartbeats, the third Hurlock fell to the fetid grass, disgorging a foul and rotted substance from its lips. The Warden-Commander moved with the agility of a man half his age, the twin blades scissoring through the air like a bird taking flight. A volley of honed arrows came soaring from the trees, followed shortly by the rest of the King's patrol._

_It was over very quickly after that; the remaining Darkspawn dispatched with brutal thrusts. Cailan's eyes were glittering like hard shards of obsidian, his face bright with the aura of battle._

" _Warden-Commander," he called out, incongruously jovial. "There was no need for you to come to our aid. The situation was under my control."_

_Duncan shot the King a glance that fell just short of derision; disguising disapproval with concern._

" _Cailan, you need to be more careful," he murmured, the Rivaini accent barely inflecting his low, even tone. "You risk too much."_

_The Warden-Commander did not wait to hear the King's reply, instead going over to where Flora was crouched over the grey-faced man. He could see that she was badly frightened, the golden mist coming erratic from her mouth and her fingers shaking as she sealed the wound. He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, remembering how to be reassuring. Flora leaned into his touch, grateful for the small comfort._

" _Try and be quick, young sister," Duncan murmured, and she shot him a quick, frightened-rabbit glance out of the corner of her eye._

_The scar, abruptly finished, was ugly and raised. Despite her fear, Flora glowered down at it; unhappy at such shoddy craftsmanship._

" _He thinks he's invincible," she grumbled as she rose to her feet, turning to face the Commander. "What if my shield fails? Will I be held responsible if he dies? They'll hang me."_

_Duncan gazed down at her for a moment, his tan Rivaini features bearing an unreadable expression._

" _No-one is going to hang you on my watch, child. You're doing very well, for a new recruit."_

_Flora, who had received scant praise at the Circle, beamed back up at him. The Warden-Commander studied the finely-hewn features of her face with reluctant admiration, the crease deepening in his brow._

_Then Cailan was between them, eager as a Mabari pup, a flush warming his pale cheeks._

" _Thirteen dead in a single afternoon! The Darkspawn don't stand a chance against the might of the Royal Army and the Wardens combined."_

_His eyes drifted over to Flora, who had dropped her gaze gloomily to the floor. Despite having accompanied him into the Wilds on three occasions, she was still far too awed to speak to him directly. Cailan's appraising gaze raked over her, stripping away the dishevelled hair and ill-fitting uniform to gauge the potential beneath._

" _Here, Dora. Would you do me the pleasure of joining me for a celebration in my tent, once we return to Ostagar?"_

_A miserable Flora inwardly quailed at what she naively believed to be hours of forced conversation with the King. Duncan, who had not been unprepared for this moment, retorted lightning-fast, his voice cracking like a whip through the miasmic air._

" _No. My young recruit is tired from the exertions today. She needs sufficient rest."_

_The warning was implicit yet abundantly clear: Find someone else to slake your adrenaline-fuelled desires on. Not her._

_King eyed Warden-Commander, recognising the steely undertone to Duncan's outwardly respectful reply. Finally, Cailan decided that it was not worth the argument; nor the inevitable disapproval from his advisors on learning that he had taken a mage to bed._

_As the King sauntered away, resplendent in his armour, the air appeared to dim somewhat in his absence. Duncan gazed down at Flora, his expression caught between vigilance and softness._

" _For future reference, my young sister; I advise you not to accept anyone's invitation to their tent without Alistair also being present."_

_Flora nodded solemnly, not fully gleaning his meaning but wanting instinctually to comply. The corner of Duncan's mouth tugged upwards a fraction, nearly hidden by the beard._

" _Come on, little sister. You can ride with me on the way back."_

The memory ended abruptly, the surface of the mirror clouding over with a fine silver mist. After a moment, the plastered ceiling and wooden eaves were reflected once more. It seemed as though the inhabitants of the arlina's chamber were collectively holding their breath. Alistair stared down at the mirror's surface, transfixed by the sight of his old mentor's face and the slow, rough-edged way that he spoke. A sharp kernel of pain lodged halfway down his throat, making it difficult to breathe.

"Warden-Commander Duncan," breathed Fergus, eyes wide with recognition. "I remember thinking it odd that a Rivaini was in charge of the Fereldan Wardens. This is the man who recruited my sister from the Circle? He seemed a little  _too interested_ in Florence for my liking."

Wynne was about to speak, when the fire besides them suddenly flickered a brief, lurid green. The next moment, the flames returned to their normal scarlet and umber hue. Morrigan sat up, alert as a cat.

"Our ritual has begun to attract attention," she murmured, glancing across at the senior enchanter. "'Tis increasingly likely that demons will be drawn to her in the Fade."

Alistair hissed between his teeth, glancing at his limp sister-warden slumped in the water. Her head was still lolled back senselessly between the nervous Templar's hands.

"Let's stop it now," he hissed, eyes moving over her pale and still face. Wynne shook her head dismissively, reaching out with the silver chalice to retrieve another scoop of water.

"As long as the flames stay yellow; she'll be fine. This is a little like peeling away the layers of an onion – we need to sift through the more recent surface layers of memory."

He groaned, then shot a dark look over at Fergus. The deposed teyrn was leaning against the fireplace, the clenched fingers at his sides belying his deliberately neutral expression.

"She's only doing this for you," Alistair said, uncharacteristic hardness running through the tone. "If anything happens to her, I swear I'll kill you myself."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Cullen has only got suckered into assisting this ritual because he's still a young and relatively inexperienced Templar. Ahhhh I miss writing about Ostagar! Maybe once I finish writing this story, I could do a mini-compilation of more Ostagar stories, perhaps. Duncan is one of my favourite characters from the entire franchise so I'm def up for more Warden-Commander insertion. Duncan feels protective over Flora because she's nineteen and fresh from the Circle – I don't feel like it's emphasised enough in game, but can you imagine going outside and being in society after YEARS of incarceration? It can't be an easy transition, and I don't think that Flora's naivety is purely due to her youth.
> 
> Though, I did accidentally type Duncan saying YOU CAN RIDE ME ON THE WAY BACK to Flora first time, lol, only caught that in the edit!


	145. The Ostagar Memories: Part Two

 

Wynne inhaled deeply, then spilled the chalice of water over the mirror. Once again the dark polished glass turned opaque, as though a layer of thick cloud seethed just below the surface. When the mist cleared, Alistair saw the training ground spread out on the slopes beneath Ostagar.

_Ostagar. The fortress on the east side of the valley dated from the Tevinter Imperium; few civilisations since had managed to match the old empire's architectural brilliance. As a result of subsequent amateurish engineering, many of the old structures were crumbling away like old bones, in ragged fragments of limestone and marble. Beneath its yawning maw stretched a series of gently sloping fields, upon which the men of Ferelden prepared themselves to meet their foe._

_The King's men were drilling in routine formation beneath an insipid autumnal sun; while the Wardens focused on close-quarters combat training, with battle-scarred wooden opponents serving as victim to their blows. In a distant corner, tucked far away behind sandbags and under the watchful eye of the Templars, the mages were undergoing their own training. There was a sense of heightened expectation in the damp air; it throbbed and pulsed like a living organism, driving the momentum of training forward. Everybody was expecting imminent battle, certain that the next Darkspawn assault was the big one._

_Although she was clad in the garb of a warden-recruit, Flora was neither practising with the mages, nor partaking in drill. She was sitting on an isolated sandbag, utterly preoccupied with peeling the wax from a small truckle of cheese. A shadow fell across her lap and she looked up to see what unwelcome presence had blocked the light. It was the Queen's father, the teyrn of Gwaren, in full armour and sporting a sour expression on his battle-scarred face. Two retainers dressed in black and gold Mac Tir livery were at his side._

_Flora stared up at him with open doubt. It had only been a few days since the incident in the tent where he had forced her to shield the elven servant from his wrath; she now eyed the sword at his side with slight misgiving. Loghain let out a humourless bark, an old scar twisting the corner of his mouth._

" _So young, and already looking at me with the same suspicious eyes as the Warden-Commander," he said, in the grating voice that seemed constantly on the verge of a snarl. "He's taught you well."_

_Flora frowned, and it was clear that she was weighing up the consequences of speaking with the injustice of remaining silent._

" _You've given me good cause to be suspicious," she replied after a moment, censoriously. "You attacked me with a sword."_

_Loghain did not deny this but stepped forward once again, coming too close for Flora's liking. Abruptly, he gripped her chin with ungentle fingers and turned her face towards the waning light of the Kingsway sun. Flora stared up at him in mild alarm as his eyes trawled over her features, moving from the cut of her jaw to the angular prominence of her cheekbones. Repeatedly he kept glancing into her pale-grey eyes, the shade of unpolished silverite._

" _Where did you say you were from?"_

" _The north coast," she replied, and he let out a snort of soft derision._

" _I'm not deaf, girl, I can hear those flat vowels. Where on the coast?"_

" _Herring," said Flora mutinously, wondering on the consequences if she should expand her barrier and launch the teyrn across the field._

" _And where is that inconsequential sounding village located? In whose arling?"_

" _It's in the teyrnir of Highever," Flora said, narrowing her eyes as he ran his thumb rough and contemptuous down the angle of her jaw. "The castle is three headlands away."_

_Loghain exhaled, a strange light dawning at the back of his eyes. He gazed at her and his lip curled; in mingled distaste and revelation._

" _Sister-warden!"_

_Then Alistair was there interjecting himself cheerfully between them, as bright and handsome as Loghain was sour and scowling. Flora, relieved at the interruption, smiled at him. He slung his arm around her shoulder with a deceptive casualness, considering that he was still constructing an armour-barricade between their pallets at night._

" _I've been looking for you, Mage Flora. Duncan wants us to take some new recruits out into the Wilds. He thinks we'll work well together."_

_Loghain looked between the two of them, the machinations of his mind working furiously._

" _What political game is your commander playing?" he asked after a moment, a dangerous edge to his voice._

_Alistair and Flora, with mutual confusion, glanced at one another._

The memory faded away abruptly, the surface of the mirror clouding over before clearing to reveal the wooden ceiling eaves once again. Alistair exhaled unsteadily, realising that he had dug his fingernails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. The sight of Mac Tir's face had drawn out the lingering anger that ran constant within the young warrior; scratch away the surface cheerfulness and an old bitterness was revealed, pervasive and poisonous as the taint.

Wynne, who had seen the light of realisation dawning on Loghain's face, shook her head thoughtfully.

"Loghain knew all along that Flora was Teyrn Bryce's daughter. He must have assumed that Duncan had paired a bastard prince up with a magically-endowed Cousland for some nefarious political purpose."

"Old woman, you'd best end this." Morrigan's voice cut over Wynne's thoughtful musings, sharp-edged as a blade. She gestured towards the flame, which now had a sickly greenish hue. "Your spells are drawing unwanted attention to her in the Fade. The demons are gathering."

The senior enchanter glanced across at Cullen, whose bare hands were now saturated with bluish water.

"Is she in danger?"

With a carefully detached professional quickness, the blond Templar checked for the three signs of distress –  _flushed skin, bone white pupil, elevated heartbeat._ After a moment he shook his head, glancing across at Wynne.

"She's fine."

Alistair let out a groan, as the senior mage placed a compassionate hand on his arm.

"She'll be alright, Alistair. I barely had time to make a cup of tea during her Harrowing, it was over so quickly. Her creation magic negates their existence. Let us try once more, then we'll leave it for tonight."

For a third time, Wynne lowered the silver chalice into the navy lyrium-infused water; then spilled the liquid over the mirror.

They had become accustomed to the reaction from the previous two attempts – the opalescent clouding and then the gradual sharpening of an image; faces and bodies rising out of the darkness like figures emerging from a well.

This time, there was no clouding; only darkness and a dull hiss, like steam escaping from an uncovered pot. Suddenly, both hearth fire and mirror swelled up in a lurid, malevolent green, a colour found nowhere in nature.

"A demon!" hissed Morrigan, as Wynne leaned forward to stare at the image rapidly manifesting in the centre of the mirror.

"It's  _the_ demon," the senior enchanter replied tonelessly, in a voice that did not sound like her own. "This is no memory; it is what she's seeing in the Fade."

_Flora found herself in a strange landscape formed from some amalgamation of her dreams, her memories and the nightmarish properties of the Fade itself. She was on the coast, on a rocky beach strewn with the bones of old ships; but the sea was made up of the rolling green mists of the Fade-sky. She could feel the back of her throat burning and realised that it was a not water but a vast mass of liquid Blight, the taint lapping greedily at the crumbling shore. In the distance she recognised the fragmented remains of Gwaren, the ruins so still and desolate they could have dated from the Blessed Age._

_Silent above the poisonous ocean, the Archdemon hovered, vast, bat-like and malevolent. Its wings appeared to be beating too slowly to keep it airborne, but still it hung there; one marbled pale eye surveying the shore like a watchful snake. Flora gaped at it for a moment, feeling her throat constrict with fear, ducking instinctually behind a large boulder._

_The Archdemon opened its fanged mouth and gave a roar that sounded somehow both feral and serpentine. It was designed to paralyse; to deaden senses and suffocate minds with clouds of debilitating terror._

_**It can't hurt you here.** _

_As though she were about to plunge underwater for an indeterminable amount of time, Flora took a deep gulp of air, then thrust herself upwards from behind the boulder. There was not even the slightest chance that the creature would not immediately notice her; the Archdemon eyed Flora as a snake would a mouse._

" _I'm not scared of you," she lied, and although they were parted by a swathe of sallow sand, she knew that it could hear her. "I can look at you."_

_The Archdemon surveyed her with contempt; its bone-white irises cold and emotionless. She began to stride down the beach towards it, the sand feeling oddly insubstantial beneath her feet. The closer she got; the further the creature seemed, though its wings were now frozen in place. When she looked down at her hand, she found that she was gripping her staff._

_**You must learn to face it.** _

_Caught in the strange purgatory between a dream and the Fade, Flora did not look behind her as she struggled across the shifting sands, single-minded in her determination. If she had glanced over her shoulder, she would have seen two figures hovering on the edge of the rolling dunes. One, dull and metallic like pewter, was clad in archaic armour that was many centuries out-dated. A single masculine hand gripped the edge of a rusting shield, which appeared both solid as silverite and gossamer thin. The other, more feminine in shape, was cloaked in wisps of filmy, white-gold mist. Neither figure had any discernible features; only a blank emptiness where their faces should have been. Each one flickered like a guttering candle, drifting in and out of chimerical half-existence. Whenever each figure faded temporarily away, for a split second a vast silhouette was cast against the horizon; a momentary glimpse of far greater power than their diminutive alternate form suggested._

_The Blighted ocean gave a slow, nauseated roll like a distressed ship; and suddenly the Archdemon was flapping away in jerky, disjointed motion. Flora, who had not seen it turn, let out a little howl of frustration and chased it down the beach, coming to an abrupt stop at the edge of the crumbling shoreline._

" _Come back!" she yelled but the words did not come out properly; she gesticulated with her staff and then flung it in the creature's wake with a snarl. "Don't run from me!"_

Back in the waking world those watching had been struck into a dumb, impotent horror, even Alistair, who only heard the occasional whisper in his own dreams.

"Wake her up," he said, his voice barbed and raw, worry ageing him an additional ten years.

Wynne nodded mutedly, gesturing to Morrigan. Morrigan, for once utterly unable to think of anything snide to say, leaned toward and rested her palm against Flora's damp forehead. There was a brief crackle of arcane discharge, and the witch withdrew her arms as Flora's eyes flew open.

Flora could almost still taste the Blight in the back of her throat, and the Archdemon's winged form seemed to be emblazoned on the back of her eyelids. For a moment fear ballooned inside her, bitter and sharp-edged, expanding to fill her throat. There was nothing more she wanted to do than wail " _It's in my head, nothing's allowed in my head!"_ as she had done before.

Then Flora saw Alistair's own stricken face, his eyes bleak, and realised suddenly that he drew his strength from her, as surely as the Liane River fed into the Waking Sea. Wynne and Morrigan, having never before seen the Archdemon, were struck into appalled silence by this second-hand vision. Even Fergus was frozen in disbelieving silence, confronted with proof that the situation was far graver than his own personal obsession with Highever and Howe.

As their eyes all searched her face, Flora thought on what Duncan would say, if he were here. The memory of his dark, lupine face was fresh in her mind, thanks to Wynne's earlier ministrations.

_You've signed yourself as the Warden-Commander of Ferelden dozens of times over the past few days, little sister. So act like one._

"Ugly, isn't it?" she said, brazenly, forcing a rod of steel through her words to keep them steady. "But luckily, still on the south coast. I don't know why it's so determined to pulverise Gwaren, it's returned there about three times so far. Maybe it  _really_ dislikes Loghain. UNDERSTANDABLE! Maybe we could  _feed_ the general to it when we get to Denerim?"

"It's likely he's full of gristle," mused Wynne with a grimace, allowing herself to be swept away in Flora's determinedly light-hearted banter. "Come on, Lieutenant, assist an old woman in clearing this paraphernalia away."

After Flora had clambered awkwardly out of the bathtub with the help of her brother-warden, a muted Cullen assisted with the clearance. Salt was swept from the doorway, the golden thread removed from the arrow-slit and Wynne burnt away the rest of the navy water, leaving scorch marks on the interior of the copper.

"Poor lad, he's still not comfortable around the rituals and practise of magic," murmured the senior enchanter as she gathered up the last of the lyrium vials. "He'll have to get used to it if he seeks a career in the Templars."

"'Tis more likely the boy was struck dumb by the sight of that monstrosity," muttered Morrigan as they left, Fergus following with an armful of books in their wake. The deposed teyrn's face was as still as any statue, but there was a new kernel of fear lodged in the back of his eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So one more memory, and an odd dream-Fade vision in today's chapter! Flora will get a bit of a break before they try again. Loghain, as a senior peer of Ferelden who had known Bryce Cousland well as the only other teyrn, is immediately able to recognise the Cousland features in Flora, even in her first few days at Ostagar. The general sees that Duncan has partnered a magically-empowered Cousland with the bastard son of a King and his mind instantly goes to political intrigue (seeing as how the Wardens have a recent history of treachery and political manipulation). That was why Loghain originally suggested that Flora join Cailan's personal guard (way back in like Chapter 12 or something?!) – not out of any desire to see Cailan safe, but to try and limit the contact between her and Alistair.
> 
> Also, in this chapter we get a brief glimpse of the two main spirits that have loaned their aid to Flora. She's aided by a spirit of Valour (the one clad in archaic armour), which enables her to shield; and by a spirit of Compassion (the one in the floaty dress), which facilitates her healing. Whenever text is bolded and italicised, this represents one (or both) of the spirits speaking to her.


	146. Tracing The Peraquialus

 

At last Flora and Alistair were left alone in the arlina's chamber, the hearth flame returned to its normal amber hue. The room bore the signs of recent ritual – a smudge of salt decorated the doorway, one golden thread trailed next to the arrow-slit window – but it was blessedly quiet and still. There was a lingering taste of arcane residue in the air, enough to cause a prickle in the back of the throat.

Alistair looked down at his sister-warden, knowing her face, knowing  _her,_ and saw through the wry mask of humour to the raw fear below. Flora gazed back at him with naked eyes, knowing that she could not fool her brother-warden when they were alone together. A tiny reflection of the Archdemon's fanged maw shone in her enlarged pupil, and she gave an involuntary shiver.

"Let's get you out of this," he said finally, and Flora was grateful that he was focusing on the mundane; because she did not  _want_  to get upset, she was still trying to channel Duncan.

Alistair lifted the clammy nightgown over her head, the silk peeling away from her goose-pimpled skin. To his credit he did not linger while she sat naked on the rug; immediately retrieving a spare blanket from the bed and wrapping it around her. Planting his boot on the Orlesian rug, careless of the delicately woven fabric, he shoved it over the flagstones before the crackling logs in the hearth. Gripping Flora's shoulders, he guided her to sit down in front of the flames, kneeling down before her solicitously.

"Can I get you anything else, my dear?" he asked, aware of how vulnerable his sister-warden felt after any intrusion on her mind. "Some water? A snack?"

Flora shook her head, feeling oddly calm. It was though her stomach had finally neutralised her swallowed fear, in the same manner as it did the Blight.

"I'm fine," she said, surprised that it was true. "I mean, I was completely terrified, but I wasn't… I could still  _move."_

Alistair eyed her with some trepidation, reaching out to adjust the blanket around her shoulders. "Yes, we could see that. Moving towards the Archdemon, yelling  _don't run away from me!"_

He shot her a stern look as she laughed, his nostrils flaring in a manner reminiscent of the senior enchanter. "There's a fine line between being brave and being foolish, Flo. You had better not do that in person."

"No promises," Flora whispered solemnly, her grey eyes gilded by the firelight. Alistair sat back on the rug and lifted his arm; she folded herself against him with the ease of long practise. Placing a palm on the small of her back, he began to rub slow, affectionate circles through the blanket.

"Seeing Duncan reminded me of when he used to talk to us about Rivain," he murmured against her damp hair, feeling the natural warmth of her skin through the fine-spun wool. "I heard they don't believe in the Maker up there."

"I remember that," Flora replied after a moment, recalling one conversation in particular. It had been several weeks after her arrival at Ostagar; she was despondent after the other Wardens in their tent had conspicuously moved their pallets away from her, an unsupervised young mage. Instead of feeling dangerous, she had felt diseased. Duncan had seen her sulking around the campfire, and had shrewdly ascertained the problem.

"He said that in Rivain, they don't fear mages. That they're respected and… and  _valued._  People don't lock them up and set a guard. He said that he would never understand the southern attitude towards us."

Alistair listened quietly, absent-mindedly twisting a thick strand of her hair around his finger.

"He reminded me of my dad," Flora whispered after a moment, feeling his thumb running gently within the curve of her ear. "I- I don't mean in looks. Or mannerisms. I mean, the in the way he accepted who I was. Without suspicion or misgiving."

Her brother-warden, who had not moved his pallet away but had built a barricade of armour between them and had once joked casually that it would be difficult to kill her if she became possessed, felt guilt rise in his throat like bile. He drew Flora to him tightly, pressing his lips fiercely to her ear.

Flora rested her face against Alistair's brawny shoulder, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. From this angle she could see tawny shadows forming along the line of his jaw, and she impulsively ran her finger through the emerging stubble. He intercepted her hand, brought it to his mouth and kissed the back of it, her fingers curling over his own.

"You still bite your nails," he commented, a sliver of amusement piercing the veil of guilt. "Why?"

Flora gave a little shrug, rolling her eyes although he was not at the angle to see it.

"Don't know," she mumbled, honestly. "I just do."

Alistair kissed her knuckle once more then reached into the pocket of his breeches. He held up the silver Chantry amulet by its slender chain, watching it gleam dully in the firelight. Flora gathered up the weight of hair in both hands, bowing her head as he gently drew the two halves of the chain around her neck. Fastening the clasp, he slid the silver oval around to the front, pressing it into the hollow of her throat gently with a finger.

Flora loosened her fingers and let the heavy mass of damp hair drop back around her bare shoulders. The blanket had slithered down around her waist without her restraining grip, and Alistair gazed at her with growing desire coalescing in his hazel irises. Courteously, he reached up to pull the blanket back around her shoulders, hand lingering against her arm.

"Are you still cold, sweetheart?"

She shook her head, smiling up at him as she clutched the blanket loosely with nail-bitten fingers.

"I'm warm again. I don't stay cold for long."

Rising, Alistair gathered Flora up in his arms in a single fluid motion; the muscle in his shoulders working beneath the olive skin. Circumnavigating the bathtub, he carried her over to the bed and lowered her carefully down, conscious of her unstrapped knee.

Flora rested on her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows while inspecting her gnawed fingernails assiduously. The damp blanket rested in a tangle around her waist, transferring water to the arlina's Orlesian sheets. Alistair came to rest on the bed beside her, forge-heated eyes following the line of her bare back. Her skin was uniformly pale, decorated with the tan freckles that picked out the shape of the northern constellation  _Peraquialus._ He remembered what she had said about the old fishermen's folk legend; that the great heroes of Thedas' past were riding in spirit at the helm of this great celestial ship, crashing at vast speeds through burning gasses and around planetary bodies for all eternity.

Alistair could easily imagine Duncan - the man who had saved him from a life of Chantry stultification and transformed Flora from aberration into asset – alongside the likes of Calenhad Theirin and Gisela du Lisle, their bodies picked out in starlight, surveying the world below from the deck of an orbiting astral vessel.

The notion was a comforting one, and Alistair lowered his mouth to the freckle just below her neck, the one that marked the top of the sail. He could feel his sister-warden shift slightly as he pressed his lips against her skin; her attention no longer on her own bitten nails. Slowly, he moved his mouth in a deliberate pattern over her back, his tongue tracing the celestial ship from bow to aft. Every pinpricked 'star' was marked by another kiss, each one longer and more desirous than the last.

By the time he had picked out the final oar, a faint flush had risen to colour the pale curve of her back. Flora rolled over and stared up at him, her face equally heated. Alistair gazed softly back down at her, eyes blazing and wanton in a face bright with affection. She reached up to brush the back of her hand against his shadowed cheek, feeling a labourer's stubble decorating the princely jaw.

"Alistair," she said, and he smiled reflexively on hearing her speak his name.

"Yes, my dear?"

"I love you."

He groaned under his breath, giving a brief shake of the head from side to side as he wondered how best to express himself.

"I can't put into words how much I love  _you_ , Flora of Herring."

She beamed up at him, the one person for whom her elevation to a Cousland was utterly inconsequential. His mouth sought out hers in an attempt to express what mere words could not. Fingers tangled in her hair, the blanket was torn away and the rest of Alistair's clothing removed in lust-infused haste.

At last he sunk himself between her thighs and they began to move together in well-practised rhythm; and this time it was not a display of Theirin dominance, nor a show of Warden-infused stamina; there was nothing about it that Zevran could gleefully describe as animalistic. It was slow and tender, a harmony in which both bodies yielded equally to one another in a way that could only be described as  _making love._

That was not to say that it lacked passion or heat; desire emanated from every inch of their conjoined bodies, radiating from her fingers as they clutched at the blanket, and pulsing in the hard muscle of his thighs. Alistair's lips returned to hers constant as a compass needle pulling invariably to north; seeking both to draw the last gasp of air from her body and give her his own breath in return.

Like a slow-burning candle that grows hotter the longer it burns, their lovemaking began to escalate in all senses of the word. She dug her bitten nails into his shoulders, clinging to him like a sailor clutching desperately at the fragments of a splintered hull. He began to drive himself forward with greater urgency, eyes blazing with a single-minded focus; the headboard knocking against the wall in rhythmic percussive thuds. The tiny part of Flora's mind that remained rational was shocked at the noises coming from her mouth, they sounded barely human. For his part, Alistair wished that he could bottle them up and preserve them for his own keeping.

Finally the bastard prince spent himself inside her with a strangled curse, the muscles of his back trembling with exertion. For a brief moment he sank down against her, sweaty and sated; resting his forehead on her shoulder. Flora exhaled unsteadily, dropping a limp hand on the back of his neck. She could feel the rapid pulsing of his heart against her breast, still agitated from the force of his climax.

After a few moments Alistair rolled back onto the blanket; keeping his arms wrapped around her shoulders in order to pull her onto his chest. He smiled up at her, one hand reaching solicitously for a blanket even as the other slid up the inside of her thigh.

"So will you have more letters to sign tomorrow, Acting Warden-Commander?" Alistair murmured in her ear, tender and affectionate. As he spoke, he cupped her between the thighs with his calloused palm and began to work his thumb in gentle ministrations.

"I don't- I don't…. maybe?" Flora croaked back, barely able to string together a coherent sentence.

"' _I don't, I don't,'_ " mocked Alistair gently, a teasing edge to his voice. "What's wrong, my dear?"

She eyed him beadily and opened her mouth to reply; when the door flew open and Leliana flapped in, carrying a tray and an air of concern.

" _Ma crevette!"_ she breathed, either oblivious to or disregarding both Flora and Alistair's startled expressions and compromising position. "Lord Cousland told me what you've been trying to do, with regard to your sealed memory. I think it's admirable, truly. You must be hungry!"

To Alistair's slight consternation, Flora immediately extracted herself from him and ripped the blanket free to wrap around her shoulders. Alistair was left cringing with only a cushion to cover his manhood as Flora made a beeline for the tray.

"Thank you, I am  _so_  hungry," she breathed, barely noticing her brother-warden frantically yanking the curtains around the bed closed. "I only had a potato for dinner, and I shared it with Jethro."

With indelicate haste she grabbed whatever food items she could get her hands on, then sunk down on the Orlesian rug. Leliana's benevolent smile faltered slightly as she watched Flora ram a massive hunk of cheese into her mouth, fingers already reaching for a crusty slice of bread.

"Alistair? If you want anything, you ought to get it now," the bard warned, just as he slid out from between the bed drapery in a hastily-retrieved pair of breeches.

"I'm alright, thanks," he replied, eyeing his sister-warden with some trepidation as she ambitiously attempted to consume half a loaf in a single bite. "Don't choke, my dear."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So I envision Alistair as a little bit like an XXX Disney Prince- he's charming, and compassionate, and gentlemanly to a fault, but an absolute fiend in the bedroom, lol. It's really hard to come up with chapter titles when basically all that happens is someone has sex, I did consider SHAGTIME but decided against it, haha.
> 
> Ma crevette is a French term of endearment, it means 'my shrimp'. Lol, I know, but it's the equivalent of 'honey' or 'sweetie'. REALLY!


	147. Paroxysms

 

Leliana busied herself with the fire, coaxing more life from the charred logs with the poker. Flora mumbled something incoherent in response to Alistair's warning, clutching the blanket around her shoulders. To her consternation, the cold spongy texture of the potato began to mingle with the sour taste of rising Blight in her throat; a rancid and horribly familiar sweetness like rotting fruit clinging to her tongue.

_Where did that come from? There's no Darkspawn here._

"Flo?" Alistair's handsome face manifested before her, anxious hazel eyes pricked with gold by the blooming firelight. "That's quite an expression you're pulling."

_Is it from Alistair? Did I just pull more of the taint from him? Careful_ ,  _Flora, or you'll be the_ only  _Grey Warden in Ferelden._

With a smile Flora shook her head quickly, swallowing the putrid mouthful of root vegetable and Blight. She felt her stomach give a sickening lurch as the taint descended; then the odd prickling sensation of creation magic manifesting inside her own body as it reflexively neutralised the Darkspawn taint.

"I was just mimicking Lieutenant Rutherford's face during the whole ritual," she replied quickly, contorting her face into a grimace of comical disapproval. "He looked like he was passing a gallstone."

Leliana gave one of her pretty, bell-like laughs, passing over a flagon of watered wine.

"He should be more used to such customs," the bard replied, watching Flora slop half the flagon down her chest in her haste to rinse her mouth. "He resided in your Circle for years, did he not?"

Flora nodded, passing the remainder of the watered-down wine over to Alistair. Leliana leaned over and retrieved the discarded poker once more, giving the weakening flames an extra-hard prod. There was barely any intact wood left in the grate, the remaining log laced with smouldering scarlet.

"I think he was apprenticed at Kinloch about the same time that I arrived," Flora said, trying to remember. Her mind had drawn a tactful veil over her first few weeks –  _months,_ really – at the Circle; those awful despairing early days where she had seriously thought she might die.

The last piece of wood collapsed in an implosion of red sparks and ash; sending a small rush of smoke up the chimney. Leliana gave a little huff, rising elegantly to her feet to summon a servant. Alistair took advantage of the bard's momentary absence to wrap his arm around his sister-warden's shoulders.

"That lieutenant still wants you, you know," he murmured, his mouth against her ear. "It's obvious."

"No," Flora replied, trying to stifle a giggle as Alistair nuzzled her neck with his stubbled jaw. "Of course he doesn't. He's a Templar; I'm a mage. The only thing he feels for me is…is  _disgust!"_

"You mean  _lust_ ," Alistair breathed, lips warm against her skin. "Lieutenant Rutherford wants to violate all his vows for you. He wants to show you his Templar's longsword. He wants to take you into a Chantry confession box and have his wicked way with you."

"Sto- _oop!_ " Flora squawked with appalled laughter and swatted him away with her fingers, clutching the blanket around her bare shoulders. "You're a…bad man."

"I'm a  _very_ bad man," Alistair murmured, and this was so blatantly untrue that Flora grinned.

* * *

 

Later, once Alistair had courteously taken the Orlesian  _chaise_ and Flora had found another nightgown; both Wardens and lay-sister settled down for the night. The moonlight spilled through the arrow-slit in a gleaming slash over the flagstones, illuminating the young arlina's meagre attempts to beautify the austere chamber. The copper tub stood abandoned in the centre of the room, the water having long lost its lyrium-enchanted lustre.

Flora lay with her back pressed against Leliana's, feeling the comforting warmth of the older woman's skin through her Orlesian silk night-garments. The bard was murmuring under her breath, halfway through the usual lengthy night-time prayers. Alistair, a foot lower on the chaise beside Flora, grinned up at her through the shadows. Flora smiled reflexively back down at him, resting her cheek against the plush plum cushion. He reached out a hand and she took it, their fingers entwining in the customary fish-rope.

"Goodnight, Leliana. 'Night, my love."

"Don't let the weever fish bite!"

"May the Maker grant you both with a blessed and peaceful rest!"

The bard empathised the word  _peaceful_ while eyeing them both sternly, the implicit meaning being  _so no shenanigans._

Flora awoke in the grey hour before sunrise, clinging to the very edge of the bed. She could feel Leliana's firm, muscular back pressed to her own, moving softly with each measured inhalation. Looking down at the chaise below, she saw Alistair snoring gently with his face pressed against the velvet armrest.

The inside of Flora's mouth was furred and unpleasant; yawning, she sat up to retrieve the water pouch. The last time she had seen it, it had been resting on the small nightstand on the far side of the bed.

Entwined with Leliana, a naked Zevran was sprawled on top of the blankets with a self-satisfied grin on his face. The startled Flora threw a cushion at his groin with slightly too much force and the elf let out a little yelp.

"Aah! Are you trying to cause me irreparable damage,  _carina?"_

"No," she hissed, shooting him a disapproving glower. "Where's your nightclothes? Arl Leonas brought up his daughter's summer clothes, they're all in the  _amowar_. You could borrow something."

Zevran did not correct her pronunciation of the word  _armoire,_ but instead grinned lazily across at her, letting the cushion slip slightly down his bronzed thigh.

"Don't get prudish on me, Warden. I was in the Forest with you and Alistair. You two had  _no shame."_

The elf passed her the water pouch, biting open the top in a way that was designed to be erotic, but passed the oblivious Flora by. She took it, unable to stop herself from snorting, fully aware that the elf had a valid point.

"Well, we're in a  _castle_ now _,"_ she reminded him piously. "Full of people who are important. We have to be on our best behaviour."

Zevran sighed, gazing down at the slumbering bard. He reached out to adjust the hem of the Orlesian nightgown, tugging one of the ribbons gently.

"While Leliana and I were making love, you don't know how tempted I was to reach over and draw you into my arms," he murmured, in a tone blasé enough that he could pass it off as a joke if she were offended.

"Last night?" Flora snorted, taking a deep gulp of water. "You must have both been very quiet. I didn't hear a thing."

Zevran narrowed his eyes at the implication.

"No, you and the bastard prince were both snoring with incredible volume," he countered, with slight irritation. Flora grinned at him, her eyebrows shooting up into her hairline.

"Is that why you're called the  _Silent Assassin?"_ she asked, innocently.

Zevran growled, baring small, pointed teeth at her as she laughed, the water pouch trembling between her fingers.

"I could make you scream,  _mi sirenita,"_ he breathed, flashing the dark eyes that had beguiled so many others. "Can't you picture yourself  _writhing_ between me and the bastard prince? With his brute strength and my  _finesse,_ we could bring you to paroxysms of pleasure – Flora?"

Her expression suddenly twisted from grin to grimace; a shadow falling over her face like cloud sliding before the sun. Untangling the blanket from her legs, she slithered down to the foot of the bed and clambered off unsteadily as her vision narrowed.

" _Ah, carina!_ Surely the suggestion was not that repulsive?!"

As though she were navigating the deck of a storm-tossed ship, Flora lurched across the flagstones, nearly colliding with the copper bathtub. Locating the wooden door by conveniently falling into it, she stumbled out into the whitewashed corridor. Fortunately it was deserted, the wall-torches casting pools of flickering light across the strewn rushes.

Dropping to her hands and knees beside the wall, Flora retched the contents of her stomach onto the flagstones. It was a prolonged and arduous process; halfway through, she felt a hand resting between her shoulder-blades, providing a constant and steadying pressure. Loose strands of hair were gathered and held away from her face, and someone was murmuring comfort in her ear.

Finally, once the lining of her stomach and oesophagus had been scraped clean, Flora exhaled unsteadily and sat back unceremoniously on her rear. Her eye fell on Zevran and she let out a hoarse croak of laughter. He was clad in the arlina's cerise nightgown, which was decorated with delicate little bows. His lean thighs extended incongruously beneath the short satin hemline.

"I grabbed the first clothing to hand," the elf countered. "Here, my lily."

Zevran handed her the water pouch and Flora took it gratefully, leaning back against the wall. She concentrated on the coolness of the water as it slid down her raw throat, soothing the inflamed muscle. Zevran reached out to touch her arm, then retreated as she clambered to her feet.

"Sit back down,  _carina,_ take a moment," he implored Flora as she made a beeline for the servants' cupboard. Retrieving the bucket and rags, Flora set about the now-familiar task of cleaning up after herself. Zevran helped her silently, his curious dark eyes occasionally sliding sideways to survey her. No-one disturbed them save for a few of Arl Eamon's startled retainers, who gaped in their direction before scuttling into the Redcliffe contingent's chambers.

When they had finished, Flora exhaled and took another grateful sip from the water pouch. Her eyes were lined with red and her throat still felt as though it had been scoured raw with a rubbing cloth.

"Thank you," she croaked, the corners of her mouth turning upwards. Zevran allowed himself to return a surface-level smile, his eyes still lingering on the damp patch of flagstones.

"Are you… unwell, my Rialto lily?"

"No," she replied immediately, defensive. "I'm  _fine_."

Zevran surveyed Flora a moment more, gaze moving over the stubborn set of her Cousland jaw, and resolved to inform Wynne later.

"It's a measure of my great desire for you,  _carina,_ that I am in no way dissuaded by seeing you in this condition." The elf's tone was light and playful, he followed her as she shuffled back towards the arlina's chamber. "My offer stands."

"What's a parocks-  _paroxysm_ of pleasure _?"_  Flora shot back at him over her shoulder as she leaned into the wooden door. "It sounds painful."

Zevran laughed, eyes unashamedly trawling up and down her body once again.

"A sudden, violent outburst or fit," he replied, following her back into the chamber and shutting the door behind them.

She pulled a dubious face at him and he grinned, patting her rear gently.

"I assure you,  _sirenita,_ I would give you no cause to regret your decision."

The embers were dead in the hearth, the room now filled with the mellow, watery light of pre-dawn. Alistair was still snoring on the chaise, one arm tossed casually over the armrest. The sunlight gilded the fine-hewn muscle of his chest and abdomen; there was not a spare inch of flesh anywhere on his frame. A faint dusting of golden hair descended in a line from his taut stomach into the lacings of his breeches. The arrogant, handsome face appeared kinder and somehow more gentle with sleep; a far more accurate reflection of Alistair's compassionate character than its arrogant daytime  _mien_.

"He is a  _magnificent_  specimen, even if I say so myself," murmured Zevran begrudgingly in her ear as they both gazed with mutual admiration on the sleeping prince.

Flora nodded wordlessly, having known no man who came close to resembling Alistair Theirin in either Herring or the Circle. She padded barefoot across the flagstones and clambered onto the chaise, slumping on top of her brother-warden like an exhausted Mabari. Alistair, more asleep than awake, reached up and drew her reflexively down to his chest. One large, calloused palm settled on the back of her neck, the other arm wrapping heavy and protective around her waist.

The elf surveyed them a moment, before returning to the slumbering Leliana's side. He prostrated himself, then rolled over, eyes trailing over the lay-sister's lush, generous curves. In an effort to banish the strange melancholy that had settled upon him, he summoned the memory of their lovemaking from several hours prior. It had been satisfactory in a perfunctory way, fulfilling a basic mutual need. Both were aware that they would rather have been with different partners.

Over the sleeping bard's body Flora caught Zevran's gaze with her own grey stare. Seeing that she had his attention, she mouthed  _thank you_ and tilted her chin towards the passageway. He flashed her a charming,  _my pleasure_ smirk in response, deliberately curling his fingers on the patch of skin visible at Leliana's hip. Flora grinned back at him, her cheek resting against Alistair's tawny chest.

Feeling her warm breath over his skin her brother-warden mumbled something that sounded distinctly like  _'Ora,_ before nuzzling his face sleepily into her hair. Flora could feel him stiffening against her thigh, his arousal obvious through the thin breeches. He was still only half-awake, movements sluggish and fingers clumsy as he reached for where he believed her nightgown to end. In actuality, he was groping the velvet upholstery of the chaise itself, his mouth landing squarely over her nose as he tried to kiss her with eyes blurred from sleep.

With a small growl Alistair rolled over quick and forceful on top of her, his own broad shoulders rising up towards the ceiling. There came a groan of protest from the spindly Orlesian wooden legs, meant more for decoration than for bearing weight. Moments later, the chaise collapsed with a crack.

The loud splintering woke Leliana, who rose abruptly while reaching for the blade she kept beneath the pillow. The two Wardens lay on splintered fragments of wood and velvet, Alistair stunned and Flora laughing.

" _Really,"_ hissed Leliana, full of customary post-Zevran piety. "You two are breaking furniture now? Next time, Alistair, might I recommend a sturdy Ferelden-built chest!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: It's been dozens of chapters since I first introduced the concept of Flora 'withdrawing' the taint from Alistair when she kisses him. It's COMPETE fanon but it made sense in the context of my story, with Flora's body reacting to the Blight in the way that it does, and apparently Alistair has some genetic resistance to the taint anyway if you look at his 'real' mother Fiona, who was somehow cured of it!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has read my story!


	148. Assassins, Again?

After the day had dawned proper and the companions had broken their fast, Eamon whisked Alistair off for more discussions. The Arl had been instructing the bastard prince on the main notables in Denerim society, the protocol at the Royal Palace, and the obscure rules and regulations of calling a Landsmeet. Alistair bore this burden with stoic grace; aware that it was all important, albeit incredibly tedious.

Increasingly, he was becoming aware of the yawning gulf between the pampered Denerim nobility - who outwardly cursed the Orlesians but secretly aspired to their social prestige; and those men such as himself, or the Arls of South Reach and Redcliffe, who had tramped the grassy Ferelden mud beneath their feet and who knew the lie of the land from the Frostbacks to the Forest. To Alistair's consternation, although he seemed to be aided by men of the former type; it was undeniable that Loghain Mac Tir himself was very much was the latter. Flora did not attend these tutoring sessions; but ended up hearing the majority of their contents from Alistair in bed at night, who found it easier for himself to remember them if he repeated them to someone else.

While Alistair was trying to remember which banns owed fealty to Arl Bryland, Flora had slept late, exhausted from the probing of her mind the previous night. When she woke, half-naked and tangled in the bedclothes, the arlina's chamber was deserted. The bright light of midday shone through the arrow slit window, dust motes gleaming as they drifted in sharply angled sunbeams. The copper bathtub had been manoeuvred back into the adjacent wash-chamber, and the only sign of the previous night's ritual were fragments of golden thread clinging to the doorway. Shouts and the rhythmic, practised clash of weapons drifted up from the main courtyard.

Yawning, Flora dressed herself in the usual combination of the arlina's clothing and whatever she could scavenge from their own packs. Clad in an odd medley of Finian's shirt and the arlina's beribboned calfskin breeches, Flora knotted her hair in a lopsided bundle on top of her head with one hand, while retrieving her boots from beneath the bed with the other.

The corridor was filled with retainers clad in Redcliffe livery, brushing shoulders with Arl Bryland's servants and the occasional stern-faced Templar. Flora was just wondering whether there might be some food left over from breakfast, when someone tapped her smartly on the hip. She turned around and saw nobody, then dropped her eyes several inches. Arl Eamon's son, Connor, was gazing up at her warily, as one might eye a strange Mabari. The ubiquitous Lieutenant Rutherford was lurking behind the boy, his expression carefully neutral.

Flora smiled first at the child and then at the lieutenant, inadvertently sabotaging the young officer's stoicism.

"'Morning," she greeted them both, inclining her head politely towards the arl's son. "I slept late."

Connor eyed her for a moment, mingled suspicion and curiosity in his stare.

"Yesterday when we saw you, you were upset," he said after a brief pause, and something in the turn of his mouth reminded Flora of Arl Eamon.

She remembered colliding with them in the passageway after fleeing from Fergus' wrath; she gave a little nod of assent, she had been upset.

"Was the teyrn  _angry_ because you're a mage?" the boy asked, and his voice was hesitant. "Were you crying because you were…  _ashamed_ of yourself? Or you wish you weren't one?"

The young Templar shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, glancing off down the whitewashed passageway. Flora stared down at the arl's son for a moment, remembering what Cullen had told her several nights prior.

_The arl's son once tried to 'get the magic out' with a blade._

"No, and no," she said, feeling sympathy swell up in her stomach. "I've never been ashamed of what I am. I think I was made this way for a purpose."

Connor stared at her with the penetrating grey-green eyes of his father, searching her face for some placating lie and finding none.

"You're  _not_  ashamed?" he asked, the words strung together on a thin vein of hope. "Even though other people look at you odd?"

"No. I'm proud of what I am," Flora replied, with a mild shrug. For a moment, she recalled Duncan's hawklike eyes boring into hers, his hand gripping her elbow with almost-painful insistence.

_You are one of a kind, little sister. My pearl of great price._

Connor gaped up at her a moment longer, then turned abruptly and strode back into Eamon's chambers. The blond officer looked as though he wanted to say something, instead, he gave a stiff little of the head and followed in the wake of the arl's son. She looked after them curiously for a moment, then continued towards the staircase.

Staying at South Reach was an odd experience for Flora, who had relentlessly driven the progress of their journey for so long. Although she knew the importance of waiting, and that it would be reckless to charge forward into Denerim without adequate consolidation of their position; she could not help herself from feeling a tad uneasy. Their quest had inevitably taken on a sharp political edge which she was not wholly comfortable with.

Ultimately, however, Flora had learned patience within the confined walls of the Circle, and was thus able to tolerate their enforced moratorium. Conversely, she knew that her brother-warden was far more troubled at the delay and the necessity of such careful politicking. Although Alistair maintained a grim stoicism in public, his frustration manifested itself in the way he took her; more often than not, their coupling was spontaneous, forceful and initiated by him. They had lain together behind the stables, in the tunnels below the fortress, against a vast vat of mead in the buttery and – once – in the arlina's washroom while Wynne and Leliana conversed in the adjacent bedchamber. It was writ clear on Alistair's face each time he climaxed, eyes hard and blazing:  _at least this, I can control._

Clutching a pilfered pastry from the kitchens, Flora was halfway across the main courtyard when someone hailed her. Turning and squinting into the shadows, she saw a guard clad in South Reach livery crossing the cobblestones towards her. He gave a perfunctory bow in deference to her Cousland status, then cleared his throat.

"Lady Cousland, the prisoner has made a request to speak with you. The assassin."

Flora frowned, fiddling with a thick strand of hair that had broken free from the topknot.

"Did Symon say what about?" she asked after a moment. The surprised guard blinked at her awareness of the prisoner's name; then realised that she had asked a question and shook his head quickly.

"Shall I fetch Lord Theirin?"

She mirrored his gesture with a quick negative grimace, reasoning that no harm could come to her behind a set of bars.

"No, it'll be fine. I'll come now."

Consuming the pastry in three overlarge bites, Flora followed the guard back across the cobblestones towards the iron-barred door that led to the South Reach dungeons. They descended the spiral staircase into the bowels of the fortress, with mildew creeping lace-like over the crumbling stone walls. Two different sentries were playing Wicked Grace at the table, and both men stood hastily as she arrived.

When Flora arrived at the familiar final cell, the assassin from Skingle was pacing the small breadth of his prison, impatience plain on his face. When Symon caught sight of her, he changed course abruptly and came up hard against the door, hands wrapped around the bars.

"I wanted to warn you," he muttered, and Flora noticed that the flat coastland vowels were finally breaking through the ironed Denerim accent. "As one northerner to another."

"Warn me of what?" she said, forgetting her inward promise to be cautious and coming up against the bars. "What's wrong?"

The man's eyes were red-lined, he hadn't slept. His breath was foul and acidic, but Flora was used to the unpleasant odours that the human body could produce and this did not faze her.

"There's going to be another assassination attempt," he said, delivering the sentence like a physical blow. "Howe knows that all three Cousland children are at South Reach. I'd be surprised if the assassin wasn't here already."

For a moment Flora thought of yesterday's darkened tunnels, the strange footstep and Jethro's throaty growl. She stared at the man from Skingle, her pale eyes boring into his own reddened ones.

"Who is it?"

Symon let out a hoarse bark of humourless laughter, his shoulders rising and falling in a helpless shrug.

"No idea. I'm probably a dead man for even telling you. But you ought to be on your guard."

Flora gazed at him for a moment, then nodded slightly, feeling dread curdle inside her stomach.

"Thank you."

He did not say anything in response, merely issuing a grunt before returning to huddle against the wall of his lonely cell. Flora was gratified to see a stack of empty plates in the corner; pleased that her request about the daily meals had been followed.

"When we get to Denerim, if we go into the alienage, I'll try and find your poorly son," she said, impulsively. "I'm a healer, I might be able to help him."

Symon raised his head and stared at her in disbelief, the whites of his eyes stark against their red outline.

"My  _son_ ," he said, the northerner breaking through raw in his words. "You remember his mother's name?"

"Meina," Flora replied, grateful that poor literacy had necessitated the development of good memory. "I remember."

Symon gazed at her for a moment, regret distorting his face into a grimace. Whatever his thoughts were, he did not express them.

Flora made her way up to Arl Bryland's solar, wondering if each anonymous retainer she passed could be the assassin. The trouble with their situation was that so  _many_  different contingents had come together at South Reach; there were still a half-dozen nobles left, accompanied by their own multitude of servants. A liveried uniform provided the perfect disguise, and since most men present were unfamiliar to each another already, an additional strange face would raise no suspicion.

More afraid for her brothers than for her own magic-wielding self, Flora found Arl Bryland reading letters in his study. Dale, the Arl's right-hand man, ushered her in with a neutral expression. Leonas rose to his feet respectfully on seeing Flora, noting the hesitancy on her face.

"My lady," he started, then remembered her earlier request and corrected himself quickly. "Flora. What can I do for you?"

"My brothers are in danger," she said bluntly, dispensing with pleasantries. "There's another assassin here, sent by Arl Howe."

A shadow fell over Leonas' face and he stepped out from behind his desk, crossing the flagstones towards her.

"Here in South Reach? You're sure of this?" he asked intently, gripping her elbows. Flora nodded, staring up at him with the anxiety writ bare on her features.

The Arl groaned, aware of the impossible logistics of securing the fortress in the current circumstances. Over two hundred people were housed within its squat walls; with retainers leaving and arriving on a daily basis.

"Please look after my brothers," Flora implored, her grey stare searching his face. "I'll be fine, I can protect myself."

The Arl looked down at his old friend's daughter, who had Cousland fox-red hair and the sad, grey eyes of a dead teryn.

"I won't allow aught to happen to any of Bryce's children," he said roughly, gesturing his manservant Dale from the study. "I'll send my own most loyal men to guard them."

"Thank you," said Flora, surreptitiously rubbing her elbows as the Arl released her arms abruptly. "I'm grateful for your help."

Leonas Bryland inclined his head, lips folded stiff and white. "Of course. Anything for Bryce and Eleanor's daughter."

Returning to the main courtyard, Flora felt marginally more reassured. The day was bright and sunny, spring warmth mingled with the smell of fresh-mown hay in the air. Two elven servants were chattering in their strange mix of Common and elvish, leaning against a stack of barrels and turning their faces towards the sun. One of the lamp-boys was playing with a finely groomed Mabari, throwing sticks across the flagstones for the hound to chase. After a moment, she recognised that the hound was Jethro, Finian's own dog.

A contingent of riders had just passed beneath the main archway, their arrival heralded by the thudding of hooves against the drawbridge. It was a small patrol of Templar, the inverted sword emblem standing out starkly against their brilliant silverite breastplates. Stable-hands came running forward to take the horses while the men dismounted, each weighed down by a variety of blades at their belt. Flora noticed a mage cage strapped to the back of one horse, and gave an involuntary shiver.

Reflexively, she drew back towards the safety of the doorway, only to collide with an emerging Wynne.

"Stop cringing, Flora. They're not here to arrest  _you_."

The elder mage tutted impatiently, elbowing past and striding forward to greet the accompanying senior officer. A curious Flora sat on the lowest step leading up to the main hall; far enough to avoid unwanted attention yet close enough to hear their conversation.

It transpired that a pack of roving maleficar had been spotted in the hills to the east of South Reach. A hurried note from Bann Reginalda in Denerim suggested that this might be Howe's latest attempt to obliterate the Cousland children, as well as the Arl who was protecting them. Wynne, who was the most attuned to arcane remnants left in the air, was going to accompany the patrol in an attempt to track down the rogue blood mages.

Watching the Templars restock their supplies and consult their maps, Flora wondered if this was the attempt that Symon had warned her about. She was just brooding over this possibility – in many ways, a maleficar was more frightening than a dagger clenched in a gloved hand – when she felt the heat of someone's stare.

Well accustomed to the watchful gaze of Templars, Flora raised her eyes upwards. One young officer, a brash initiate with a handful of experience beneath his belt, was stroking a short dark beard beneath his fingers and gazing in her direction with naked lust.

Flora looked over her shoulder, assuming that Leliana had just emerged from the main hall in her customary clinging leathers. The shallow steps were deserted, and then she realised with mild surprise that the Templar was staring at  _her_.

Not quite sure how to respond, Flora continued to sit on the bottom step, somewhat nonplussed. With a quick glance over his own shoulder to ascertain that his superiors were still preoccupied, the young Templar began to advance purposefully towards her. With Flora still seated on the lower steps, the man's armour-clad body cast a shadow across the sun above her.

"Ser Chaim," he said by way of greeting, flashing her an oily smile. He was handsome in a bland and inoffensive manner, although his teeth had a brownish hue and the beard could not quite disguise a rather weak chin.

"Flora," she muttered to her own feet, naturally wary around Templars that she did not know.

"We're to stop here for a few hours to rest the horses," replied Chaim, his eyes still trawling openly over her body. Flora gave a muted nod in response, wondering glumly what the man wanted and wishing that he would go away.

As it turned out, the Templar was more than happy to spell it out for her. He stepped forward once more; close enough to make her instinctually lean back against the stone steps.

"You're a lovely little creature," he said in an overfamiliar undertone which immediately made Flora's guard rise. "How about we find somewhere discreet and… get to know one another better?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note:  So a couple of things I wanted to address in this chapter: firstly, the differing reactions of the two Wardens to their enforced stay at South Reach while their Denerim bid is consolidated. Alistair, still chafing at Loghain, is eager to get to the city to usurp the pretender, while Flora – who learnt the fine art of waiting while residing in the Circle – copes far better.
> 
> Also, Flora's social status at South Reach is highly ambiguous – she is referred to as 'Lady Cousland' despite not holding any actual title (since she's a mage). They simply don't know how to address her – and there's an element of doubt there too, she's still a nineteen year old girl and a lot of the middle aged men present don't really see her as 'Warden-Commander' (Acting).
> 
> Finally, PERVERT ALERT! I know that in some Circles there's hideous abuse of mages by their Templar guards; but I believe that in Kinloch, there's not much of that going on. So Flora isn't used to being the target of sexually aggressive behaviour (on a far more threatening level than Zevran's playful banter); in the Circle, nobody ever flirted with her and even outside the Circle, Alistair's near-constant presence was a major deterrence.


	149. The Accident

The Templar's sexual aggression was wholly unlike Zevran's particular style of flirtation which was charming, over-familiar but ultimately playful, the elf never overstepping the boundaries of respect. There was something sinister and vaguely forceful about Ser Chaim's oiled words; he wielded a compliment like a blade, purposely designed to make her yield.

"No, thank you," Flora replied carefully, wanting to stand upright but realising that this would bring her far too close for comfort to the armoured man. Instead, she surreptitiously shuffled backwards onto a higher step, widening the gap between them.

"You know, girl, the senior enchanter tells me that you're a  _mage_ ," the Templar continued, still smiling at her with the appraising eyes of a snake. "As a representative of the Chantry, I have the authority to…  _interrogate_  you. In private, if need be."

Flora stared up at the man in mild disbelief. For a brief moment she felt neither Cousland nor Warden; but a young mage at the mercy of a hard-eyed Templar. The officers at Kinloch Hold had always been detached and coolly respectful, but there were whispered rumours about the dark practises occurring within other Circles.

Just as she was wondering which of her two positions to invoke, Flora felt a small, familiar prickle in the back of her mind. The main doors flew open and footsteps thudded down the stone steps; Chaim recoiled away from her as if burnt.

"Flo, Eamon has released me from his clutches to get some air. I swear if I hear about any more territorial disputes between banns, I'm going to revoke Fereldan citizenship and become Orlesian."

An inordinately grateful Flora clambered to her feet, nearly colliding with her brother-warden as he came to an abrupt halt beside her. Finian was a few steps behind, fanning his hand exaggeratedly in the unseasonal heat.

"I  _missed_  you," Flora breathed, barely listening to what Alistair was actually saying. He grinned down at her in unexpected delight and she turned her face up to his.

Alistair obligingly took her in his arms, lowering his mouth to her own. Flora had envisioned what came next as only a gentle, fleeting kiss; a tactical meeting of lips to dissuade the Templar's lusty advances. Yet when Alistair felt his sister-warden's soft, warm mouth yielding beneath his own, tongue sweet from the berries she had gorged herself on for breakfast; he felt a knife-like stab of lust deep in his groin. A calloused palm on the small of her back guided her towards him, deliberately pressing his growing arousal between the part of her thighs. She inhaled falteringly as his tongue pulled hot and insistent against her own in a motion not dissimilar to the rhythm of lovemaking.

"Maker, I want you now," Alistair murmured urgently in her ear, breath warm on her skin as he moved his mouth to her neck.

"You  _had_ me," Flora replied unsteadily, feeling something twist taut within her abdomen as his tongue traced the hollow of her throat. "About two hours ago."

"An age," he breathed, nuzzling his face into the open collar of her shirt. "Come into the buttery with me. I'm going to take down those fancy breeches and kiss your- "

"Alistair, we must continue," said Eamon from the main doorway behind them. There was a wry twist to his tone, the Arl was fully aware how unwelcome his intrusion was. "There'll be time this evening for such pastimes; I'll not keep you from her for more than a few more hours."

Alistair hastily retracted his hand from inside the fine cotton of his sister-warden's shirt. He shot a dazed Flora a brief, desirous look that promised  _later,_ before following the Arl back inside the main hall.

Flora, beads of sweat rising on her forehead, leaned back against the stone wall and exhaled unsteadily. Finian, who had averted his eyes tactfully to the west tower, lowered his gaze and grinned at her.

"Your face is as red as your hair," he observed archly, brows rising. "It's not a great look, sister."

Flora let out a strangled and incoherent sound, pressing the heel of her hand into her chest to try to slow her racing heartbeat.

"I've forgotten how to breathe," she said honestly, having also forgotten about the stunned Chaim on the lower step. "I actually have to remember how to- " here she made an exaggerated gesture, mimicking the act of inhalation.

"I'm not surprised," replied Finian dryly, watching Flora fasten the buttons of her shirt back up. "If the handsome Lord Theirin were to kiss me like that, I'm sure all my vital organs would seize up in shock."

The Templar, face fixed in sour resentment, turned on his heel and stalked back across the main courtyard towards his brethren. The Couslands watched him go, and after a moment Finian elbowed his sister.

"I think you made your point," he murmured, having correctly interpreted the tension on the steps.

Flora let out a nondescript grunt, wondering if she had been rather too overtly juvenile. Then she recalled the Templar's smiling, cold-edged threat; and decided that even if she had, it had been worth it.

As Finian continued to crow over the man's gobsmacked expression, Flora stopped listening to him and instead began to worry about the tempting target that her brother posed; exposed in the courtyard clad only in silk and linen.

"…. a fine-looking pair, ignites quite the  _fire_ ," Finian was still enthusing over the passion of their kiss when she began to pay attention to his words once again.

"Like something out of the storybooks…!"

"You should do the same thing!" she squealed suddenly, grabbing his elbow. Finian patted her fingers, shooting her a kind and wary look.

"You're very beautiful, sweetling, but firstly, I'm not that way inclined, and secondly, you're my  _sister."_

"What?! No! I mean… you should go and find Tommaso." Flora named the young Cousland manservant with the dancing black eyes and wicked laugh. "Go and find somewhere private and  _alone_  for a few hours. Somewhere no one can find you."

Finian did not require much further persuasion and shortly afterwards sailed off eagerly to find his favourite retainer.

_One brother secreted away,_ thought Flora grimly, squinting across the courtyard past the Templar contingent.  _Now where's the other?_

She found Fergus in the lesser courtyard, drilling with stoic perseverance despite the early afternoon heat. Liveried retainers stood by with fresh blades and weak ale at the ready, eyes on their new teyrn as he purged months of sickly wasting from his body. Already, lean muscle was beginning to sprout on the man's sinewy arms; the product of hours of daily training. Methodologically Fergus struck at the training dummy before him with an ornately-carved rapier; not yet strong enough to wield a two-handed blade.

Several of the Templars, including the sullen-faced Chaim, were also gathered in a separate corner of the courtyard. The Arl had provisioned half of their maleficar patrol with fresh horses and Wynne had already left with this first contingent; but the remainder needed to wait for their own steeds to recover. In order to make best use of the delay, they had set up arcane wards that sent out pulsing waves of energy. As Flora watched, keeping a wide berth, the younger Templars practised a variety of silence, dampening and suffocation counters on the magic-emitting devices. Flora grimaced, feeling her tongue grow numb even from several dozen yards away.

Spotting a half-naked Sten in one corner surrounded by fragments of training dummies, Flora made a beeline towards him. Sensing her approach, the Qunari yanked his axe from yet another splintering opponent and turned to face her with a customary scowl. Despite the obvious efforts of his physical exertion, he had barely broken a sweat.

"Why are you interrupting me?"

"Want to hit something that won't break?" she offered gamely, spreading out her arms.

Practising her shielding would serve two purposes, Flora thought as she took up a position amidst the remains of the Qunari's former opponents. It would enable her to keep an eye on Fergus, and increased practise would strengthen her barrier further against an assassin's blade.

_**And the Archdemon's flame.** _

Flora swallowed, pushing the ominous whisper firmly to the back of her mind as she raised her hands.

For the next two hours Sten used a variety of weapons against her, nearly without pause. He started with the axe, wielding it as though aiming to cut down a mighty redwood; scything the jagged blade through the air towards her waist. When it made no discernible impact on her barrier, the Qunari switched to a vast two-handed sword and began a disconcertingly focused effort to decapitate her. Only when the edge of the sword became dull and rough did Sten discard it, attempting to shove her bodily with his own seven foot bull-like build. Flora gazed at the exertion on his face with some fascination, watching the muscle in the vast arms working as he hammered at the barrier with his fists.

Flora brought up the shield over and over again, pleased at her own increased durability. The Qunari only allowed her a few moments of respite each time he went to retrieve a new weapon; but the barrier continued to spring unerringly from her fingers with no diminished return. She knew that Fergus was watching her from the corner of his eye, and that her obvious prowess must be nurturing the small seed of hope lodged within his stomach.

_Perhaps we have a chance of reclaiming Highever, after all._

Sten had returned to the axe, changing tactic in this second round. Retreating a dozen yards, he now launched himself across the flagstones towards her with a bellow in his native tongue, axe raised. Flora planted her feet and braced herself, although it turned out that she had no need. The Qunari crashed ineffectually against her shield, and she felt no more than a slight pressure against her palms.

Sten shot his strange burning-embers glower at her and she beamed, pleased that she had not yet felt the deep yawn of exhaustion in the back of her mind.

"I think just a few more, if that's alright," Flora requested, the barrier diffusing into the air as she lowered her palms. "Then I have to eat something, I'm  _starving_. I wonder if I'm unbanned from the kitchens yet?"

The Qunari gave a grunt of assent, beads of sweat running down the ashen musculature of his bare chest. Shouldering the axe, he strode back into the centre of the courtyard and turned around. Flora shifted her weight from one foot to the other, feeling the distinctive prickle of magic as golden particles sparked between her fingertips.

Sten let out a wordless growl in his native  _Qun_ and began to charge towards her, raising the axe in a metallic scything motion. Flora brought up the shield in preparation, the courtyard beyond immediately cast in shades of muted gold.

"Pretend I'm an  _ogre,"_ she bellowed at the Qunari, hopping from foot to foot and baring her teeth in a manner that she clearly envisioned as menacing. "Cut me down before I eat you alive!"

Afterwards, even when interrogated by the teyrn and both arls, those in the courtyard could not explain quite what happened. One of the Templars – most likely Chaim, although there was no way of proving it – appeared to misjudge the angle of a counter-chant. Instead of dampening the pulsing magic ward, the incantation ricocheted across the courtyard and shattered Flora's barrier.

Mere feet away, Sten saw the shield before him disintegrate; Flora's wide-eyed face coming into view more surprised than frightened. He had just enough time to drop the axe, but not enough to arrest the momentum of his charge. He barrelled straight into Flora, the force of his seven-foot frame crushing her against the stone wall. The wall itself was only a thin construction designed to separate the lesser courtyard from the kitchen garden and it collapsed in moments, unable to withstand such a powerful blow.

Fergus, who had seen the entire event unfold but was too far away to do anything to prevent it, let out a yell of horror. Dropping the family sword as though it were a piece of worthless cutlery, he crossed the courtyard in moments, half-running towards the collapsed wall. Sten was crouched in the rubble, turning the unconscious Flora over onto her back.

"If I have killed her, I will submit to punishment without protest," he stated blankly as Fergus dropped to his knees amidst the ruined wall. Flora was limp-limbed and loose, her head sagging backwards. There was a cut on her temple, wide and ragged, pulsing out blood with alarming pressure.

"It wasn't you," hissed Fergus with tight-lipped vehemence, as the Cousland retainers converged around them. "It was those fucking Templars."

The deposed teyrn of Highever raised his voice, directing it towards the group of pale-faced, guilty officers.

"Hitting my little sister with some idiotic counterspell!" he bellowed, grey eyes flashing like storm-clouds. "I swear to Andraste, if she dies, I will have your fucking  _heads_!"

With a groan, Fergus attempted to staunch the flow of blood with the oily rag he used to polish his sword. Seconds later, the linen was saturated scarlet and he tossed it to one side, the colour rapidly draining from his own face.

"Where are your damned healers?!" he demanded, pressing the heel of his hand against her gashed forehead in desperation. This was directed at Leonas Bryland, who had heard the commotion from the Chantry and come striding out. The Arl crouched beside the limp girl, his eyes moving helplessly over her curled fingers and split forehead.

"Only her and the senior enchanter, who is away hunting for the maleficar," he muttered, the words forced between clenched teeth.

" _Ahem."_

Morrigan's voice, arch and superior, drifted from behind them. The witch stood barefoot on the cobbles with her arms crossed; the corners of her dark-painted mouth turning down in a scowl as she surveyed the chaotic scene.

"I have some small measure of healing, knowledge of poultices and herbal remedy," she murmured, amber eyes drifting from the quivering Fergus to the expressionless Qunari. "Bring her up to the chamber, preferably before she loses the rest of her vital fluids."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: WHAT CHAPTER 150? I feel like I might have got a bit excessively wordy at some point, lol. AND THEY'RE NOT EVEN AT DENERIM YET? Well factional consolidation in pseudo-Medieval Europe takes time! At least if you're a historian and want to do it properlieeeeeee, haha.
> 
> So it was really tempting to have Flora catapult Perv Templar across the courtyard, but she's actually very scared of Templars (as I think most mages would be). Templars took her away from her beloved Herring, Templars carry out the most frightening parts of a mage's life – Annulment, Harrowing, Tranquilisation – and they have absolute authority. I think she'd be worried that if she did launch Chaim into the Fade, she'd be shipped off to the mage prison of Aeonar double quick!
> 
> I also like putting Morrigan in the position of carer/quasi-healer, since I don't see her portrayed in that role very often and I like to mess with game canon, haha. First with the ointment in the Brecilian Forest, and now in this situation.
> 
> in
> 
> other
> 
> words
> 
> WALL 1 FLORA 0


	150. The Aftermath

 

Heedless of the raised voices in the courtyard below, Alistair was trapped in Leonas' solar; struggling through another lecture on the traditions of the Fereldan Landsmeet. Eamon had been relentlessly drilling him on the finer points of archaic protocol; from voting procedures during civil war to the use of the Royal veto. The sun blazed relentlessly through the bay window, shining directly onto the back of Alistair's head.

Just as Alistair was about to plead for mercy, a retainer clad in Cousland livery appeared in the doorway and made an urgent gesture to Arl Eamon. A moment later, a pale faced Teagan manifested in the servant's wake.

The messenger murmured something in the Arl's ear and the grey-haired man visibly flinched, the corners of his mouth drawing tightly together.

While Eamon and Teagan conferred hurriedly in the doorway, Alistair read the same sentence three times without comprehension. After a moment, the Guerrin brothers shared a look of grim, mutual accord and the Arl nodded.

"What's a plebiscite? Sounds like some sort of crustacean," Alistair called towards them casually, pulling the collar of his tunic away from his sweaty neck.  _Sounds like something that Flo's dad would fish up._

His light-hearted comment was met with heavy silence; and Alistair looked over at them with some consternation. Eamon turned towards the bastard prince, his face carefully composed.

"Alistair, there's been a change of plan," the Arl said, his tone measured and steady. "We're going to head to Denerim this evening. If we travel through the night, we can be there in two days."

"Maker's Breath,  _finally!"_  Alistair's initial reaction was one of delight, fuelled by the prospect of ending the period of inaction and confronting Loghain face to face. Shoving the chair back and rising to his feet, the young Warden strode across the room; excitement lighting bright amber flecks in his hazel eyes. Both Guerrin brothers accompanied him, falling behind so not to let the bastard prince catch a glimpse of their matching fraught expressions.

With eagerness driving him forward, Alistair made his way through the twisting passageways of South Reach fortress. Caught up in his own fantasies of introducing Loghain to the pointed end of his blade, Alistair barely noticed that neither Eamon nor Teagan were offering any response to his excitable comments.

"Although Flo will probably try and get me to talk to him first," he added, with a little derisive snort. "Maker knows, the bastard doesn't deserve it."

After a moment, Eamon coughed.

"Yes," he murmured, nodding his head in thanks as Alistair held a door open courteously for them to pass through. "But, Alistair – she will have to join you in Denerim later. It's too dangerous for you two to travel together."

They had reached one of the lower corridors that branched off near the main hall. The smell of roasting meat drifted up from the kitchens, banal and oddly comforting in its familiarity. Alistair came to an abrupt halt; his head swivelling around to survey Eamon in surprise.

"What do you mean, she'll join  _later?"_  he asked, in genuine confusion. "We stay together; that's the way it's always been."

There came a pause that stretched out to become a silence. Alistair looked between the two men, his brow furrowing. He knew the Guerrin brothers well enough to detect the strain in their like-featured faces.

"What's happened?" he asked, a sharp edge creeping into his voice. Then, when neither brother responded, he snapped out a command laced with unmistakeable Theirin authority.

" _Tell me!"_

It was undeniably an instruction rather than a request. Eamon glanced across at Teagan, then let out a soft sigh of resignation under his breath.

"There's been an accident during training," he murmured, regret casting a shadow over his worn features. "Your fellow Warden has been injured."

" _Injured?"_

The concept of Flora getting hurt was utterly foreign to Alistair. This was reflected by the disbelief cast on his fine-hewn features; his jaw slackening and his brows shooting into his hairline.

"Flo doesn't  _get_  injured," he continued, and although there was an incredulous smile on his face, it was slowly turning into the rictus grin of a corpse. "And if she does, she just heals herself."

"A Templar misjudged their counterspell," explained Teagan; his voice grim and edged with tension. "It broke her shield and she… she was injured."

"Badly enough that she hasn't been able to fix it?" breathed Alistair, the grin now contorting itself into a grimace of horror. "She's  _that_ hurt?"

He stared at them both for a moment, a myriad of emotions crossing his face. Then abruptly he turned on his heel and walked away, hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides.

"It wouldn't have worked anyway," Teagan murmured as they watched Maric's son stalk off with his father's raised shoulders and purposeful stride. "He wouldn't have left for Denerim without seeing her."

"Then she had better recover quickly," replied the elder Guerrin grimly, thumb running over the Redcliffe signet on his third finger. "Or our entire cause is lost."

To the consternation of both Wardens, the arlina's chamber had never been the most private of locations. Every night, they shared the space with a rotation of different companions – Leliana, most frequently, Zevran, when he grew tired of warming the beds of others, on rare occasion even Oghren managed to stumble in after an evening's session of drinking. Arl Eamon and Arl Bryland had no compunction in entering whatever space Alistair had retreated to; and likewise with the Cousland brothers and Flora.

Yet now the chamber bristled with more people than ever, clustered like sprouting mushrooms in separate huddles around the bed. When Alistair entered, having made record time from the main hall to the west wing; the anxious muttering came to a halt. A crowd of fearful faces turned to stare at him, with eyes wide and appalled. They parted before him silently, creating a path across the flagstones towards the arlina's bed. The Cousland brothers stood at either side of the headboard, grim-faced and pale beneath their like-shaded oxblood hair.

Alistair felt a hot swell of rage rise up inside him before he even set eyes on the bed itself. He found himself yelling from the depths of his lungs, bellowing for everyone else to  _get out_ , the Theirin vein of command tearing through the air like electricity. Although the Cousland brothers stayed where they were, the rest of the crowd filtered back through the door; spilling into the corridor where they were able to continued their whispered conversation in anxious, huddled groups.

"I assume 'tis not also myself whom you want to leave."

The acerbic voice cut through the silent room like a blade. As though in denial, Alistair's eyes averted themselves reflexively from the bed and moved to the woman beside it. Morrigan, unsuitably clad for an arl's fortress as always, was using the nightstand as an impromptu medicinal counter. She was grinding up a variety of herbs into a paste, the smell pungent and bitter. Her leather pouch stood unlaced to one side, revealing a cluster of half-opened reagents within.

Alistair stepped forward, and finally allowed his gaze to focus on the bed. His sister-warden was propped up against a wall of cushions, her head tipped to one side; there was a slackness to her limbs that resembled a discarded child's toy. Her skin, normally fair, was as pale as bone. There was a large gash on her forehead, starting at the top of her temple and curving down around her eye-socket to the top of her cheek. It had been neatly stitched closed, although beads of blood still seeped up between the black thread. Her lower lip was swollen and one of her eyes was shadowed, the bone around it severely bruised.

Although he had been bracing himself since the main hall, no amount of mental preparation could have primed Alistair for facing Flora in such desolate condition. A sound escaped his throat that began somewhat like her name, but came out as raw and mangled as her forehead. He did not remember crossing the chamber or approaching the bed; yet suddenly he was at her side, hunched trembling like a bird returning to the nest to find its eggs shattered on the ground below.

"Flora?" He took her hand and felt her fingers against his palm, fragile and cold as a drowned child's. "Maker, what  _happened?_ "

His eyes moved from one Cousland brother to the other, bright and interrogative as twin brands.

"One of the Templars misjudged a counterspell and it hit her instead. The Qunari drove her against a wall," replied Fergus, trying in vain to keep his own voice steady.

Alistair returned his stare to his sister-warden's pale face, the tan freckles standing out stark against her high-boned cheeks.

"Is she… ?" he breathed and there was no need to say anything, the plea in his voice hollow and obvious. The witch dipped her stained fingers in the unguent cream, slathering more of the bitter-herb mixture over the ugly cut.

"So much unnecessary melodrama," she murmured, her lip curling in scorn. "'Tis only a knock to the head and a few broken ribs. She had scant enough brains in that pretty skull, I should not imagine much is damaged."

Finian, pale and uncharacteristically quiet, placed  _Exotic Fish of Thedas_ on the bedspread.

"Come on, Ferg. You need rest yourself," he murmured, touching his elder brother's elbow. "We can't do any good by just staring at her. She'll be alright, she's as hardy as a mountain goat."

"I should have done  _something_." The thought which had lingered on Fergus' mind since the accident finally burst bitterly from between his lips. "I watched the Qunari charge at her for hours. Why didn't I put a stop to it? I should have- I should have protected her."

The statement was somewhat incongruous, considering that Flora was normally far more adept at defending herself than most. Yet, as the teyrn stared down at the unconscious girl with the crooked wound stitched across her forehead; it was clear that he did not see her as a mage but as a sibling, a younger sister who he had failed to look after.

No one answered, and Fergus exhaled unsteadily. He gripped Flora's limp fingers for a moment, squeezing them hard and tight before striding away. Finian followed in his wake, with one last gloomy look at the bed.

Then it was just Alistair and Morrigan, a pair of hazel eyes rising to meet liquid amber over Flora's limp form. Alistair reached out to take his sister-warden's hand once more, feeling her palm cold and sweaty against his own. The bastard prince appeared to have aged two decades in the time that it had taken him to travel from the main hall to the arlina's bedchamber.

"Morrigan," Alistair said after a moment, eyes moving over the fresh bruises blooming on Flora's collarbone. Despite the lines furrowed at the sides of his mouth and the hollowed disbelief in his stare, his voice was measured and even.

"If you help her, I'll grant you any favour within my power," he continued, catching her catlike amber gaze once again. "Anything you want."

" _Anything?"_ murmured Morrigan, reaching for Flora's wrist and pressing a long-nailed finger against the skin to check her pulse. "That could be a dangerous offer; especially if you do become a king. There's a lot I could desire."

"Anything," Alistair replied immediately, his stare unwavering. "I swear by the Maker."

Morrigan eyed him for a moment, then sighed inaudibly under her breath. The myriad collection of bracelets rustled as she removed her hand abruptly from Flora's wrist; turning her attention to the reagents scattered over the nightstand.

"'Tis unnecessary to bargain," the witch muttered, removing the wax plug from a crystal vial and splashing its contents irritably into a pewter bowl. "I require no boon for my services, such as they are. I would not see her taken prematurely."

" _Can_  you help her?" Alistair asked and Morrigan snorted, wiping her fingers callously on the plum-coloured velvet.

"'Twas not  _Flemeth_  that kept the poor fool breathing for three days after Ostagar now, was it? Nor was it you, blubberer."

The rest of their companions drifted in in turn to see the girl who had brought them together, expressing their shock and offering suggestions as to how to rouse her. Leliana perched on the end of the bed and sang a medley of northern folk tunes; until Morrigan threatened to transform the bard into something diminutive and scaled. Oghren offered to concoct his strongest hangover cure, which sounded more poisonous than palliative. A stoic Sten stated correctly that he bore no blame for the accident – but then, with a degree of hesitancy hitherto unseen in the vast Qunari – admitted that he felt some element of guilt.

Eamon, Teagan and Leonas all paid a solemn-faced visit; mostly to reassure themselves that Flora's condition was not inextricably dire. Alistair barely acknowledged the man he viewed as an uncle, still fuming over Eamon's attempt to surreptitiously rush him away from South Reach.

Zevran had lurked outside the door, white-lipped, for an hour. At one point he had almost plucked up the courage to venture inside; then caught sight of Flora's limp, dangling hand and made a hasty retreat. Instead, the elf turned his pale face towards the Templar quarters, and set out grimly to find someone to blame.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So the concept of contingency plans is really fascinating to me (for some odd reason), or in other words… what happens when shit hits the fan! I first got interested in it when reading about British protocol during the Cold War, in the eventuality of a nuclear attack – like moving all the great works of art from London to Scotland! How is this relevant? I was just thinking about the contingency plan if either Warden was killed because obviously there would be one – if Flora was killed, Eamon's faction would get Alistair to the city and confront Loghain immediately , whereas if Alistair was killed the faction would form more strongly around the Couslands – perhaps putting Fergus as a possible match for Anora. Alistair being killed is actually a much more serious prospect.
> 
> Also, lol at Alistair offering Morrigan ANYTHING if she helps Flora. Anything you say? ANYTHIIIIINGGGGG?


	151. The Prince and the Assassin

As the hours dragged themselves on in slow, painful torpor; evening gradually yielded to a starless night. The narrow patch of light visible through the arrow-slit darkened, casting the room in a shadowy pall. At some point Alistair realised that the hearth had been lit, although he had not registered anyone coming in to tend to it. Finally, Morrigan yawned and rose to her feet with a rustle of long skirts. Alistair, miserably slumped with his head in his hands, looked up in alarm.

"You're  _going?"_  he asked, voice rising incredulously. Morrigan cast him a glare of faint derision, adjusting the red silken material to cover her breasts more adequately. It was a measure of Alistair's single-minded anxiety that he did not even register the witch's gesture.

"If you give her this every two hours, it will aid her breathing. I cannot heal the cracked ribs; she must mend them herself when she wakes. 'Tis a simple task and even  _you_ should be capable."

Alistair gave a nod, remembering how he used to rouse himself frequently in the night to check his sister-warden for the three signs of possession. Although he had not done this for a long time; Alistair felt reasonably confident that his body would comply. At first he was sure that he would not be able to sleep at all, but anxiety was exhausting and a hollow numbness was creeping inexorably up his spine.

The witch strode towards the window in quick, light steps, twisting herself into a dark, winged shape and fluttering away, leaving an ebon feather in her wake.

Alistair was left alone, with only his sister-warden's slumped body and a damp-edged silence for company. His first impulse had been to clamber onto the bed beside her and take her in his arms, a suggestion promptly rubbished by Morrigan as she reminded him of Flora's broken ribs.

Desperate to keep some measure of control over the situation, Alistair had instead been unable to stop himself from touching the limp Flora all evening; adjusting the collar of her shirt, clutching her hand and smoothing down errant strands of hair. He had left one side of her face damp with impressions of his lips, inwardly horrified at how cold and clammy her skin felt against his mouth. When he did finally fall asleep it was with his forehead bowed to her hip, her limp fingers curled within his palm.

The vestiges of his Templar training allowed him to wake every two hours, sleep-clumsy fingers fumbling with the wax plug of the small vial. Tilting her head back and parting her lips, he would carefully drip some of the liquid inside before washing it down her throat with water.

Sometime in the very early hours of the morning, a weary Alistair woke to find pre-dawn grey light filtering through the narrow window. It cast the chamber in shades of blurred monochrome, the edges of furniture seeming to meld seamlessly into their surroundings. The remains of the fire lay charred in the grate, ash spilling out onto the flagstones. As Alistair stared at the blackened clumps of what had once been a brilliant blaze; the unwelcome memory of Cailan's pyre rose to the forefront of his mind.

On reaching for the vial, Alistair realised that the water-pouch was almost empty. Slowly, as though moving through a waist-deep mire, he rose to his feet and stumbled towards the door. As he made his way down the passageway, a shadow slipped into the chamber behind him.

Outside, a solitary bird broke into a flutter of notes before abruptly falling silent; the oppressive pall of night not yet willing to cede to dawn. Although the room was shrouded in grey, the fire long since burnt out; the assassin had excellent night vision. He moved across the chamber in the span of a heartbeat, feet making no sound against the flagstones, and approached the bed.

It was clear that the girl was a Cousland, her oxblood hair a defiant crimson slash against the ashen room. She was artificially propped up against the cushions, like a child might arrange a doll in an ambitious effort to emulate life. Her head was tilted back, her mouth slightly open; even in the anaemic light, the ragged stitches of the wound stood out stark over her temple. Despite her reputation as a barrier mage of great skill, she looked no different to any other girl on the cusp of adulthood, oddly vulnerable.

The assassin gazed down at her face for a moment, inhaling with a mixture of mingled regret and resolution. He reached out to touch the clammy skin of her cheek, feeling the high bone with the edge of his thumb.

Then, with a quick glance over his shoulder to confirm that the room was empty, the assassin leaned over. Very softly, he pressed his mouth to the girl's parted lips. They were cold and inert, but still undeniably belonging to  _her_ and he found it increasingly difficult to move away. In defiance of his better judgement, he deepened the kiss; pressing his lips with increasing desire against her unconsciously yielding mouth. With her pale, white-hewn face and cold lips, it was almost as if he were kissing a statue. It took great willpower to lift his head away and return upright, the taste of her cold mouth still lingering on his own.

"I am sorry that I did not come earlier,  _mi sirenita._ The sight of you lying there brought back…. memories I thought I had long-buried."

When a yawning Alistair stumbled back into the room, clutching a dripping and overfilled water-pouch, Zevran was leaning against the bedpost. His arms were folded and a careful, supercilious expression had been draped over his face. Only his eyes betrayed the emotion beneath, dark and simmering with anger.

"I have found the man responsible for the silencing," the elf said without preamble, as Alistair slumped back down at his sister-warden's side and began to fumble with the vial.

"It was a Templar named Chaim. He claims that it was an accident; yet I also spoke to a stable-hand who told me that our  _carina_ earlier turned down the man's….over-amorous advances."

Alistair ended up accidentally spilling half of the contents of the pouch over Flora's face.

"I  _saw_  him," he breathed, recalling his brief escape from Eamon's clutches earlier that day. Flora had been sitting on the steps with a dark-haired Templar hovering before her; yet Alistair was so excited to see her that he had barely registered the other man's presence. "You think he did it deliberately?"

Zevran's shoulder rose and fell. It went without saying that any Templar would demand acquiescence from a mage in his presence; they were drilled to expect nothing but absolute obedience.

"It is possible."  _Probable._ "But there is no way of proving it."

Alistair raised his eyes and stared at the elf, the hand that rested protectively on Flora's thigh tightened. For a brief moment, it was as though they were no longer Warden and companion, but  _prince and assassin._ Something unspoken and dark passed between them, like a miasma manifesting within the greyish predawn light.

_If you wish it, I will do it, my lord. You need only ask. I will kill this man for you. And for her._

For a long beat Alistair gazed at Zevran, feeling as though he were peering over the edge of a precipice, gazing down at a cluster of razor-edged rocks below.

"No," he said at last, stepping back from the void and meeting the elf's gaze steadily. "We'll let his superiors deal with him."

Zevran inclined his head in silent acquiescence. His tan, black-eyed face was as smooth and bland as dark honey mead, betraying nothing. Rising with feline grace, his features contorted into a carefully arranged smile.

"Try and get some sleep, my prince," the elf murmured, reaching inside his sleeve and pulling out a square of fine cambric. Reaching out, he daubed the material gently over Flora's still, damp face, mopping up the water that Alistair had spilt earlier.

Once he had finished, Zevran paused for a moment; the corners of his mouth tensing. Impulsively, he rested a palm against the blanket and leaned forward, pressing his lips against Flora's cold cheek. For the briefest second, the careful neutrality of the elf's face flickered to reveal a glimpse of something sad and deep-seated below.

As Zevran withdrew, Alistair was staring at him, sudden realisation dawning despite the exhaustion.

"Do you-? I mean, are you…?"

Alistair faltered as the elf allowed his languid, dark eyes to settle on him, cool and appraising.

"Do I  _what_ , Alistair?"

Six months prior, the Warden would have quailed beneath the older man's intense stare; perhaps made a clumsy attempt to divert the conversation with humour. Now, however, Alistair was less quick to avoid confrontation.

"Are you in love with Flo?"

Zevran, who was far more adept at deflecting uncomfortable topics, shot Alistair a brilliant smile as he rose to his feet.

"Well, who doesn't love the  _carina_?" he replied flippantly, his eyes reflexively sliding sideways to the prone figure in the bed once more. "She's like a ripe little peach: sweet and inoffensive. Everybody likes peaches."

There was a pause as the words hung hollow in the air between them, glaring in their falseness. Both men were well aware that the elf was not being entirely honest. Alistair opened his mouth for a moment, and then gave a little shrug. Zevran bowed his head in a quiet  _goodnight;_ halfway to the door he paused, not looking back.

"It makes no difference whether I am or not," he murmured to the arrow-slit window, turning his eyes towards the encroaching dawn. "You two go together as a dagger would slide into a custom-made sheath. It's clear to everyone that she adores you. I am far too old and bitter for one such as my  _Rialto lily._ "

Alistair peered at him anxiously, and to the young Warden's credit, there was only compassion in his concerned hazel stare.

"You're not that old," he countered, kindly. "You're invaluable. You've saved both of our lives more times than I can count. And… and if you being in love with Flo means that you help to look out for her, like you did today…"

Maric's son gazed at the elf, and then gave a wry shrug, struggling to suppress the yawn threatening to break free from his chest.

"Then I have no issue with that. I'm surprised that more people  _aren't_  in love with her actually; she's the best girl in Thedas."

Zevran snorted, producing a cough that sounded suspiciously like  _Teagan!_ He gave a slight bow and flashed a brilliant smile, his teeth very white against the watery light of pre-dawn.

"Does this acceptance mean that I can freely instruct you on how best to pleasure our little peach _?_ I'd be happy to teach you several of my most renowned techniques. Though naturally, I must demonstrate them in person.  _On her."_

"I have… techniques of my own!" retorted Alistair, feeling an indignant flush creeping up his neck towards his ears. "Successful techniques."

Pausing beside the doorway, Zevran shot him a kind look.

"My dear boy," he murmured, shaking his head solemnly. "Hammering away like an apprentice smith let loose on an anvil is not a technique _._ Think on it: I could teach you to make her  _scream_."

Zevran left a blushing, open-mouthed Alistair and slipped into the corridor; nearly colliding with the anxious young Templar. Cullen Rutherford had clearly been lurking in the corridor outside, trying to pluck up the courage to go in. The elf snorted, raising his eyes to the Maker.

"Not another one! Wait your turn, I am first in line to join their bed."

The elf's cackles followed Lieutenant Rutherford as the young officer fled back towards Eamon's quarters.

Back within the chamber, the first tentative fingers of dawn crept through the arrow-slit window. The muffled voices of servants drifted up from the courtyard below as they embarked upon their customary morning routine. Alistair sat hunched at the bedside next to his sister-warden, his fingers entwined within her limp ones. It reminded him of the terrible few days after Ostagar, when Flora had lain insensible within Flemeth's hut and he had believed himself to be the last surviving Warden in Ferelden.

Lost within his own melancholic memories, Alistair did not notice the heat seeping from her palm into his; the warmth gradually returning to Flora's fingers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Zevran's proposition to Alistair is an important moment in the way that I'm developing his character. I know in game you can 'harden' Alistair with a few choice dialogue options, and I believe that's because of the limitations of the game itself. But I'm going to take the 'hardening' (if you can call it that, I'm not actually sure it's the best adjective) of his character in a different direction – it's more a gradual process that's been happening since Ostagar. More on that later!
> 
> And yes, Alistair is dense enough that he hasn't picked up on Zevran's feelings for Flora – he literally needs the elf to spell them out for him. Fortunately, our easy-going Alistair is not the jealous type; in his view, the more people concerned about Flora's well-being, the better. I laughed so much when I was writing APPRENTICE SMITH HAMMERING AT THE ANVIL, though. It's been a decade since I was a teenager, but from what I recall, that's definitely the inexperienced partner's 'technique' of choice! Poor Alistair, he will improve with practise and it's not as if Flo knows any better. Finally, Zevran describes himself as "too old and bitter", but he's actually only about 26 years old – he was born in 9:04, with Alistair born in 9:10 and Flora in 9:11.
> 
> Also, Flo is waking up but it's not because of Zevran's Sleeping Beauty style secret snog, it's because she just had a concussion and was not actually that injured, lol.


	152. Like A Pair Of Beasts

When Flora did eventually open one eye, she grimaced and immediately closed it again. Her entire body felt bruised, as though something large and weighty had trampled over it. She had a throbbing headache and her chest felt oddly constricted; each inhalation more painful than the last. Flora was used to localised pain from her injured knee; and had never before endured such racking aches throughout her whole body. She opened her eye once more – for some reason, she was only able to raise a single eyelid – and tilted her head to one side.

Alistair sat hunched and despondent beside the bed, staring miserably down at their entwined fingers. She gave his fingers a little squeeze, her heart giving a single, painful throb at seeing her closest companion in such a melancholy state.

As though electrified, Alistair's head shot upright. His gaze went directly to her face, and when she smiled weakly at him he let out a shaky breath.

"Thank the Maker," he whispered, his voice raw as a sudden gleam came to his eyes. "I was so worried.  _So_ worried, Flo."

Alistair went to embrace her and then remembered the cracked ribs, pausing abruptly. Instead, he lifted her hand to his mouth and began to kiss each knuckle in turn, muttering his gratitude to the Maker, Andraste, and anybody else who could have possibly intervened.

As his lips moved over the inside of her wrist, Flora brought her other hand to her abdomen. Based on the pain and the constriction of her chest, she guessed that several of her ribs had been broken. With clumsy fingers she attempted to pluck at the buttons of her grubby shirt; Alistair released her hand and leaned forward dutifully to assist her. Carefully, he unfastened the remainder of the buttons and folded the shirt open. Beneath her breasts, Flora's chest was a mass of mottled black and navy bruises. She brought up her fingers to her skin, resting them gently against the inflamed flesh.

Alistair began to speak, then thought better of it; realising from the vague look in his sister-warden's eyes that she was assessing the extent of her internal injuries. The dark pupils were wide and unfocused, her mind's eye seeking out the fractures in the bone. Once Flora was sure that she had located each hairline crack, the golden mist began to seep beneath her fingernails and she began the arduous task of coaxing it through her skin and into the cracked bone.

He watched her like a hawk, frustrated at his utter inability to help. After some time, Flora was satisfied that each rib had been fully healed; her breathing was no longer constricted and the deep ache in her bones had abated. Next she reached up to touch the neatly stitched wound on her forehead. With Alistair's assistance and a needle from Leliana's discarded sewing pouch, they managed to pry each stitch loose. Fresh blood welled up beneath the ragged tear; but before it could spill over her cheek, Flora had slid her thumb over the cut, sealing it closed.

Finally, she pressed her fingertips against her swollen eye, soothing the inflammation in the damaged socket. The entire process of healing herself had taken less than ten minutes.

Blinking, Flora was finally able to see Alistair in full clarity. Every part of her brother-warden appeared to be the wrong colour; his skin was greyish, his eyes were reddened and his usually-gilded hair was in dire need of a wash, the ruddy gold dull and tarnished.

"Alistair," Flora whispered, appalled. "I'm fine. I got silenced by some Templar's dispel, and then Sten charged into me like a… like a drunk druffalo. That's not going to kill me, how ridiculous would that be?  _Acting Warden-Commander Cousland was squashed to death by one of her own companions."_

Her tone was light-hearted and the comment itself humorous; intended to try and make her brother-warden smile. Instead, the only words that Alistair heard clearly were  _kill_ and  _death,_ both uttered in relation to her state of being _._ His face twisted as though he had bitten into something rotten and his brawny, strong body seemed to crumple within itself. He sunk down to the flagstones, back against the bed and head in his hands. A sound that was part-groan and part-sob clawed its way out of his throat and Alistair put his hands over his face. Flora was immediately overcome by guilt.

_How would you feel if it had been Alistair lying there senseless for hours? You'd be manic, Flora. You were hysterical when he was injured by the Broodmother in the Deep Roads, and that was only a cracked rib. Sten practically had to slap you to regain control._

She kicked the blanket away and slithered awkwardly off the bed; the only remnant of her injury being some residual stiffness in her always-sore knee. She knelt on the flagstones, feeling the cold seeping through the thin material of her pyjamas, and put her arms around him.

_I know this body as well as my own,_ she thought wonderingly to herself, curling her fingers around the back of his neck.  _I could draw the dimensions of him on the canvas of my mind and not make a single mistake. I know the width of his shoulder and how many ridges of muscle there are on his abdomen. I know that the top of my head reaches the old scar at the centre of his chest, and I can imitate the rhythm of his sleeping heartbeat without missing a beat._

Flora reached out and gently pried Alistair's fingers away from his face, knowing that he would not try to resist her. Inch by inch, her brother-warden's face was revealed, still two-glances handsome despite the anguish clearly writ on the fine Theirin features. She slid her fingers into his hairline, tilting his face up to her own. Alistair gazed at her with the hollow stare of the recently bereaved, but his arms still came up reflexively to embrace her.

Wanting to prove her wellness, Flora leaned forward and kissed each damp eye in turn, feeling the salt transfer from his eyelashes to her lips. He exhaled unsteadily, and she felt his hand moving up and down her back, sliding beneath the loose shirt to feel the skin. She moved her lips to his cheeks, eradicating the streaks left in the wake of his tears, kissing her way across his chin. A night's growth of stubble darkened his jaw; Flora dropped her mouth to his neck and felt the steady throb of his pulse against her lips. She was gratified to feel that her brother-warden's heart was no longer racing like a frightened horse.

Flora lifted her head and gazed up at him, and despite the circumstances, she couldn't help but smile. Alistair eyed her cautiously and she reached out to cradle his cheeks between her palms, tracing the marble-like bone structure of his face. Flora had never seen a portrait of the old king Maric, but Wynne had claimed that he and his second son were near-identical in feature. Alistair personally had never spared much thought to his own arrogant, classically handsome looks; viewing them as an impediment to being taken seriously by the older, more hardened Wardens.

"You still look handsome, even when you're upset," Flora informed him solemnly, eyeing the strong length of his nose. "It's not fair; people can barely look at me when I cry because I look so hideously repulsive. Whenever I cried at the Circle they used to shut me in a cupboard because it was just  _embarrassing_."

This had been intended to make Alistair smile, but instead he just looked appalled, tightening his grip around her.

"That's outrageous," he said indignantly, and Flora was gratified to see the familiar light returning to his eyes. "You're the most beautiful girl in Thedas."

She dutifully contorted her face into a malefic grimace and Alistair laughed; his voice thickening as he pressed a thumb against her freckled cheek.

"That only makes me more attracted to you, my dear," he murmured, eyes dropping to her exposed chest. "I always used to fancy the gargoyles on the Chantry."

Flora felt the heat of Alistair's gaze like a naked flame licking against her skin and she gave a little shiver, watching the shift in his pupils from affection to desire.

Alistair leaned forward, pressing his lips against her neck as he bore her gently down against the flagstones. Despite the fact that there was a perfectly adequate bed just beside them, the Wardens were far more used to intimacy on unorthodox surfaces; mouldering bedrolls, against the trunks of trees, half-hidden in haystacks and exposed on damp grass.

His clothed pelvis moved against hers in the instinctual rhythm of lovemaking, and Flora could feel his arousal straining through the layers of material that separated them. With every languid thrust of Alistair's hips a strangled gasp escaped from her throat, and each one only seemed to further encourage her brother-warden. He kissed her bare breasts with languid desire, using his tongue and fingers to coax each small nipple into rosy stiffness. Soon, the little gasps began to run together into low whimpers of helpless arousal.

"Good girl," Alistair whispered, tasting the salty dampness of sweat on the underside of her breast. "I love it when you moan for me."

He gave a wicked half-grin of triumph, only for the smile to drop rapidly from his face as he felt Flora's hand worm its way through the slit in the front of his breeches. Her fingers wrapped around his swollen length and began to stroke; increasing in confidence with each pump of her fist.

Now it was Alistair's turn to yield, releasing an unabashed moan of pleasure that seemed to come straight from his core. He thrust himself hard within the tight pressure of her fingers, feeling her palm quickly growing slick as she pulled at him.

"'Tis like watching a pair of  _beasts!"_

Morrigan's acerbic voice filtered above them from the other side of the bed, unwelcome as grey drizzle on a spring morning. Alistair, face contorting in frustration, rolled away from Flora and tucked himself bad-temperedly back into his breeches. Flora, who could only imagine how flushed her face must be; lifted her head somewhat guiltily above the bed and gave a tentative smile.

The witch was leaning against the bedpost, her skin a rich, even shade of blended caramel and hair arranged to look artfully dishevelled. Her lips were coated in a scarlet so dark they appeared almost black; curling in a punctuation mark of derision on her face.

"Why must your instincts always be to rut away at one another whenever you have a moment to yourselves?" complained Morrigan, her eyes lingering contemptuously on Alistair as he rose to his feet. "I yearn for the days when you were both awkward virgins."

Alistair slung his arm around a red-faced Flora's shoulders, pressing a kiss to the side of her forehead. He was about to retort with an equally needling comeback; before remembering that Morrigan had provided the tincture that had eased his sister-warden's laborious breathing through the night.

"Thank you for helping," he said with genuine earnestness, canting his chin downwards towards his sister-warden. "With Flo. I won't forget that I owe you a favour."

Flora, who had no idea what Morrigan had done to help, beamed at the witch dutifully if somewhat blankly.

Morrigan inclined her head a fraction, shrugging a shoulder.

"For once, this is a mishap not of her own clumsy doings," she murmured, in a clear attempt to dissuade their gratitude. "The Templars are dangerous fools."

With a slight jolt of surprise Alistair realised that this had been the second time that Morrigan had aided Flora's recuperation; the first time being the soothing ointment from Weep-Eyed Cave. He looked up and caught the witch's eye, his own hazel gaze clear and steady.

"I'm glad that you came with us from the Wilds," he said, honestly. "I know that I was… slightly uncertain at first when Flemeth suggested it."

Both Flora and Morrigan eyed him dubiously; recalling that Alistair's reaction had been more along the lines of incredulous, vehement disbelief. The bastard prince gave a slightly self-conscious shrug. Morrigan was about to utter a scathing retort, then seemed to catch herself mid-inhalation.

"Strange as it might seem, you two idiots are the closest thing that I've ever had to friends," she said after a moment, the statement accompanied by a humourless smile. "'Tis an odd feeling, to be sure. I don't like it."

Before either Warden could reply, the witch had retreated across the flagstones and folded herself away in a flurry of dark feathers through the arrow slit. Alistair exhaled slowly, counting to ten; then gripped his sister-warden and guided her inexorably down onto the bed.

"Right, my dear," he murmured, fingers fumbling with the laces of his breeches. "Where were we?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Nothing like a bit of Wardus interruptus!. Also, Alistair is not too manly to cry! I think he's actually more sensitive than Flora is. Although, if Alistair ever got badly injured, Flora would definitely lose her fucking marbles, lol. Also, DISASTER! My Origins save game got corrupted and I had to play through from the beginning again, bahahah! It's ok, we haven't finished our factional consolidation at South Reach yet (bend over my knee, game canon!) so I can play catch-up before we get to Denerim. It means that I have to play through the DEEP ROADS and the BROODMOTHER again though, which is a source of deep trauma, lol.


	153. Two Mages and A Templar

Alistair did not let his sister-warden out of his sight for the remainder of the day. They spent the majority of it in the arlina's chamber, the door tightly closed against the rest of South Reach. They played several games of Wicked Grace, read another chapter of  _Exotic Fish of Thedas,_ and spent a bittersweet hour talking about their late Warden-Commander. The rest of their companions drifted in and out, as well as the Cousland brothers; all were gratified to see that Flora had recovered.

Bodhan, the dwarven merchant also temporarily residing at the fortress, came up to see the Wardens midway through the afternoon. He waxed lyrical for some time about the rare weaponry decorating the walls of South Reach fortress, since many items appeared to be dwarven-crafted.

Both Alistair and Flora were sitting before the fire, scattered parchment and leaded pencils on the flagstones before them. Before the dwarf's interruption, Alistair had been rather belatedly teaching Flora the correct spelling of their companions' names. She had mastered Sten and Zevran's names fairly quickly, but Leliana was proving to be somewhat of a challenge. As the dwarf enthused about a Legion-branded axe suspended outside the Arl's bedchamber, Flora dropped her gaze surreptitiously back to the parchment.  _L-E-L-Y-_ she thought to herself, mouthing the letters under her breath.

"Anyway, I was gonna come and see yeh yesterday but then yeh took that knock to the 'ead," Bodhan finally began to meander towards the purpose of his visit; forty minutes after he had first entered the arlina's chamber. "My contact managed to locate the item in a trade caravan travelling east in the Southron Hills. Turns out the mercenary from Redcliffe did have it after all, but he ran out of money and let it go for a song. Should arrive here today or tomorrow."

Alistair glanced curiously down at Flora. Up to this point she had been butchering Leliana's name quietly to herself; but as the dwarf announced this, her head shot up, eyes wide.

"You found it," she breathed, eyebrows rising towards the plastered ceiling. "I never thought it would come to anything.  _Thank_  you."

Bodhan's chest swelled with pride, his bushy whiskers bristling.

"Never underestimate the dwarven trading network," he said portentously, bestowing a benevolent smile upon both Wardens. "No merchant worth his salt forgets a weapon that crosses his path, 'specially not one like the one you described."

After the dwarf had strutted out with chin raised, Alistair nudged Flora in the ribs. She was beaming, her cheeks flushed with disbelief.

"What was that about, my dear?"

"I think Bodhan has found Sten's sword," she breathed, squirming excitedly on the Orlesian rug. Alistair smiled reflexively down at her, and then his brow creased in confusion.

"Wait, Sten's  _sword?_ The Qunari uses an axe."

Flora grimaced, recalling the unwelcome memory of Sten charging towards her with weapon raised.

"He didn't always use an axe. He had a sword from Par Vollen, but it got lost and it drove him- a bit mad. That was just before Lothering."

Alistair gaped at her, his own brows now shooting skyward.

"Sten  _told_ you this?!"

Flora snorted, rolling her eyes.

"No, he told  _Oghren_. When we all left Redcliffe together, they were talking about the best two-handed weapons for decapitating people. And Sten talked about his sword, that it had been lost near a row of seven trees beside a lake. I overheard them, and I asked Bodhan if he would make some enquiries with his merchant contacts. To see if a Qunari sword with  _ASALA_ on it had passed through the trade network. I thought someone might try and sell it if it seemed valuable."

Alistair watched his sister-warden explain, the coarse northern accent in stark contrast to her solemn, fine-boned face. Although the soft, husky cadence of her speech was undeniably low-born, there was a confidence in her articulation that belied this assumption.

"I remember you talking to the dwarf," he said suddenly, casting his mind back to a sunny morning over a month prior. "I thought you were just trying to avoid talking to your newfound brother."

Flora grinned, giving a self-conscious little shrug.

"That was partially it too," she admitted, dropping her eyes to the butchered spelling of _Leliana_. "But, I… I wanted to help Sten. The way he spoke about the sword – it was like part of him. And I know how it feels to have something taken away from you, without… without you being ready."

Alistair gazed at Flora a moment longer, then reached out and cradled her cheek gently against his sword-calloused palm. When he spoke, it was with a soft, contemplative tone that was somehow beyond his two decades.

"My sweet girl," he said softly, rubbing his thumb over the faint freckles dusted over her cheekbone. "If people believe that I'd be a good king, it's only because you've made me into a man worthy of such a title."

Flora gazed up at Alistair as he traced the line of her jaw, his thumb lingering on the centre of her chin. Leaning forward, he kissed her sweet and chastely on the lips, his mouth warm against hers.

The Wardens spent the rest of the afternoon in each other's company; Alistair only parting from her in the evening once a recalcitrant Eamon had apologised and requested his attendance in the meeting room. Alistair had cast an anxious look over at Flora, who had inwardly quailed at the thought of a three-hour long discussion on Fereldan politics. Lying through her teeth, she claimed that her head was still causing her some pain and begged to be excused. Alistair had reluctantly left her in the upper passageway outside the arlina's bedchamber; glancing over his shoulder twice as he left.

Still clutching  _Exotic Fish of Thedas,_ Flora leaned against the whitewashed wall, resting her hand on her stomach as it gave a loud rumble of protest. For a moment she contemplated going down to the main hall to scavenge from the remains of dinner. However, she was not in the mind-set to change out of her pyjamas and decided against it. It did not occur to her for a moment that she could have asked a servant to bring her some food, and that there were several lurking in the passageway who had been sent up by Arl Leonas for the specific purpose of waiting on her. They smiled at Flora expectantly; she smiled politely and waved back at them.

"We have some fruit in here."

Flora looked around for the source of the small voice. Arl Eamon's eyes in miniature peered out at her from behind a partially-opened door. Dutifully, she followed Connor's imperious wave inside the Redcliffe contingent's quarters. The arl's son was accompanied by Lieutenant Rutherford, who coughed nervously and looked as though he were about to say something, before thinking better of it.

Teagan was sitting in an armchair beside the fire, nursing a flagon of ale as he responded to various items of correspondence. On seeing Flora hale and hearty, the Bann rose to his feet and crossed the chamber; eyes wandering to the smooth and unblemished skin of her forehead.

"Andraste's Glory," he breathed wonderingly, reaching out to touch the location of the injury. "There's not even a scar. What a gift you have, child."

"The spirits are generous with their help," replied Flora, wondering at how now her particular brand of magic was seen as valuable; whereas in the Circle Tower, her limitations had been a source of derision and pity in equal measure.

"No, Uncle!" hissed Connor impatiently, returning across the flagstones to grab Flora's hand. "She's here to see  _me,_  and not you."

_You and some food,_ thought Flora glumly, feeling her stomach give another rumble of protest. She followed Connor into his smaller bedchamber, followed by the dutiful Lieutenant Rutherford. The arl's son launched himself onto the bed and patted the cushions beside him, eyeing her expectantly. Flora sat down on the blankets, resting  _Exotic Fish of Thedas_ on her lap, and glanced around for the alleged fruit. Fortunately Cullen proceeded to shyly present her a wooden bowl, filled with pears and blueberries.

"There were no red apples left," he muttered apologetically to the ceiling and Flora blinked at him in surprise, wondering how he knew of this particular preference. Then, she remembered his awareness of her illicit journeys down to the Circle Tower kitchens after curfew had been called.

"Thank you, I was starving."

Flora smiled at him and the Templar coughed to hide his blush, standing stiff as a board beside the doorway; not allowing himself the comfort of leaning back against the stone. Connor prodded her in the elbow impatiently and she turned to face him, with a mouth full of pear.

"Is it true that you were hurt yesterday?"

She swallowed the partially masticated food with some difficulty and nodded. "Mm, yes. There was an accident during training."

The arl's son narrowed his eyes at her in disapproval.

"I thought you could summon barriers!" he said in an accusatory tone. "Why did your magic fail you? _"_

Flora bit through the skin of a blueberry and wished glumly that she had gone down to the main hall; thus escaping what was turning out to be a lecture.

"It got dispelled by a Templar," she replied, feeling the tart juice running down her chin. Connor's eyes widened, his pupils flaring dark and critical.

"I thought you were  _strong."_

"I  _am_  strong," retorted Flora. "But I'm not…  _invincible_. The best warrior in Thedas can fail to block a blow and it wouldn't make him any less of a warrior. It just makes him a- a person."

"But you're a  _mage_ ," countered Connor, and Flora shrugged, wiping the juice from her chin with the sleeve of her pyjama shirt.

"I'm still just a person. All mages are. I know we don't always get treated that way; but that's not our fault."

She gave another little shrug as she dropped her gaze to the fruit-bowl; feeling the stares of both Templar and young mage resting on her.

At last Connor coughed, his Guerrin eyes moving over to  _Exotic Fish of Thedas_  on her lap.

"Do you read that to send you to sleep?" he asked, reading the title. Flora stiffened defensively, shaking her head.

"No. I read it because I want to learn more about fish. Or, try to read it. I'm not very good at reading."

"Shall… I read it to you?"

The boy's question was hesitant, his face determinedly turned towards the book. Flora, who loved being read to when the subject material was not official correspondence, beamed and nodded. She opened the book to an earmarked page, handing it to the boy beside her on the bed.

Connor cleared his throat, straightening self-importantly. Flora leaned into the cushions, tilting her head back against the wooden headboard.

"' _The Rose Salmon of the Anderfels,'"_ he read, his finger pressed against the page to keep place.  _"'A variant of ray-finned fish. Peasant lore suggests that the salmon always returns to the spot where it was born.'"_

The evening rhythms of South Reach fortress went on around the Guerrin quarters as one young mage read to another. A boy entered to light the candelabra, and another some time later to take away the empty bowl. Teagan came in for a while, listening quietly with an unreadable expression.

They made it through the  _Anderfels salmon,_  the  _Orlesian Harlequin_ and the  _Tevinter Chub_  before Connor fell asleep, his dishevelled head dropping against Flora's shoulder. Flora, who was fond of children, patted his hair companionably. The blond Templar, who looked as though he had wanted to speak for some time, cleared his throat.

"I shouldn't say this to you," he said after a moment, his eyes meeting hers directly for the first time that evening. "I would be punished by my superiors if they found out. And I- I don't know what the Chantry would do."

Flora gazed up at Cullen with mild trepidation, extracting the heavy tome gently from Connor's fingers. The Templar hesitated a moment, then ploughed on determinedly.

"There's a way to resist being dispelled or silenced," he said hurriedly, the words coming out in a tumble. "The way that it works – the negative energy field – can be neutralised. You might be able to counter it with your barrier, if the resonance is right."

Flora, who had received no formal training and did not understand the theory behind how her magic worked; _did_  remember how the Darkspawn magister had been able to silence her in the Deep Roads service tunnel, cleaving her barrier in two. She gazed up at Cullen, tentatively hopeful.

"Really?"

He nodded slightly, glancing over his shoulder. "We'd need to practise. The more you grow used to it, the more likely you'll be able to resist it."

She beamed at him, bowing her head in gratitude. Connor mumbled in his sleep, turning his face against her upper arm with a grimace. Flora felt a small lurch of sympathy as she envisioned the arl's son navigating the alien landscape of the Fade, trying desperately to avoid the attention of any wandering demons. Although Flora had never been wholly comfortable in the Fade, she had known that the spirits who lent her their aid also kept an eye on her while she was dreaming.

Recalling her brother-warden's frightened face in a tent near Redcliffe months prior, Flora reached out and slid her fingers between Connor's, clutching his hand tightly.

" _Find a quiet spot and hide,"_ she whispered in the boy's ear, hoping that somehow her words would punctuate the Veil.  _"And if they find you, just say no to everything."_

Flora squeezed Connor's palm against her own, silent and reassuring. The young lieutenant gazed back at her for a moment, then coughed and reached for  _Exotic Fish of Thedas._

"Where did we get up to?"

She fell asleep as he was partway through the  _Denerim Cod,_ chin falling to her chest.

Cullen hesitated, then replaced the book gently on the bedspread and returned to his Chantry-ordained duty of watching over two mages at rest. He hoped that if he watched with extra vigilance, it would somehow compensate for his earlier indiscretion.

Some time later, there came the sound of muffled conversation and Teagan opened the door, dropping his voice hastily as he caught sight of his sleeping nephew.

"See, she's just in here, Alistair. No need to panic," murmured Eamon, his own eyes settling on his young son with mingled sadness and affection.

Alistair strode into the room with lips taut and white, barely sparing the Templar lieutenant a glance. He reached down and hauled his sister-warden up into his arms; she yawned and pressed her face sleepily into his shoulder.

"The assassin in the dungeons has been murdered," the prince replied shortly, feeling the warmth of her body through the thin material of the pyjamas. "I'll take no chances."

"I'm a salmon," mumbled Flora drowsily against his neck, yawning more deeply.

Alistair held her more tightly to him, turning to leave. Before the Wardens departed, the young blond officer retrieved  _Exotic Fish of Thedas_  and held it out.

"Don't forget this, my lord."

Preoccupied with dark thoughts of assassins and anonymous faces; Alistair forgot to protest at the address. Easily supporting his sister-warden's weight with a single arm, he reached out and took the book.

"Thank you. Goodnight, Eamon, Teagan."

"Try and get some sleep, Alistair," the arl replied gently, his gaze settling on the dark shadows beneath the youngest Theirin's eyes. "Leonas has assigned extra guards to patrol the passageways."

Alistair looked unconvinced, trying to balance the book against his sister-warden's face as he carried her back out into the corridor. True to Eamon's word, men in South Reach livery were stationed at every doorway. The guards posted outside the arlina's chamber both inclined their heads respectfully as Alistair approached.

The inside of the room rung with snores as Oghren lay sprawled over the remnants of the broken chaise. The dwarf reeked of liquor, an empty bottle of Antivan wine dangling from his slack fingers. Leliana was curled on the Orlesian rug like a cat, nestled within a pile of blankets before the fire. Zevran reclined on the bed, flicking idly through a book of Orlesian love poetry. His dark eyes sparked with interest as Alistair lowered Flora down onto the bed, before pulling his own shirt over his head.

"I'm glad to see you fully recovered,  _florita_ ," murmured the elf to Flora, who slumped down against the cushions and ground her fists into her eyes.

Alistair leaned over to the candelabra on the bedside table and blew it out, climbing into bed alongside his sister-warden; a slightly mutinous expression on his face.

"I'll have to speak to Leonas about getting more bedrolls brought up," he muttered darkly, as Zevran shot him a blatant leer over Flora's prone body. "This is ridiculous."

"Listen to this, my lily: ' _Love is the emblem of eternity, it confounds all notions of time, it effaces all memory of a beginning, all fear of an end.'_ The Orlesians have quite a way with words, do they not?"

"I'm like a salmon," mumbled Flora in response, slithering closer to a scowling Alistair as he lifted his arm. "I'm going to return to the place I was born… and then Fergus'll like me."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So the chapter in which Oghren and Sten were discussing their favourite two-handed weapons was Chapter 76, for reference! I thought this would be a nice way to weave Sten's personal quest into the story (without backtracking all the way to Lake Calenhad).
> 
> Last author note I mentioned how I was developing (or 'hardening')Alistair's character in a slightly different way than it's done in game. Alistair mentions to Flora that if he would make a suitable king, it's because she's helped him to realise it. A large part of that is Flora coming to accept her own heritage as a Cousland – despite her loyalty to Herring, she is willing to take on this additional dynamic; which in turn has helped Alistair to not quite embrace, but accept his own royal blood.
> 
> One thing I'm really enjoying about this hiatus in South Reach is that it allows me to develop characters further, beyond game canon. I'm loving the opportunity to bring back individuals like Cullen and Connor and continue their stories.
> 
> Finally, a few chapters ago we met the two spirits who assist Flora in her role as spirit healer, Valour and Compassion. They do watch over her there; for example, during her Harrowing (when she couldn't remember what happened), and when the Sloth demon in the Circle Tower trapped her in the Fade dream (being able to use her shield as a 'bridge')
> 
> edit - forgot to credit the poem! It's by a French poet named Madame de Staël!


	154. The Lily and the Sword

Chapter 155: The Lily and the Sword

The next morning dawned bright and optimistic, although both Wardens slept late enough to miss the majority of it. They were woken by noises in the main courtyard below; cart wheels and horses' hooves, accompanying a low murmur of conversation. Several of the rising voices were dwarven in inflection, suggesting that they belonged to surface traders and caravan merchants.

Alistair, much to his chagrin, was waylaid by the arls before he could descend to the courtyard. Bann Sighard's mother – who had great influence in her own right – had stopped at South Reach on her way to Denerim, and Eamon had seized the opportunity to gain her support against Loghain. Knowing that the bann's mother had a fancy for handsome young men, the Arl of Redcliffe had requested that Alistair join them in their discussion.

Alistair had wanted Flora to accompany them, but she had been distracted by news of Symon's murder; desiring fresh air and sunlight to calm down and gather her thoughts. Alistair had reluctantly watched his sister-warden descend from the ramparts into the main courtyard, reassured by the fact that both Zevran and Leliana were at her side.

The noises that the Wardens had heard from the west wing turned out to be an entire caravan of travelling merchants, their carts and wagons clustered in the main courtyard. The majority of traders appeared to be dwarven; but there was also a substantial minority of Antivans and a few hard-faced Free Marchers. The variety of goods for sale was impressive – ranging from weapons to kitchen utensils, flowers to exotic fruits and vegetables piled up in dazzling array on the backs of wagons.

Leliana immediately headed for a travelling  _atelier_ , losing herself in bolts of magnificent rainbow-coloured silk. She had heard that arrangements were being made for Arl Eamon's upcoming forty-seventh birthday, and was determined to be the best-dressed person at the celebrations.

Meanwhile Flora stared at the piles of ripe fruit, her mouth watering but lacking sufficient coin to make a purchase. Instead, she wandered past a Free Marcher perched atop a pile of carpets, following the scent of sweet baked goods. Before she could locate the source of the alluring smell, a dwarven voice rose above the low background babble.

"'Scuse me, lass, are yeh Flora?"

It was a female dwarf who had spoken, seated on the wooden backboard of a stationary wagon. The sturdy woman was in her middle years and had a coarse, no-nonsense demeanor about her; she cast her gaze up and down Flora with some derision.

"Is this for yeh? No offense, but I doubt yeh'd even be able ter wield it."

Flora inhaled sharply as the dwarven women began to sort through a stack of crates, rummaging through wrapped items of various shapes and sizes. Finally, the dwarven woman heaved a long, slender item up onto her shoulder. It must have been over five feet in length, appearing weighty despite the narrow breadth. For protection, the blade had been wrapped in sacking and bound with loops of twine.

"What does  _ASALA_ mean, anyway?" asked the dwarf woman, red faced as she and Flora manhandled the sword to the ground. Flora gave a little shrug, inspecting the red abrasions left by the twine on her palms.

"I don't know," she replied, honestly. "It's not my sword."

The dwarven woman snorted, eyes trawling up and down Flora's body once again.

"I'd worked tha' one out," she retorted with a derisive curl of the lip. "Stone, it looks like a stiff breeze might knock yeh right over."

Together they lifted the sword into the buttery, placing it for safekeeping between two large vats of honeyed mead. As the dwarven woman clambered back up onto the wagon, she pointed a thick finger down at the grateful Flora.

"Tell Bodhan he owes me a favour," she called, while Flora bowed her head in effusive gratitude.

The next moment she jumped slightly as a Mabari licked her palm, looking down to see Finian's hound Jethro sniffing her fingers mournfully. Flora had found a few copper coins in the pocket of her breeches; it was not enough to buy any of the fancier baked pastries or sweet goods, but she was able to exchange the coins for a plain bread roll. Sitting on the bottom step, she tore the roll in half and gave part of it to the whining dog. Jethro chewed on the coarse, grainy dough for a few moments, before spitting the remnants out onto the flagstones.

"You have expensive tastes," Flora informed him, swallowing the last mouthful of her own portion. "Just like your master."

" _Princesa,_ come here a moment."

Zevran's voice filtered from between the wagons. Flora patted the hound on the head, clambered to her feet and began to negotiate the warren of carts and wagons. Zevran and Leliana were standing in front of an Antivan flower merchant, whose stall was brilliantly decorated with a multitude of blooms. Leliana had her face submerged in a massive bouquet of scarlet roses, while the merchant gazed at the lovely lay-sister, thoroughly enraptured.

On seeing Flora, Zevran crooked his finger for her to come closer, a wicked smile curling the corner of his mouth.

"Look at this,  _mi sirenita._ Do you know what it is?"

He held up a single bloom on a long, milky green stem, with elegant ivory petals opening up at one end of its length. Flora gazed at it for a moment, and shook her head. Zevran grinned at her, turning the flower so she could admire it from every angle.

"This is a Rialto lily,  _florita._ Is it not very lovely?"

Flora pressed a finger tentatively against one waxy white petal.

"It's very nice," she said, watching Zevran toss a silver coin towards the merchant. "Though it doesn't seem to be a good name for me. It's tall and elegant, and I'm neither."

She gestured down at herself, rolling her eyes. Despite having access to the arlina's wardrobe, Flora felt uncomfortable in the robes and assorted finery contained within; tending instead to pair breeches with a selection of increasingly worn-out waffle knit sweaters. She had found them in the servants' cupboard while cleaning up the result of one morning's nausea, and had instantly been reminded of the fishermen's sweaters that her father used to live in. Much to Leliana's horror, Flora had adopted them as part of her South Reach uniform.

Zevran clicked his tongue gently against his teeth, reaching forward to tuck the lily into her hair while simultaneously caressing the top of her ear.

"Nonsense," he murmured, stepping back to admire his placement. " _Flower_ by name, and flower by nature."

Flora reached up to touch the delicate petals gently, and then beamed at him.

"Thank you," she said politely, and the elf made a gallant bow in her direction.

"Zevran, come and look at this! Is the pollen of this plant not highly toxic?" Leliana called from within the depths of the wagon; somewhat reluctantly, Zevran allowed himself to be drawn away.

Flora stared at the array of flowers on display for several moments, reminded of the various exotic blooms that grew from the vine-covered banks of the Brecilian Forest. A movement to one side caught her eye and she glanced over to see Leonas Bryland standing at the corner of the cart, his expression unreadable as he cast his gaze over the flowers. She stared at him for a moment and as if sensing her stare, he looked up. In the second before he could arrange his features into the usual formal neutrality, there was deep sadness ingrained at the corners of his mouth.

"This is a Rialto lily," said Flora for want of anything else to say, pointing vaguely towards her head. The Arl of South Reach glanced over at her, inclining his head slightly.

"I was looking for chrysanthemums," he replied, and there was an odd hollowness to his tone. "They were my wife Lina's favourite."

Flora gazed at him without speaking and sure enough, a few moments later, the Arl continued. His face was that of a man posed behind a besieged barricade, teeth gritted and eyes resigned.

"She died three years ago. The sweat took her; she was laughing at breakfast and dead by dinner."

For Flora, who had been healing cases of the sweat and frost-cough in Herring since she was too young to understand the concept of mortality, disease had never been a concern. Not knowing what to say, she continued to blink unhappily at the older man as his eyes trawled over the rows of blooms.

_How would I feel if Alistair died?_ she thought, trying to understand.

The world seemed to lurch beneath Flora and she almost lost her balance, putting a hand against the wooden cart. The thought was too horrific to live long in her mind before being defiantly purged by her brain. She reached out impulsively and put her fingers on the Arl's elbow, her solemn eyes seeking his.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, realising that there was little else that could be said. "I wish I had been there."

Leonas Bryland gave a small, wistful smile, his eyes moving over the lily tucked behind her ear. The waxy petals stood out in stark contrast against her dark red hair; some faint golden pollen had dropped from the filaments and settled on her fine-boned cheek.

"She loves flowers," he said, mouth curving upwards. For a moment it was as though his wife were still alive, standing on the other side of the wagon, head turning at the sound of her name. Then a shadow passed over his face, and the smile turned into a grimace.

" _Loved._  She had a flower arbour near the kitchen garden. I expect it's all overgrown now."

As though awakening from a reverie, the Arl gave a little start and blinked; realising that Flora was far closer in years to his daughter, the arlina, than she was to his late wife.

"Anyway, you have better things to do than listen to the ramblings of an old man," he said, stepping away as though her fingers had burnt him. "I'll see you at dinner."

Flora gazed after him for a moment, shading her eyes against the midday sun.

_I don't have anything better to do,_ she thought to herself.  _We're all just waiting around for the pieces of some vast invisible puzzle to fall into place. And this Arl has accommodated us all at his own risk; invariably putting him and South Reach at odds with Loghain. He's raised his head above the parapet by harbouring us here._

The beginnings of a plan began to form in Flora's mind and she circled the wagon, looking for the owner. On the side hidden by shadow, she came across Zevran with his hand working enthusiastically between Leliana's thighs, her fuchsia robes pulled up around her hips. Crashing against the wagon in her haste to retreat, Flora shot back around the corner and barrelled straight into the flower-seller. The slender elf looked unruffled by the collision, stepping back demurely and bowing his head.

"May I be of assistance, my lady?"

"Do you have any seeds?" Flora asked, raising her voice slightly over the argument that was now taking place between her companions. The elf inclined his head, gesturing with long fingers to a crate that contained dozens of small cloth pouches.

"What sort would you like?"

"All sorts," said Flora, remembering the arl's mournful eyes. "Chrysanthemums, if you have them."

The elf nodded; he did. Busy fingers quickly went to work gathering up a selection of cloth pouches, while Flora tried her best to ignore Zevran and Leliana's escalating altercation.

"Oh, I have no money," said Flora after a moment, grimacing slightly. "My brother Finian might have some, if you let me find him- "

The flower-seller cut her off with a brief shake of the head, hiding a smile.

"There will be no charge, Grey Warden," he said quietly, eyes the colour of peeled grapes passing over her appraisingly. "Although I do not reside in the Forest, I count myself as Dalish. I know what you did for my people."

Flora thanked him effusively, clutching the hessian bag containing the seed assortment to her chest. After he had waved off her gratitude, she went back around to the shadowed side of the wagon and dropped to her knees between the quarrelling elf and bard, lowering her forehead beseechingly. It was a strategy that she had used before to diffuse tension, and it rarely failed to work.

"Please, stop," she entreated the flagstones earnestly. "We have enough enemies, let's not fight between ourselves too."

Her supplication had the desired effect; both elf and bard broke off their argument abruptly, cheeks flushed. Leliana gave a little sniff, tossing her plaits but reaching down to help Flora to her feet again, aware of her injured knee.

"An effective diversion," she murmured, in reluctant, begrudging admiration. "Few are immune to a pretty girl on her knees."

Zevran's eyes lit up, the flaring anger turning quickly to humour.

"I warrant that this is not the first time you've knelt to pacify someone, my Rialto lily," he said innocently, earning himself a glare from Leliana. "I trust that you have deployed this strategy with Alistair before?"

Flora nodded, wondering why the elf was leering openly at her. A dark cackle escaped Zevran's throat, his eyes lingering on her mouth.

"Oh, I  _know_  you have," he murmured, voice thickening. "You two aren't exactly  _discreet_ \- "

The elf yelped as Leliana drove her elbow swiftly between his ribs. Flora shot him a quizzical expression, clutching the hessian sack to her chest.

"Have a nice afternoon," she said, diplomatically. "I'm going to do some gardening."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So in canon, Eamon is only like 46 years old at the time of Origins? WTF? He looks about thirty years older than that, lol. Oh well, we haven't had a PARTY in a while, and I love writing about PARTIES. Also going to parties, as long as they aren't boring work parties. Also, Sten's sword is way skinnier than I thought it would be – I was picturing some massive fuck-off greatsword, but the Sword of the Beresaad in game is actually weeny.
> 
> So Zevran says "flower by name, flower by nature" to Flora. Since Antiva is basically NotSpain, "flor" is Spanish for "flower", which is what he means. Actually, let's do a little rundown of Zevran's nicknames for Flora here (and if my Spanish is wrong, APOLOGIES, I did not study Spanish in school! I did French and Welsh!)
> 
> Rialto lily = Rialto is a town in Antiva, just south of Antiva City
> 
> Carina = MADE THIS UP. Thought it was Spanish, but it's actually not. WHO KNOWS? I guess it's related to the Italian for dear, but major linguistic failure regardless
> 
> Florita = little flower
> 
> Sirenita = little mermaid
> 
> Princesa = princess
> 
> Corazon = heart
> 
> Límon = lemon (after she confessed to dressing up as a lemon for a Circle costume ball, as opposed to sexy Tevinter pole dancer/Orlesian courtesan)
> 
> Please correct any of my horrible linguistic errors, lol
> 
> Also, the 'sweat' is short for 'sweating sickness', a strange virulent disease that afflicted England in period outbreaks during the late Medieval/early Modern period. It could kill in actual hours – someone really could be perfectly fine at the start of the day, and dead by the evening. Henry VIII's illegitimate son the Duke of Richmond died of it! Scientists (virologists?) still aren't sure what the 'real' disease was behind the sweat – most theorise that it was some sort of hantavirus. HURRAY FOR MAKING UP BACKSTORIES FOR MINOR NPCS!


	155. Gardening

Leaving the elf and the bard to resolve their differences in whatever manner they saw fit, Flora made her way through to the lesser courtyard. Averting her eyes from the damaged stonework at the scene of her accident, she passed the stables and followed the line of the external kitchen wall. The sun shone brilliantly overhead like a burnished copper coin, and Flora felt the back of her neck grow slick with sweat. She tied her hair up on top of her head in a lopsided knot as her deprived stomach gave a rumble of protest.

Fortunately at that moment Flora happened to be passing through the kitchen gardens. Lowering the hessian sack of seeds to the earth she ate several large tomatoes straight from the vine, feeling slightly criminal. They were ripe and full of sun-warmed sweetness; she felt the juice running stickily down her chin.

_Tall and elegant_ , she thought to herself with a little snort, the Rialto lily still tucked behind her ear.  _Not in the slightest._

Retrieving the sack, Flora continued to follow the path through the allotments, until the paved stone came to an abrupt end before a walled garden. Flora paused for a moment, then passed beneath the stone archway and gazed around. The arbor was small – not much larger than Arl Leonas' solar – and contained a single peach tree in the centre, its branches hanging low with overripe fruit. The earthen beds themselves were hidden beneath a tangled mass of weeds. The rear of the garden ended in a desolate cluster of hazel trees, their branches weaving together.

Flora came to an abrupt halt, somewhat dismayed. She had envisioned the dead arlessa's arbor to consist of a secluded patch of conveniently tilled earth, ready for fresh seeds to be planted. This horticultural nightmare suggested several years of neglect and untamed growth.

_Still,_ she reasoned grimly to herself, dumping the hessian sack of seeds at her feet.  _It isn't as if you have much else to occupy your time here. Alistair is the one in demand, not you._

Wishing fervently that she had Wynne's ability to summon a firestorm at the click of her fingers, Flora lowered herself once more to her knees. Her injured joint gave a nagging throb of pain, which she wilfully ignored. Rolling up her sleeves, she reached out to grab the first prickled fistfuls of unwanted foliage.

It took longer than Flora had expected to clear the weeds from the flower beds; hidden depths of overgrowth swelling up beneath the surface layer. The sun bore down relentlessly on the back of her neck until she took the woollen sweater off and tied it around her waist; grateful for the thin linen vest she wore below. Soon, she had settled into a rhythm of yanking up two fists-worth of roots, then tossing them into a growing pile within the hazel thicket.

Several hours later, Flora stood triumphant and exhausted beneath the overburdened peach tree. A pile of conquered weeds lay behind her, and two walls worth of earthen beds had been exposed. Deciding to rest her eyes for just a moment, she sat down against the trunk and yawned.

After some time she was awoken by a hand shaking her shoulder, urgent and ungentle. She opened her eyes just as Alistair gathered her into a rough embrace, his face pulled taut with worry. He had stumbled upon her quite by accident, having taken a rear passage out of the fortress to escape Bann Sighard's overly-friendly mother before sensing the familiar presence of his sister-warden. Clad in a velvet maroon tunic and calfskin breeches, he cut a handsome and expensive figure against the mellow late-afternoon light.

"You want to make me an old man before my time," Alistair said through gritted teeth, lowering himself to the grass to sit beside her. "Asleep, half-naked, in this isolated area. With assassins on the prowl! Wait, have you been  _gardening?"_

"I'm not  _half-naked_ ," Flora replied indignantly, inspecting the layers of dirt caked beneath her fingernails. "I'm fully clothed."

Alistair glanced down at the thin, loose-fitting vest and snorted.

"That's not clothing, those are  _smallclothes_."

Flora rolled her eyes at him in a gesture that was wholly adolescent, slumping back onto the grass. She squinted up at the waning sun through the branches of the peach tree.

"You don't need to lord it over me with your  _separate layers of clothes_ ," she retorted, indignantly. "Having clothing that only exists to be worn under other clothing... that's so  _Orlesian_."

Alistair grinned incredulously, coming down to lean on an elbow beside her.

"Wearing smalls is an Orlesian habit, now?" he murmured, fingers pulling a stray thread from the hem of her vest. "Are you saying that the people of Herring don't wear any, then?"

Flora thought for a moment before replying solemnly.

"Only on special occasions."

Alistair laughed out loud, edging the bottom of the vest up and kissing her stomach. Flora, who hadn't been joking, eyed the top of her brother-warden's gilded head; wondering at the ability of his hair to reflect even the sallow, receding daylight.

"Bann Sighard's mother is intolerable," he said against her skin, pushing the thin material further upwards to reveal her abdomen. "She undid half the lacings of her corset during our conversation. Eamon didn't know where to look."

Flora snorted, wriggling slightly in the grass as he lowered his mouth and kissed a meandering trail across the line of her stomach.

"I need to do some drill exercises with you," she whispered, gesturing down at the belly that was no longer quite so flat. "I won't fit into my breeches if I lie around South Reach eating all day."

Alistair grinned back down at her, his fingers gathering the vest up further to reveal the pale undersides of her breasts. Bowing his head, he traced their outline with his tongue, one hand clamped possessively over the almost undetectable curve of his sister-warden's stomach.

"Nothing wrong with having an appetite, my dear," he murmured, sliding the vest inexorably upwards. "I like a girl with some meat on her bones."

At that moment the edge of the sinking sun crested over the crumbling masonry; bathing the walled garden in a bruised mellow light. The gilded brush of sunset blurred the rotting tree and the piles of uprooted weeds; lending the dead arlessa's sanctuary a strange, fleeting allure.

Seeing her brother-warden's desire writ clear on his face Flora lifted her arms obligingly above her head, allowing him to remove the vest altogether. The odd topknot of hair was collapsing, slumping to one side with loose tendrils thick as ropes falling around her ears. Winding his finger around one strand still clinging determinedly to the leather band, Alistair gently pulled it free, letting it settle alongside her bare breast.

"Flora," he said hoarsely and she peered up at him, squinting against the glare of the setting sun. Since her northerner's colouring tended towards the paler edge of the spectrum, it absorbed whatever colours bled into her from the surrounding environment. The mellifluent waning light washed her skin in gold, and her irises were like two copper coins, brilliant and metallic.

"Alistair," Flora replied, still drowsy from the residual afternoon heat. Alistair gazed down at her, sudden desire in his eyes burning hotter than any dwarven forge. He shook his head wordlessly, the air catching in his throat as he gazed openly at her bare upper body, raw hunger in his stare. His lust-clumsy fingers fumbled at the buttons of her breeches and she helped him to slide them down around her ankles. Then, she was Maker-naked in the grass before him, skin sticky from overripe peaches crushed beneath her.

Flora gazed up at her gentle, compassionate brother-warden as he knelt beside her; handsome face contorted as a desperate pulse beat in his throat. Alistair's hand moved in rapid jerks, stroking his exposed, swollen length as his gaze raked over her body in a manner somehow both lewd and loving.

"You're so beautiful," he muttered, the words slipping out almost unintentionally between low, primitive grunts. "Maker, I can't _\- I can't_ \- "

Before Alistair could finish his sentence, he had spilled himself over the grass; head tossed back and teeth gritted as though he were in pain. She could see the strong muscles of his shoulders moving spasmodically beneath the fine velvet of the tunic, the material now damp with sweat.

Her brother-warden took several moments to gather himself, visibly willing his shuddering body to still and his heartbeat to slow. Flora reached out a hand and he clasped a sweaty, sword-calloused palm to her own, bestowing her with a slightly dazed smile.

"I love you," she said impulsively, and the smile widened into a proper, genuine beam of pleasure. Alistair reached out and stroked a damp thumb around Flora's forehead, tracing the delicate outline of her temple.

"Not as much as I love you, my dear," he breathed, already feeling the blood surging back to his loins. "Whatever you want of me, I'll do. Just say the word."

"Kiss me," she instructed solemnly, and the prince grinned, leaning forward to take her face in his hands.

"Your desire is my command, my love," he murmured, the last word muffled as his lips met hers. He kissed her without pause as a waning sun breathed its last pinkish sigh across the horizons, yielding to a bruised, dusky twilight.

Over the next few hours Flora lost count of the number of times that he was inside her; their bodies seemed to come together and part as naturally as breathing, first moving in fevered harmony and then melded by sweat and the sticky juice of crushed peaches.

Eventually the grass grew damp with evening dew, the temperature dropping sufficient to serve as a distraction. Flora, thoroughly exhausted and dishevelled beyond redemption, stared glassily down at her brother-warden's head. His face was hidden between her thighs, lips still working in languid determination to draw further satisfaction from her weary loins.

"Alistair, we'll- ," she began, then cut herself off abruptly as his tongue began to probe with resolute ardour. Realising that he would not be dissuaded, Flora yielded to his persistent efforts and closed her eyes, fingers clutching ineffectually at the grass.

Finally Alistair slumped next to her, a look of triumph emblazoned over his handsome, arrogant features. They were both sweaty and satiated, sticky from the fruit and the dew-damp grass.

"We'll be late for dinner." Flora retrieved the abandoned thought and finished it. "And we need to wash."

Alistair bent his head and wrapped his lips around her nipple, tasting the sweet juice of overripe fruit. Hand dropping between her legs, he began to fondle her with intent; coaxing tender flesh inexorably towards climax with each stroke of his calloused fingers.

"No one else gets to see you like this," he observed, pride and possessiveness mingling in his tone as his eyes greedily drank in her flushed face and lips parted in wanton gasps. " _Only me."_

He entered her as she squirmed helplessly beneath him in the grass, spending himself in a few hard, desperate thrusts.

It was now properly dark, a veil of hanging mist disguising the night sky's usual gleaming ornamentation. The fires were being lit within South Reach fortress, emerging slits of yellow light breaking up the imposing expanse of the eastern wall. From somewhere in the hazel thicket, an owl gave a long, mournful hoot. It was interrupted by the triumphant scream of a hawk; the beat of angular wings flapping as it wheeled down towards its unsuspecting prey. The walled garden was cast in varying tones of purplish shadow, the warmth of the day now thoroughly drained.

Flora was the first to sit up, feeling her hair arcing in crazed loops and whorls away from her head. She glanced down at Alistair, who was flat on his back with a semi-dazed expression on his face.

"We have to…  _wash,_ " Flora repeated blearily, touching her fingers to her mouth. Her lips felt bruised and over-sensitive; swollen from an excess of Alistair's ardent affection. "And go to dinner. Or they'll think the last Wardens in Ferelden have abandoned it to its fate. Ouch, I think I'm sunburnt."

A yawning Alistair groaned but sat up obligingly. He grinned at her, naked adoration warming his beeswax eyes to honey, sweet and raw. Flora blushed in the heat of his gaze, dropping her eyes to their sweat-tangled fingers. When she put a hand to her cheek it felt warm, and she was not sure if the flush was due to the sun or her brother-warden.

"Alright," he said reluctantly, reaching out to retrieve his breeches. "Let's go and show our faces."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I really wanted to call this chapter "A Pastoral Shag" but then I thought that might LOWER THE TONE of my story. Although my husband says the tone of the story was lowered when I started inserting semi-public sex scenes. Oh well that ship has sailed then, lol. I AM JUST TRYING TO BE HISTORICALLY ACCURATE, PRIVACY IS A VICTORIAN AGE CONCEPT. I bet people can't wait to click on a chapter named "Gardening" though, that really gets the adrenaline pumping! (sarcasm)
> 
> I was trying to go for a pastoral, bucolic feel with this chapter- a spot of gardening in the middle of a Blight! I thought it would be a nice way for Flora to occupy her time, since she basically has nothing to do at South Reach except wait for the summons from Denerim.
> 
> Smallclothes = underwear by the way, it's like the Medieval term for your knick-knacks.


	156. Asala

The two Wardens washed in South Reach's western barracks, which contained a supply of running water and was far quicker than waiting for the large copper tub in their own chamber to be heated and filled. Using rear stairs customarily used by the servants, they returned to the arlina's quarters and retrieved clothing more presentable for dining. The passageway was deserted, save for several unfamiliar Templars and a scattering of liveried retainers.

The wagons and carts of the passing trade caravan were still stationed haphazardly around the main courtyard; the majority of merchants were clustered around braziers and fires, voices tangled in low conversation. Alistair and Flora were weaving their way around a cluster of travelling dwarven smiths, when Flora raised a hand and called out, spotting a familiar bulky silhouette lurking beside the wall.

"Sten!  _Steeen!"_  she bleated, until the Qunari cast a contemptuous eye in her direction. When she continued to wave frantically he approached with obvious reluctance, his ashen stare disapproving.

"Do not yowl at me like a beast of the field," he stated flatly, top lip curling in derision. An earnest Flora gazed up at him, rolling the sleeves of the shirt absentmindedly up over her wrists.

"Bodhan's got something for you," she said, gesturing towards the small wooden door at the base of the fortress wall. "He's had it stored in the buttery. For… safekeeping."

"What is it? Why would he not give it to me directly?" demanded Sten with naked suspicion, his brow creasing.

"It's a surprise," replied Flora vaguely, at which the Qunari narrowed his eyes.

"I don't want a 'surprise'."

"Too late, you have to have it now," Flora retorted, moving as rapidly as her sore, sated limbs would allow towards the vast entrance doors. Alistair gave a helpless shrug, following in her wake like a small boat pulled along by an inexorable current.

"Don't ask me!"

By the time that they arrived in the main hall, dinner was well underway. Since several nobles had already left for Denerim by this point- one western arl had departed that morning – many of the long tables were barren. Those that still remained were gathered near the dais at the far end of the hall, their quiet murmurs of conversation insufficient to fill the lofty eaves. Now that initial formalities had been dispensed with; teyrn sat alongside bann on the lower tables. Only one of the vast fireplaces had been lit, casting a flickering warmth onto the faces of the nobles sat opposite. The rushes strewn over the flagstones were fresh, their sweet green smell mingling with the tang of roasted meat.

Servants were in the process of clearing away large silver soup tureens, a sight which gratified Flora greatly. Used to eating basic foodstuffs with her fingers, the combination of more elaborate cuisine and cutlery at South Reach often proved disastrous for her clothing.

"That's one less thing to tip down myself," she whispered and Alistair grinned involuntarily, reaching down to take her hand.

"Come on, I don't want to hear you complaining about missing the second course too."

Flora looked down at his calloused fingers entwined with hers, then peered back up at him; a silent question on her face. Alistair gave a slight shrug, the corner of his mouth curling upwards.

"They all know about us, Flo, so there's no point in hiding it." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, slow and deliberate, his eyes not leaving hers. "There's nothing wrong here. I'm  _proud_  to love you. It's a… it's a privilege to walk into a room with you at my side."

Flora, wholly unexpectedly, felt tears welling in the corners of her eyes. Irrationally annoyed with herself, she blinked hard and then smiled brightly at him.

"You won't be saying that when we're walking out and I've spilt half my dinner down my shirt."

Both Cousland brothers were in earnest conversation with Arl Eamon, Finian jabbing a fragment of bread into the air to emphasise his point. Teagan and Leonas were listening, both wearing near-identical expressions of amusement. The Wardens' companions were clustered together at a single table, all present save for Sten and Morrigan, who both detested any form of socialising. The Qunari had not yet deigned to set foot within any part of South Reach fortress save for the barracks and – lured through deception – the Chantry.

Leliana was partway through recanting some elaborate tale, her eyes sparkling animatedly as she gestured. Wynne was smiling and nodding, an almost imperceptible shadow settled on her features. Zevran was leaning against the curlicued stone of the fireplace, gazing into the blushing face of a serving lad and flirting with aggressive intent. Oghren had his head on the table and appeared to be asleep.

_All these people are here because of us,_ Flora thought with slight incredulity as they approached the far end of the hall.  _We brought them together, Alistair and I._

As though reading her mind, Alistair gave her fingers a quick, firm squeeze. The cluster of nobles greeted them with nods of familiarity; even Fergus deigned to offer Flora a small quirk of a smile. Zevran abruptly abandoned the blushing servant and made a beeline towards them as they sat, his dark eyes gleaming wickedly.

"We were getting worried," he purred, taking a seat opposite them and resting his chin in his hand. Platters of roasted meat were brought to the tables; to the elf's slight irritation, he had to direct his comments over the glassy-eyed stare of a stuffed goose. "You two hid yourselves away for  _hours._  Were you discussing important Warden business?"

Further down the table Fergus, not yet reconciled to the idea of his little sister as the mistress of a Theirin, scowled darkly. Flora, conscious of the scrutiny of others, focused intently on carving a thin slice of meat from the goose's flank with a tiny, impractical knife.

"Yes," replied Alistair, gallantly rising to the implicit challenge. "Very important Warden business. Top secret Darkspawn-fighting tactics."

"Ah, tactics," murmured Zevran, enjoying Leliana's dirty little glower. "I'm not sure I can condone the removal of clothing on the battlefield, Alistair."

"Don't be  _inappropriate_ ," hissed Leliana, her whole face contented into a reprimand. Flora, unable to help herself, laughed and accidentally splattered herself with sauce. Zevran caught her eye in delight, tossing a casual wink across the table.

Arl Eamon leaned back to look past his brother, drawing Alistair into the conversation. Wynne, in an attempt to deflect Leliana's ferocious glower, began to recant an hour-by-hour catalogue of her own productive afternoon. Zevran occupied himself by nudging Flora's leg under the table with his toe; nostrils flaring as she squarely ignored him in favour of her food. As the evening wore on the servants took away the goose and brought out platters of roasted vegetables.

"I think I may be getting somewhere with your brother," the elf murmured at last, leaning over on the pretence of reaching for a knife. "I think tonight might be the night,  _dulce_."

"Fergus or Finian?" mumbled Flora through a full mouth; then cackled as Zevran shot a horrified look at the stern, gaunt-cheeked profile of the widowed teyrn.

Finian, ears pricking at the sound of his name, craned his neck in their direction. He was about to say something in response, when the conversation ended as abruptly as a Templar's silence. The doors at the far end of the hall had been shoved open, and Sten stood framed between them. His face was impassive, his bulk dominating the space; it was the first time that the Qunari had ventured inside the main hall. He did not spare a glance for the elaborate furnishings, his gaze focused, hawk-like, on the cluster of people around the tables.

The nobles, not used to the Qunari's uncompromising presence, faltered. They glanced at one another, and then across at the Wardens and their companions. After an initial surveillance sweep Sten did not spare them a glance; his scathing glare focused solely on one person. Without pause or deviation, his eyes locked themselves on her as he began to stride between the tables. On his back was a sword, gleaming like a bright flame in the cedar-haze gloom. It could not have been shorter than five feet, and even at a distance its craftsmanship was obvious.

Flora felt the raw heat of the Qunari's ashen glare, focused and penetrative; and a slight wave of apprehension washed over her. She swallowed her food and surreptitiously wiped her greasy fingers on her breeches, clambering nervously to her feet. Alistair swivelled in his seat, body reflexively turning to follow her progress.

_It's the wrong sword_ , she thought wildly,  _or it's been damaged and he's going to cut my head off in revenge. Or body slam me against a wall for a second time._

She stood in the aisle between the long tables, gazing at the Qunari as he strode towards her. His expression, as was customary, gave nothing away; and Flora was suddenly grateful that apprehension manifested itself as solemnity on her own features. The more frightened she was, the more stern and uncompromising her expression.

_Would I prefer decapitation or being crushed? Which is quicker? They say that being Tranquilised is a bit like being decapitated._

Sten came to a halt before her, stopping several yards away. His gaze swept over her and for a single beat, for the first time since she had met him in Lothering months prior, he hesitated.

"How is it that you were able to locate my sword in a country this size?" he demanded, his voice throbbing and powerful; it was more an interrogative demand than a query.

"I didn't," replied Flora, surprised. " _Bodhan_  did. He found it, not me."

Sten curled his lip, clearly irritated at her attempt to deflect responsibility.

"I spoke with the dwarf," he said, each word blunt as a mace-blow. "He said that  _you_  asked him to pass word along the merchant network about this particular sword. And that  _you_  told him it was last seen at the eastern Lake Calenhad dock. It appears that this information was crucial in tracking it down."

Flora blinked, casting her mind back a month prior to when she had first spoken with Bodhan on the road from Redcliffe.

"I- I overheard you talking to Oghren," she replied at last, her goose-smeared fingers twisting unconsciously in the hem of her shirt. "About what the sword looked like, and that you last remembered fighting with it next to a row of seven cypress trees, with one broken, that it was the last image fixed in your mind before you lost consciousness."

Sten stared at her without a word; Flora could feel the eyes of the others also resting curiously on her back.

"I used to climb onto the Kinloch Hold roof all the time," she continued, hesitantly. "On a clear day, you can- you can almost see the sea, if you look north. But if you look  _east_ , you can see a dock. And there are seven cypress trees there, with the sixth one broken. I have a good memory."

Flora shifted from foot to foot, surreptitiously resting her weight on her sound knee. Sten gazed at her in silence for a long moment. Nobody behind her dared speak; a Mabari let out a loud yawn and settled down before the fire.

"It was no trouble," she muttered after a moment, increasingly uncomfortable. "I'm very grateful for your- for all you've done to help us. Alistair and I both are."

"When I first met you, I believed you to be nothing more than a stupid human  _imekari –_ a child," the Qunari said at last, his words fragmenting the silence. Flora resisted the urge to drop her gaze glumly to her feet, wishing fervently that she could go back to her dinner.

"But I have witnessed you accomplish everything that you set out to do," he continued after a pause, the words emotionless and perfunctory. "You have followed the path ordained for you without deviation and without faltering. It is as if you were guided by the Qun."

Flora raised her eyes to the Qunari, who was speaking to her as if they were the only two people in the room.

"You have no need of a title or a noble heritage,  _basilit-an_ ," Sten continued, his gaze flickering momentarily to the Cousland brothers as they sat behind her, both struck into silence. "Ferelden will follow you regardless. There is a quality within you also held by the leaders of my people, a great and unyielding purpose. And  _I_  will follow you until this purpose is fulfilled."

Flora gazed at him, feeling the atmosphere pulse and the eyes of the men who ran Ferelden settling on her; appraising and thoughtful. She knew that the Qunari would not approve of her gratitude but chose to show it anyway, bowing her head towards him.

To her great surprise, he inclined his head back towards her, expression neutral.

"I will be in the barracks,  _kadan_ , striking the dust from Asala."

Sten turned around without another word, beginning to stride back up the aisle.

"Sten," she called suddenly and the Qunari stopped, turning around to gaze at her, impassive as if the exchange had never taken place. Flora remembered that he had first used the peculiar term when they were retrieving Cailen's body from the Darkspawn crux at Ostagar, him supporting the wind-blasted leathery limbs while she untangled the knots keeping the dead King in place.

"What does- what does  _kadan_ mean?"

Sten gazed at her without speaking, then slowly brought his fist up to the centre of his chest and held it there for a long moment; eyes boring hard into hers. Then the Qunari swivelled abruptly and stalked across the flagstones, sparing no look over his shoulder. He had not acknowledged the presence of anyone else for the entire duration of his visit to the hall.

Flora remained standing in the aisle and watched him leave, incredulity buzzing within the confines of her skull. She could feel the heat of a dozen pairs of eyes resting on her: some amused, but many more appraising. Wynne was half-smiling; although the shadow that clouded her face whenever she looked at the young Warden was still present.

Alistair, who hid nothing behind the mask of politick, bore a grin of pride that drained the surface arrogance from his face. As Flora turned back towards the table, he stood upright and courteously helped her clamber back over the bench, aware of her stiff knee. His hand lingered on her shoulder, squeezing gently; and as she sat back down, he leaned over and kissed her somewhere near her ear.

Flora smiled back at him, somewhat self-conscious from the surfeit of eyes on her back. For want of anything to say, she plugged her mouth with a piece of bread and inspected her grease-splattered shirt.

"Well," murmured Zevran, breaking the silence. "Who's for a game of  _Wicked Grace_? Finian?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Asala is of course Sten's sword, and now that little plotline is resolved! It means soul in the Qunari language. Incidentally, I did this quest on my second time through this game (ugh thanks corrupted save file! It's almost time for Deep Roads again, kill me now) - and I vendored Sten's sword immediately after completing the quest. Sorry, Sten, I need to buy approximately half a million health potions to survive Deep Roads 2: Broodmother's Revenge.
> 
> basilit-an = non-qunari worthy of respect
> 
> This is taken directly from the Dragon Age wikia: Kadan - Literally, "where the heart lies;" friend. An all-purpose word for a "person one cares about," including colleagues, friends and loved ones. Also means "the center of the chest."


	157. The Assassin Strikes

 

After they had finished dinner, Leliana purposefully produced her lute and negotiated a prime seat beside the fire. As she sang her way through a quartet of Fereldan melodies – with the occasional Orlesian song, in honour of Bann Leonas' parentage – the others dutifully gathered around to listen. The bard's lovely, lilting soprano provided the perfect cover for discreet conversation. Oghren, who had been un-gently prodded awake by Wynne during dinner, promptly fell back asleep.

Zevran played several games of Wicked Grace with Finian; the younger Cousland receiving an occasional glare from the elder if they grew too boisterous. Alistair attempted to join in one game, but his clear, open face was no match for Antivan guile and Orlesian pageantry, and he was out in the first round.

Several coins lighter, Alistair returned to his sister-warden in a slight sulk; lowering himself before the fire. Flora was bent over several sheets of parchment, a pencil in hand, frowning to herself.

"That elf is a fiend," Alistair murmured against her hair, still damp from the barracks washroom. "He definitely had a card up his sleeve."

Flora brought the pencil to her mouth and began to gnaw on its tip, thoughtfully. Alistair leaned forward, the firelight illuminating his hair to a rich, lustrous gold. She had begun another letter, this one addressed to  _'THE CANTRI HERING._ '

"The only person who can read in Herring is our Chantry sister," explained Flora quietly, trying not to disrupt Leliana's mournful ballad.

"Do you need any assistance, my dear?"

Flora, who had never been too proud to accept help, gave a grateful nod. Alistair wrote out several exemplar sentences for her to follow, enunciating each syllable and pointing to its corresponding letters. Flora copied them out painstakingly in her own large, looping hand, repeating each sound that her brother-warden made.

"That lad is more than lust-struck," murmured the Arl of South Reach to the Arl of Redcliffe, watching the two young Wardens beside the fire. "Any queen he might take would be no true wife to him, not with that girl as his mistress."

Despite the future political entanglement that this was bound to cause; Eamon could not stop the corner of his mouth twisting upwards. He gazed at Alistair, who as a boy had never felt as though he belonged anywhere, curling an arm proudly around Flora's narrow shoulders as he murmured in her ear. Flora let out a sudden cackle, then clapped a hand over her mouth as Leliana flared her nostrils mid-verse. She turned her eyes to Alistair, shifting patterns cast over her pale skin by the dancing flames; and he gazed at her as though glimpsing the face of Andraste herself.

After signing her own name in blocky capitals with a flourish, Flora felt the cool silvery heat of a Cousland stare on the back of her neck, prickling and insistent. She turned around and sure enough Fergus was staring at her, the teyrn's face thoughtful.

Finally, when people had started to drift in clumps towards their various quarters, Eamon called for Alistair to hang back a moment. The bastard prince stayed out of duty rather than genuine desire; his head reflexively turning towards where Flora was trailing after her brothers. Finian had clearly said something that evoked a contrasting response from each Cousland sibling; the younger laughed and hit him on the elbow, the elder's nostrils flared in a manner reminiscent of the senior enchanter at her most disapproving.

"Alistair," said Eamon, his voice soft enough to draw a wary gaze from the Warden. "There's something we need to clarify before Denerim."

Alistair looked across at the three nobles who were positioned on one side of the table; the architects of their factional bid against Loghain. Leonas was tapping his fingers on the back of Eamon's chair, unconsciously mimicking the melody of Leliana's last ballad. Teagan was leaning against the mantel of the fireplace, his expression neutral. The Arl of Redcliffe gazed across at Alistair, holding his stare evenly.

"What?" Alistair asked, trying to inject a note of humour into the conversation. "Are we going to have matching outfits when we troop into the Landsmeet together? I think magenta would make a striking impression."

Although his tone was light, his hazel eyes were guarded. Arl Eamon cleared his throat, ploughing forwards gamely.

"We need to clarify the relationship between you and your fellow Warden before we make a bid to usurp Anora. If we don't have a stance on it, then Mac Tir is sure to turn the situation against us, somehow."

Alistair's head snapped upwards, the portcullis slamming down over his face as he opened his mouth to retort. Eamon held up his hand,  _peace._

"We aren't suggesting that anything change, Alistair, so don't look at me like that. Young Flora may just be a healer but as long as she has magic, you cannot marry. So would you be willing to take a queen? I'm not suggesting Anora," he added hastily, seeing outrage flare in the young prince's eyes.

Alistair grimaced, shrugging a shoulder. "It wouldn't be fair," he said after a moment, bewilderment quickly replacing the anger in his gaze.

"Fair to you?"

"No," said Alistair, who was deeply compassionate at heart. "To the woman I would marry. Because it wouldn't really be a marriage, would it? We wouldn't share a bed, or a room, or anything much at all. I would have no need for her, and that's not fair.  _She –_ whoever you had in mind - deserves a proper husband."

Silence fell as the nobles contemplated this. Unbeknownst to Alistair, Fergus had just entered the room once again, quiet and unobtrusive as a shadow.

"Does the lass mean that much to you, then?" asked Teagan suddenly, although he already knew the response.

Alistair shook his head in slight frustration, trying to put his thoughts into coherent speech.

"Flo's my best friend," he said, with a helpless shrug. "She's my partner. How can I define someone who saves my life every day? I would be dead a hundred times over if not for her. She's  _more_  than a wife to me, she's my… she's my  _sister-warden."_

"Will you stand by those words in Denerim?" The query was sharp as a blade, cutting through the warm cedar-scented air. Alistair turned to see Fergus staring at him, gaunter than any Ferelden noble had a right to be. In the muted glow of the dying embers, the differences between him and his younger sister were blurred. The solemn, almost haughty turn of his mouth was all Flora; as were the drawn together brows, high and curving. The way they held themselves was similar, although Flora rested more of her weight on her sound knee.

"Yes," replied Alistair, simply and without hesitation. "I can't- "

He was interrupted by a sound so vast and incomprehensible that it seemed to have broken through from a Fade-nightmare. A great crash came as a thousand pieces of glass shattered in ear-splitting concord; almost concurrent came the groan of metal as it wrenched itself into unnatural shapes. The cacophony had come from the adjacent entrance hall, and a moment later they heard a swell of frightened voices and a woman screaming, thin and high-pitched.

Those still in the main hall stared at one another for a fraction of a second; though the prince was already in swift movement, mouth forming the name of his sister-warden in a frantic yell.

They arrived within the entrance hall moments later; witnessing the shocking reality behind the nightmarish sound. High above the main staircase, two dozen metres above the flagstones, had once hung a vast crystal and gilt candelabra. It was many tiered, giving it great size and mass; a glittering piece of Orlesian glamour in the militaristic heart of South Reach fortress.

Now the tangled remnants lay shattered and broken across the stone tiles. Thousands of jagged shards of crystal lay scattered over the flagstones, reflecting a dazzling spectral array of colour, beautiful and razor-sharp. The metal frame itself, heavy enough to tear a man's head from his shoulders, had crumpled on hitting the ground. High above, broken plaster and trailing ropes indicated where it had broken free. Servants were cringing at the side of the hall, their mouths open in horror, fingers pointing. Wynne was partway up the main staircase, the colour drained from her face.

A small patch of floor was free from twisted metal and glass, and within this haven stood the two youngest Cousland siblings. Flora had one arm around Finian's shoulders; he was huddled in towards her with his face bowed against her hair. Her other hand was aloft, thin filaments of light projecting from each fingertip, fuelling the shield that had absorbed the blow. Around them was a cage of blasted-apart metal, displaying how the frame of the chandelier had warped on meeting the gleaming barrier.

"An assassin," called out Wynne from the steps, her voice high and shaky. "He severed the ropes when Finian was below the chandelier. Zevran and Leliana have gone after him."

Leonas' voice rose in an angry yell, instructing his own men to scour the corners of the fortress and triple the guard on the ramparts. Flora dropped her hand, the barrier disintegrating with a sigh in particles of golden energy.

Fergus' face twisted into something ugly as he strode across the shattered crystal, crushing fragments of glass beneath his boots. In his weakened state he was unable to pull aside the twisted metal, but a moment later, Alistair was beside him. The strong young Warden was able to heave it aside with ease, muscles working beneath his tunic as he dragged the skeletal remains of the candelabra frame away.

Finian, unused to being targeted by assassins, was far more shocked than his sister. Fergus gripped his younger brother's arm, as if the sheer act of holding him would keep him safe.

"What in the Maker's name-?!" the teyrn erupted, his face mottled and waxy. Alistair's eyes swept over his sister-warden, checking that she was unhurt; once this had been confirmed he took her into his arms and held her wordlessly, pressing his chin to the top of her head.

"We were just crossing the hall," Finian whispered, the words coming out small and uneven. "Florence and the senior enchanter were ahead, at the foot of the steps. I was waiting for you – I didn't realise you'd gone back into the main hall. There was a man, on the balcony – he must have weakened the chains; because when he severed the rope, the whole thing just started to- to  _drop_."

Alistair, struck dumb with anger at this apparent proof that Howe's assassins were now targeting  _Couslands_  rather than Wardens, held his solemn-faced sister warden tight against him. He felt the rapid throb of Flora's heartbeat within her breast, the only indicator of her shock. Alistair stroked his hand over her hair, aware of the thick softness of it beneath his calloused fingers.

"I swear to Andraste that I will have that bastard Howe's  _fucking head_ ," snarled Fergus, eyes glittering and hard as the shards of shattered crystal. "He isn't content with taking my parents, my wife and child – he now seeks to take away the only family I have left."

"Flossie came to my aid," said Finian, his voice quiet and dazed, using a long-dormant childhood nickname. "Ferg, she saw it dropping and came running towards me."

Fergus turned his head and looked at his sister, who appeared as pale and fragile as ivory against the bulk of Alistair's muscular frame. Appearances were deceiving; since Florence was the least vulnerable person he had ever met. Rather than the frail brittleness of ivory, his sister was more akin to silverite: stern, lovely and utterly unyielding.

"I think I pulled a muscle," Flora said solemnly, the colour slowly returning to her cheeks. "Haven't moved that quick in years."

"You saved him," Fergus said very softly, his eyes resting on his mage-sister. "If it weren't for your magic, Finn would be dead."

Then the teyrn, who had always treated her with guarded suspicion bordering on antipathy, bowed his head. When he spoke, there was a ragged edge to his voice.

"Thank you."

Around them a sea of broken crystal glistened; Flora could hear Leonas's taut voice ordering for the remnants of the chandelier to be cleared away.

"You don't need to thank me," Flora replied stupidly, and to her irritation she felt thick tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. "Finian is my brother, too."

The deposed teyrn gazed at her, and there was no longer any guardedness in his blue-grey stare. He reached out and touched her face, the features a feminine version of his own; gazing into eyes that were a mirror of the dead teyrn's.

"Our father made a mistake sending you away," he said, the edge of his voice raw. "You're more like him than any of us, sister."

For a brief moment the three Couslands stood together, blurring into a singularity of feature; a mass of oxblood hair and fine-hewn faces, all bearing the pallid skin tone of northerners.

Alistair felt a sudden selfish throb of alarm:  _what if she has no need for a brother-warden, now that she has two brothers?_ Immediately afterwards he felt disgust at himself and his own egoistic fears.

Then after a beat Flora separated herself gently and returned to Alistair's side, settling back within the possessive circle of his arms. He gazed down at her and she instinctually turned up her face; when her solemn grey eyes met his own, they said  _my face might belong to them, but you are the heart of my life._

Alistair couldn't help it; his mouth crashed down upon hers in a clumsy, joyous display of affection. Wynne threw up her hands in disbelief, Finian grinned as the colour returned slowly to his cheeks. Fergus turned his head away, possessing no desire to see his little sister in the impassioned grip of a man; a reluctant smile warming his wasted face.

There came the sound of a commotion from a side passage, voices raised in disagreement. Zevran and Leliana, heckling one another like embittered ex-lovers, dragged a man who seemed more dead than alive into the entrance hall. He was clad in the scarlet livery of the Bann of Calon, balding and sallow skinned. It was difficult to discern his appearance beyond that, considering the pulverised nature of his face. A bloody froth stained his chin and the front of his tunic; several of his fingers appeared broken. Leliana, who appeared no less deadly in a long gown, held a serrated blade to the man's neck as she argued with Zevran.

"Fool, if we  _kill_  him, we can extract no information from him!" Then, turning to the others, the bard spread out her palms entreatingly. "The sorry condition of this man is due to the elf. He is  _completely_ lacking in restraint."

At that moment Fergus, displaying a similar lack of control, drew his sword and lunged towards the man. Leonas and Teagan moved together across the shards of broken crystal to restrain him, and the teyrn let out a snarl through gritted teeth. Although he was slowly regaining the weight he had lost through sickness; he lacked strength sufficient to defy them.

"He tried to kill my  _brother_ -! I will have him!"

"And he will die, but let us first find out what he knows," murmured Eamon, flickering his eyes towards his own younger brother.

Between them, they manoeuvred the assassin back into the main hall and thrust him onto one of the benches. The man let out a groan as he was shoved roughly down, globules of blood spilling from between his lips. Despite his injuries, he appeared to show no remorse; grinning through the few reddened teeth he had remaining. Fergus stalked back and forth in front of the fireplace, fingers rhythmically squeezing the hilt of his blade. Anger radiated from him, iridescent and sparking.

The others gathered in a huddle around Leonas, who leaned forward towards where he believed the man's ear to be. Flora unwound her fingers from Alistair's, recalling a previous assassin who had made a desperate last attempt in close quarters. She sidled forwards, ready to deflect any sudden lunges.

"Who sent you?" demanded the Arl of South Reach, his features contorted. Inwardly, Leonas Bryland was fuming that one of his friend's children had come so close to death under his own eye.

"The Arl of Amaranthine sends his regards," mumbled the assassin, the words blurred due to his mangled lips. Fergus let out a low hiss under his breath, flinching reflexively at the hated name. It came as no surprise to anyone present; but Alistair still inched forward to clarify.

"Rendon Howe? Not Loghain Mac Tir seeking Wardens dead?"

The assassin's one working eye squinted towards Alistair, then slid past to Flora and a still-shaken Finian. His swollen lip curled in a mocking grimace; the man was fully aware that he was going to die, and he intended to impart a final message before doing so.

"Others will succeed where I have failed," he breathed, the threat coming out in gasps. "You're both dead men walking."

Wynne stepped forward, her quick intellect moving several paces before the others. She had been on the steps, looking down towards the entrance hallway when the chandelier rope had been severed. Flora and Finian had left the main hall together, then he had paused to wait for the elder Cousland while she had begun to cross towards the stairs; aware that it would take her longer to navigate them due to her sore knee.

" _Men?"_ she asked, careful to keep out of the man's reach. "Why did you not attempt to bring the chandelier down when  _both_  Couslands were beneath it?"

The assassin rolled his half-cracked eye towards Flora, who had been wondering this herself. She stepped forward, ignoring Alistair's hiss of warning, and gazed down at the bloody mass of man.

"My lord Howe wants the girl alive," the assassin said, a lascivious sliver creeping into his tone. A startled ripple went through those present and suddenly Alistair looked as though he might join Fergus in drawing his sword.

Flora, not understanding, frowned.

"Why does he want  _me?_  I have no claim on anything; I'm the most useless Cousland."

The assassin's head suddenly jerked back and he spat a bloody mixture of spittle and froth into her face.  _"Theirin whore!"_

Flora recoiled, more from the force of his vitriol than from the saliva landing on her cheek. Alistair let out an angry shout, one hand reaching for his blade even as Teagan grabbed at his elbow.

"Hold!" interrupted Leonas, as Eamon joined his brother in restraining the angry Warden. "We'll hang him in the village, make an example of him."

Fergus exhaled loudly through his nostrils, pupils shrunk to pinpricks of rage.

"Make it slow and painful," he snarled, as Leonas inclined his chin in acquiescence. "I want his head sent back to Howe."

"How very Antivan," murmured Zevran, a smile disguising his own cold wrath. "I approve. Incidentally, for that comment about my Rialto lily, the lay sister will ensure that you take an extra hour to die."

The assassin began to laugh, a wet and spluttering gasp through mangled lips. Alistair felt anger rise in his throat like bile, his fingers clenching into fists.

However before he could move, Flora had lunged forwards. In a nonverbal response that was pure Herring, she head-butted him squarely in the face, hard enough to knock out his few remaining teeth and split the cartilage of his nose. The assassin groaned, recoiling backwards, stunned by the force of the unexpected blow.

"That's for trying to kill my brother," she hissed, retreating backwards triumphantly as he spluttered on his own blood. The man's teeth marks blazed red and indented on her forehead; she reached up and brushed a gleaming thumb over them, smoothing each tiny wound from existence. Zevran and Finian both crowed in delight, while even Wynne couldn't entirely hide a smile.

"You can take the girl out of the country, but you can't take the country from the girl," she murmured, watching the man wheeze through a loose jaw that was now broken in three places, rather than two.

Under supervision from the Arl, the assassin was hustled from the hall and down the steps into the courtyard. Fergus and Leliana accompanied them; the teyrn to see the would-be assassin twist at the end of a rope, and the bard to oversee the process of drawing out his pain for as long as possible.

At the foot of the main staircase, servants were busy clearing away the remnants of the broken chandelier. Only broken plaster and a few dangling chains served as a reminder of Howe's dark intent. Finian, still somewhat shaken, was gazing into Zevran's gleaming, coal-black eyes.

"You caught the assassin," he breathed, as the elf's mouth curled into a supercilious smile. "How can I repay you?"

It was a question with many layers of implicit meaning, and Zevran was able to detect every one. He swept his gaze up and down the slender Cousland, taking in the solemn grey eyes and the curling russet hair, and decided that it would serve well enough.

"Why don't we discuss it somewhere more  _private?"_  he purred, the words like beckoning fingers of promise. "I'm sure I can think of a way that you can make it up to me."

Alistair watched Zevran disappear with his desire's substitute down a side passage, ready to nudge Flora and raise his eyebrows. His sister-warden, however, was not looking towards Finian. Her gaze had dropped to the floor and she suddenly looked very weary, shifting her weight onto her good knee.

"I'm tired," she mumbled, making a great effort and nudging her elbow into Alistair's ribcage. "Can we go to bed?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So it's no wonder that Fergus is freaked out, the poor sod has had the majority of his family murdered within the past six months! So any attempts on his brother's life is going to make him deeply unhappy. Leonas Bryland has a lot of history with the Cousland family – THAT'S RIGHT, I DID MY BACKGROUND RESEARCH! I am a historian after all, lol – so he feels responsible for his dead friend's children.
> 
> So the change in focus of the assassins (from targeting Wardens to targeting Couslands) is entirely something in my own head – let me explain my logic. Firstly, it seems clear that Loghain was the one originally targeting Wardens (because of his betrayal at Ostagar), whereas Howe was targeting Couslands (because of his usurpation of Highever). So at first, it made sense that Loghain was funding/driving the assassinations. However, the time period of the game is actually much longer than it seems – anywhere between 1-2 years! Since Ferelden is not a large country and there would be a huge amount of displaced refugees and rumours about the Darkspawn spread, it seems logical that at some point, Loghain would have to accept that there was a Blight, and the Wardens may actually be needed. Howe, on the other hand, is going to keep going in his attempts to eliminate the Couslands in order to secure his own position.
> 
> Also, the sending the assassin's head in a box was inspired by badass queen Catherine of Aragon, who managed England's defence against the invading Scots while her husband Henry VIII was on campaign in France in 1513. She – the daughter of a true military leader and queen regnant Isabella of Spain – wanted to send Henry the Scottish king's head in a box as a lovely present; her advisors suggested she sent the man's bloody jacket instead.


	158. The Consequences Of Ostagar

 

Leonas Bryland's word was sound: a triple guard had been posted outside the arlina's quarters. For once the small chamber was devoid of companions, and a spare chaise and bunk had been brought in to supplement the bed. The additional furniture had been shoved against the wall with no thought as to aesthetic placement. The room was shadowed, lit only by flickering tendrils of ochre light from the fireplace.

Both Wardens changed into nightclothes swiftly and settled down in bed. Flora had just finished knotting her hair haphazardly on top of her head, when the first scream sounded.

It was more animal than human, a raw shriek of pain and horror, rising at the end before trailing off. It lasted for several agonising seconds, and then then there was blessed silence. Then the scream returned, louder and more ragged than before. Flora shot upright, clutching the blankets instinctively to her chest and feeling dread curdle in her stomach. Alistair went to the arrow-slit window, pressing his face as close as possible to the narrow gap. The courtyard below blazed bright as day, a small crowd gathered around the main steps.

"It's the assassin," he said after a moment, turning back towards her. As he withdrew another animalistic shriek rang out through the night, echoing around the squat and uncaring walls of South Reach. Flora put her hands over her ears, shrinking back against the headboard with wide eyes. When the next howl rang out, she rolled over and pulled a cushion over her head.

Alistair went to his sister-warden and put a hand between her shoulder-blades. He could feel the gentle curve of her spine through the thin cotton pyjamas, her skin giving off its customary warmth.

"Flo," he said, knowing already what her answer would be. "Shall I go and… put an end to it?"

Her shoulders stopped trembling and Flora turned back over, removing the cushion and gazing up at him.

"Please," she whispered earnestly, her fingers reaching out to curl in his sleeve. Alistair nodded, already bending down to pull his boots on.

He returned ten minutes later, accompanied by blessed silence, closing the door quietly behind him. Flora was sitting cross-legged on the bed in a nest of blankets, biting her nails anxiously down to the quick. Alistair sat down on the bed beside her and began to take off his boots; she leaned over and put her arms around his neck.

"Thank you," Flora mumbled, pressing her mouth to his cheek and feeling the day's stubble against her lips.

Alistair settled back against the cushions, bringing her down to lie alongside him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and exhaled, comforted by the solid wedge of her body against his own. The fingers of one hand curled into hers, gripping them tight and reassuring.

"Of course, my love," he murmured into her hair, drawing the blankets up around them both with his other hand. "I didn't like it either. Leliana might not talk to me for a few days, but that's a price I'm willing to pay."

The next morning dawned warm and hazy, a solid finger of light from the arrow-slit gleaming on the dusty floor. Alistair woke first, opening a bleary eye and surveying the empty chamber. The grey remains of the fire lay cooling in the hearth, fragments of crumbled ash spilling out onto the flagstones. He dropped his gaze to his sister-warden, who lay fast asleep nestled in the crook of his arm. Her fingers were absentmindedly curled in her own loose hair; her face losing none of its solemnity in sleep. She looked like a serious child having a particularly portentous dream.

In the dead arlessa's garden she had been cast in shades of metallic warmth; her skin flushed, lips pinkened and her hair a tangle of copper and bronze. Now, the thin light of morning lent a cool, dewy cast to her face, and the bluish-green vessels on her wrists were clearly visible; as though she had saltwater running through her veins rather than blood. Her hair lay in twisting tendrils across her cheek like fronds of dark red seaweed, and when she felt his stare on her and opened her eyes, her irises were the mercurial grey of the Waking Sea.

"What's wrong with my face?" Flora asked immediately, seeing her brother-warden staring transfixed down at her. "Is there something on it?"

"No," Alistair replied immediately, feeling rather stupid. "I was - I was just thinking that you remind me of a… fish."

He had meant to say  _the mermaid from the story you told in the Brecilian Forest,_ but for some reason his inane mouth had shaped the word  _fish._

Flora gazed up at him, her eyes widening.

"That's one of the nicest compliments anyone has ever given me," she breathed, and there was no insincerity in her tone. "I  _love_  fish. Which fish do I remind you of?"

Alistair's mind flicked frantically through  _Exotic Fish of Thedas._ For a single panicked moment, he could not remember the name of a single blasted amphibious creature in all of Thedas. Finally, he gave up and confessed the truth.

"I actually intended to say  _mermaid,"_ he admitted, pulling a sheepish face. "I don't know why it came out otherwise."

"I can't be a mermaid," she replied, her words interrupted by a yawn. "I have  _legs."_

Alistair reached down and put a hand on Flora's bare thigh, her nightgown rucked up around her waist.

"Well, fish don't have legs either," he murmured, his thumb tracing slow circles against the taut flesh. He could feel the heat of her body prickling against his calloused fingertips, a wordless invitation.

"They have  _fins_ ," Flora mumbled sleepily in response, tilting her head back against the crook of his elbow. "Dorsal fins, and pectoral fins, and pelvic fins- "

Withdrawing his arm, Alistair slithered down the bed, surprisingly agile for someone of his height and mass. He bowed his face over her abdomen, pushing the nightgown up over her hips and gazing at her with an expression not far from reverence.

"I feel the need to inspect these pelvic fins," he murmured, as Flora let out a Herring-fishwife cackle. "Hm."

He rested a calloused thumb on her hip and traced the sloping angle of her pelvic bone, all the way between the juncture of her thighs. She giggled again, turning her cheek against the pillows and squirming against the slow, deliberate movement of his fingers. After a few moments, the laughter caught in her throat and came out as a startled, wondering half-gasp. Alistair grinned, delighted at the responses that he was able to elicit from his sister-warden.

Just then there came an impatient knock, upon which followed three seconds of grace before Leliana thrust her way through the doorway, with all the imperiousness of the Divine.

"Good morning, Wardens! The Maker has blessed us with another beautiful day," she chirped brightly. If there lingered any resentment over Alistair's intervention the previous night, the bard was careful not to let it show on her face.

Alistair collapsed back against the headboard with a grimace, while Flora hastily pulled her nightgown back down over her thighs. Leliana continued on sweetly, only a single raised eyebrow suggesting that she knew exactly what she had walked in on.

"The arls want to see you both in the meeting chamber to discuss the recent assassination attempts."

A yawning Flora, rubbing knuckles into her eyes, looked distinctively uncooperative. Alistair, on the other hand, decided that this was a cause worthy enough to warrant haste. Galvanised, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and went to retrieve some clothing.

"Come on, Flo. Put this on," he instructed, tossing her one of his cambric shirts.

Flora, somewhat disgruntled and moving at half her brother-warden's pace, sulkily pulled off the nightgown and crouched down to retrieve her breeches from under the bed.

Leliana watched her curiously for a moment, nostrils flaring. Smoothing her hands over her own honed body, the bard made a light, teasing observation.

"You're getting a bit of a belly," she commented kindly, eyeing the gentle, almost imperceptible curve of Flora's stomach. "Too many of Arl Leonas' Orlesian pastries?"

Flora nodded, hoisting her breeches up over her thighs.

"I need to run rings around the ramparts," she replied jovially, then looked alarmed as Leliana's face lit up. "Wait, I was  _joki_ \- "

"An excellent idea! The Maker did not grant us these bodies so we could let them get lazy and slovenly. Alistair, perhaps you would like to join us later?"

Alistair, who was built for endurance and strength rather than speed, shook his head rapidly. "I think I'll stick to drill practise. Ready, my dear?"

Flora, mute with horror at the idea of impending exercise _,_ nodded glumly.

They made their way down the now familiar route: descending the west tower staircase, onto the ramparts, across the greater courtyard and up the shallow, wide flight of steps leading into the main hall. Many of the nobles who had not yet left for Denerim were breaking their fast; the Bann of Calon waving a tentative, hopeful hand in Leliana's direction. The bard responded with a chilly, polite smile and steered Flora purposefully away from the platter of sweetmeats, darting a pointed look at her stomach.

She guided them to the archway leading to the meeting room; a squat chamber adjacent to the main hall. Having delivered them to the requisite location, Leliana turned to leave.

"I am going to attend the morning Chantry service," she informed them in sepulchral tones. "I need to make my devotions."

"You're not going to discuss the defences? I thought this was your area of interest," interjected Alistair, palming a bread roll deftly from the tray of a passing servant.

Leliana let out a tiny snort, tossing the series of short braids around her ears.

"I've already consulted with both arls," she retorted, deftly ignoring the continuing waves of the eager bann. "The strategy you're about to hear is mine. You two should  _really_  attend more Chantry services."

With this last chiding admonition, the bard swept back across the main hall with her chin held high. Alistair pressed the bread roll into Flora's palm, grinning at her exaggerated gasp of gratitude; before shoving the door open and leading the way into the meeting chamber.

Inside, Eamon, Leonas and Teagan were gathered around the polished oval table, upon which rested hand-sketched blueprints of South Reach fortress. Wynne was inspecting a bookshelf in the far corner, peering down her long nose at the faded cover of a leather-bound tome. To both Wardens' surprise, Morrigan was reclining in a wooden chair, one bare leg crossed over the other. On seeing them, she gave a slow, catlike smile that was directed particularly at Alistair; enjoying the subsequent scowl.

"Ah, Alistair, Florence. I trust you both slept well?" Eamon greeted them both with a smile, although the shadows beneath his eyes indicated too-few hours of sleep.

Hearing his sister-warden busy chewing on a mouthful of bread beside him, Alistair answered in the affirmative for them both. Leonas drew his attention to the diagram of South Reach.

"We've conducted a census of all present in the fortress," he stated, voice flat and resolute. It was clear that the Arl was determined to ensure that no further harm should come to his dead friend's children while under his roof. "All retainers are now accounted for."

"Leonas has also tripled the guards on the ramparts, and doubled the frequency of patrols," added Teagan, his eyes falling on Flora as she swallowed the final mouthful of bread roll. "We can't just rely on your shield as our defence anymore."

Alistair nodded, eyes scanning the crumpled parchment of the diagram. It seemed to have been drawn up recently, the ink dark and fresh against the creamy backdrop.

"I'm sorry that we've brought this trouble to you," he said after a moment, raising his eyes to Leonas Bryland's own dark ones. "You must have had a quiet life before we arrived."

Leonas let out a humourless bark of laughter, shaking his head rapidly.

"I've been vocal in my desire to see Loghain deposed; trouble was bound to find its way to South Reach sooner or later. I'm glad to play my part in assisting the Wardens. And in assisting Bryce's children."

Arl Bryland's eyes fell on Flora, mingled nostalgia and sadness reflected on his aristocratic, half-Orlesian features. The previous night, he had spent several hours in the solar sorting through his correspondence with the late teyrn. Finally, he had come across an old roll of parchment tied with a forest green ribbon, dated from Solace, 9:11. It was a birth announcement, declaring the arrival of a healthy daughter, Florence, at Highever to the proud teyrn and teyrna.

"The mage Morrigan has scouted the fortress from the sky and identified several points of weakness, which are now being reinforced," continued Eamon practically, seeing that Leonas was bordering on the melancholic. This explained the presence of the Korcari witch, who gazed around at the mundane surroundings with a supercilious, faintly mocking smile.

The Arl of Redcliffe painstakingly explained how the patrol patterns had been planned so that every inch of South Reach was trodden by trusted feet throughout the day. On Leliana's suggestion, the guard rotations and timings would be changed daily – to prevent an exploitable pattern from forming.

As Flora listened dutifully, Eamon's words began to blur together. The edges of her vision began to grow indistinct, the colours in the room suddenly seeming unnaturally bright. The next moment, she felt the unmistakeable curdling of nausea in her stomach. The sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears was deafening; she put a hand on the back of a chair to steady herself.

"Flora? Are you alright?" Teagan, who had been watching her, cut across his brother's explanation. "You don't look well."

Alistair's gaze swung to one side, as did Eamon's. Both men immediately took in Flora's pallid, almost waxy skin and unfocused stare. From across the room, Wynne raised her head, suddenly very alert. Flora swallowed, feeling saliva pooling beneath her tongue.

"Excuse me," she mumbled, retreating out of the meeting room with her heart beating a frightened staccato against her ribs. She stumbled down the corridor, nearly colliding with a servant carrying a tray of washed cutlery, no longer confident in her own sense of balance.

Then Alistair had caught up with her, and his hand was on her elbow, guiding her firmly down a side passage. A door opened up into bright sunlight and air, Flora half-fell through it before dropping to her hands and knees. Her vision shrank to a dot as bile rose in her throat, and she retched the contents of her stomach out onto the flagstones. As the muscles of her abdomen spasmed in protest, she felt Alistair's palm resting solid and reassuring between her shoulder-blades. In the background, she could hear voices raised in song, drifting up from the morning Chantry service. A small part of her mind was coherent enough to envision how horrified Leliana would be; if the lay sister could somehow see upwards through the Chantry roof and see Flora crouched on the ramparts.

Eventually, all that came up was bile, and then nothing at all. Flora hunched over for a moment, the inside of her mouth sour and furred. Then Alistair was handing her a water pouch, instructing her to take a mouthful and swill it around her teeth; just as he used to do whenever she inhaled a bellyful of Blight.

Gradually, with vision still blurred at the edges, Flora took a deep breath before swallowing another gulp of water. Already she could feel her body reacting to the irritation caused in her gullet by the stomach acid, the familiar sensation of golden mist rising in her throat.

"I need to find a mop," she mumbled, feeling Alistair's fingers brushing her hair reassuringly away from her neck.

"No, you don't, sweetheart. Look, there's nothing to clean."

Flora blinked, the world coming into slow focus around her. They were on the lowest level of the ramparts, beside a run-off gully that carried waste water from the kitchens down to a drainage ditch. "Oh."

Alistair nudged Flora to take another sip, kneeling on the flagstones careless of Leonas' borrowed finery.

Finally, once some colour had returned to her cheeks, Alistair took her hand and held it to his chest, feeling her fingers curling over his heart.

"Flora," he said, his hazel eyes warm with anxiety. "Is it the Blight?"

Flora paused for a moment, then gave a little shrug. Her brother-warden glanced away for a moment, gritting his teeth and staring off towards the west tower.

"You have to stop breathing in that stuff, Flo," he said finally, dropping his earnest gaze back to her. "It's not good for you."

Instead of replying, Flora reached out and rested her fingers gently against Alistair's cheek, feeling the stubble that he had not had time to shave. He turned his face into her hand, kissing the centre of her palm.

"I don't know what I would do without you," he said frankly, the words muffled against her skin. "I honestly don't know."

Meanwhile back in the bowels of the fortress, an odd silence had fallen over the meeting room. The moment that Alistair had followed his sister-warden out of the chamber, Morrigan had darted a quick, pointed look towards Wynne. The sharp-eyed Eamon did not miss this exchange; his mind racing at breakneck speed behind an outwardly blank politician's face.

"Is she… well?" he asked carefully, directing the question towards the senior enchanter.

Wynne hesitated for a fraction of a second, before slipping into smooth reassurance.

"Flora is fine. Dizziness is a side effect that many new Wardens suffer as a result of their…  _practises_."

Teagan then informed those present that one of the Guerrin retainers had seen Flora similarly indisposed several mornings prior. The Arl of South Reach and the Arl of Redcliffe, fathers both, shared a glance.

"Isolde had similar nausea," said Eamon at last, his eyes fixed on Wynne and his tone keen as a blade. "When she was carrying our son."

The silence that fell over the chamber was thick enough to carve; the expressions of those present ranging from disbelief to grim acknowledgement.

"But I recall Alistair mentioning that Wardens couldn't have children," said a nonplussed Teagan after several heavy drawn-out seconds. "Months ago, back in Redcliffe."

"Nothing is certain," Wynne replied, her lips white and drawn tight together. "It may simply be a side-effect of her exposure to Darkspawn. We cannot make any assumptions."

"Does Alistair suspect?" interrupted Eamon, at which Morrigan let out a soft, contemptuous snort.

"Of course not. The boy is utterly oblivious."

" _Nothing is certain,"_ repeated Wynne, raising her voice. "There's no way of telling at this stage."

"What stage are we talking about?" Leonas asked, his eyes darting away even as he spoke. " _Theoretically_ , how far… to what extent?"

The senior enchanter closed her eyes for a moment, wishing fervently that both Wardens had paid greater heed to her repeated warnings. She recalled a ghost-inhabited fortress, a constant, grey drizzle and Flora leaving the campfire to offer a more physical sort of comfort to her distressed brother-warden after Cailan's pyre.

"They first lay together when we returned to Ostagar," Wynne murmured, her voice distant. "So –  _theoretically_ – six weeks, at the most? Her monthly courses have stopped, though she thinks it also a result of contact with the Darkspawn."

"Maker," breathed Leonas, sitting down with greater force than intended in a protesting wooden chair. "This certainly complicates the situation."

"Could it be noticed?" Eamon said after a moment, his voice distant. "At this stage?"

Wynne sighed, raising a weary shoulder.

"She's slight in frame, so it might be possible to tell."

Morrigan let out a little snort in response, running a hand over her own provocative silk tunic.

"Not in those hideous voluminous shirts she wears. She could conceal a  _druffalo_  beneath- "

" _Flora!"_  interrupted Wynne smoothly, canting her head in a pointed gesture towards the doorway. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," mumbled Flora, feeling Alistair's solid presence at her side. "Sorry."

Alistair scowled across the meeting chamber, silently challenging anyone to berate his sister-warden. Nobody did, and Eamon gestured for her to take a seat beside the fortress diagram.

"We were just discussing the extra guards posted in the teyrn's quarters," he said softly, watching Flora like a hawk as she shuffled obediently across the room to take the proffered chair. "Let me show you where they'll be stationed."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: My interpretation of Alistair comes off as a bit of a lovesick puppy – I just imagine that, after having such a repressed and relatively loveless childhood and adolescence, now that he has fallen for someone, he falls HARD! And the poor sod is only 20 years old, I'm pretty sure I was a lovesick idiot at 20 (in love with my HUSBAND, who I still am a lovesick idiot for eight years later!)
> 
> Also, fish themed foreplay, is that a literary first? Actually, it's probably not, but I'm not diving into the darkest depths of the internet to confirm that lol
> 
> Dual meaning to the chapter title: firstly, the assassins are a consequence of the Wardens/Flora surviving Ostagar 1.0, while Flora's pregnancy is a consequence of Ostagar: Return!


	159. The Creation of New Life

 

The Arl of the West Hills departed for Denerim early that afternoon, in a small caravan of men and wagons. He would join the Wardens' growing faction in the city; the gradually swelling sphere of influence that stood in opposition to Loghain and Howe. As soon as he had a view of the situation, the Arl would send a letter back to South Reach; and the Wardens themselves would make the final stage of their journey.

Alistair reluctantly accompanied Eamon up to the solar, to learn more of the obscure customs and clauses that governed the Landsmeet. Flora tolerated an hour of sitting quietly in the stuffy, overheated room listening to Eamon discuss the use of the veto, then politely made her excuses. She pecked Alistair on the cheek before making her way down to the lesser courtyard. It was unseasonably warm for spring; the white eye of the sun gazed down lazily upon the fortress sitting at the peak of South Reach rise. Even the Mabari were lulled into lethargy, sprawling across the flagstones with long tongues spilling from their jaws.

Flora wound her way across the lesser courtyard, then around the side of the fortress, following the overgrown path through the kitchen allotments and vegetable patch. When she finally reached the dead arlessa's garden, she was gratified to see that it looked far more presentable now the weeds had been cleared. Soft beds of earth lined the crumbling brick walls; and even the rotted peach tree in the centre looked slightly less jaded. Luckily, the small bags of seeds still dangled from its lowest branches, where she had tied them before departing the previous day.

Rolling up her sleeves, Flora took down the seeds and tipped them into the palm of her hand. They lay nestled against her skin like pale green jewels, soft and round, and she realised that she had no idea what variety of flower each bag held. Shrugging it off, she lowered herself to the soil and began to press the seeds into the crumbling earth with her thumb. After pressing two dozen in haphazard formation, she lowered her face close to the earth. Already the golden mist was rising in her throat, thick and viscous; she opened her mouth and let the creation magic roll out over the soil like a sea mist. With the first exhalation, pale tendrils sprouted from the earth like tentative fingers; growing in size and height with the second. By the third exhalation, they were unfurling waxy petals towards the sun, in a soft rainbow of colour.

"What an incredibly useless skill," came a familiar, mocking voice from above. "You  _are_  aware that you're giving the Archdemon no cause for concern?"

Flora peered up, shielding her eyes from the sun, to see Morrigan reclining catlike on the crumbled brick wall. The witch gave a single, lethargic roll of her amber eyes; pulling back the slit of her skirt to position her leg strategically in the sun.

"Yes," replied Flora obstinately, feeling a twinge of pain in her knee as she moved over to the next patch of soil. "I know it's not  _useful_. But this for the Arl, to repay him for his kindness in letting us stay at South Reach. Oghren is drinking the buttery dry."

Morrigan snorted, turning her face towards the flat, white heat and rolling her eyes.

"What an absolutely pointless gesture. He is obligated to let you stay; 'tis in his best interests."

Flora remembered the sad rawness of the Arl's eyes when he had talked about his dead wife and her love for chrysanthemums; the recollection only strengthened her resolve.

"You can help me if you like," she offered, and Morrigan let out an incredulous bark of laughter.

Flora toiled away diligently for the next few hours, growing increasingly sweaty beneath the unyielding glare of the sun. The crumbling brick garden walls provided no shade; having been aligned deliberately to allow their floral inhabitants the best view of the sun. Morrigan made no offer of assistance, sparing her the occasional glance from the corner of a feline eye.

Gradually, each bed of soil sprung into multitudinous life. There was no order to Flora's haphazard planting but only a sense of joyful wild abundance. Vines crept across the crumbling walls, dangling frond-like fingers over the stone. Blowsy, overblown roses fought for dominance over their gaudy tulip cousins, while clumps of violets nestled contentedly at their feet. Long, white-necked orchids bowed their heads in the mellowing light, secure in their elegance. Scattered amongst them all, bright-faced and proud, were chrysanthemums; in every jewel-toned shade of sunset.

After six hours Flora lay flat on her back, the ends of her fingers and the corners of her mouth sore from the frequent emission of creation magic. She was covered in soil and sweat, hair plastered to her flushed face and her clothing in near-irredeemable condition. Morrigan, who had finally deigned to descend from the wall, raised her staff and made a quick, irritated gesture; a brief scattering of water droplets fell over the floral beds.

"You look horrific," the witch stated bluntly, lowering the staff and casting an appalled eye over the sweating Flora. "You need to clean yourself immediately; if the fool settles his eyes on you in this state, he'll never wish to lie with you again."

Both of them were aware that this was patently untrue – each Warden had seen the other covered in the worst excesses of battle – but Flora went along with it, nodding solemnly.

"You're right," she agreed dutifully; feeling the material of her shirt sticking to her back with sweat. "Just one more thing."

With Morrigan huffing and rolling her eyes, Flora went to the dying peach tree in the centre of the walled garden and placed her palms on the soft, flaking bark. She could almost taste the corruption in the trunk, running all the way from root to branch. Gazing inwards and letting her vision slip to her mind's eye, Flora saw the sticky, dark vein of rot running parallel to the conduits that carried water, nestled deep within the meat of the tree.

The golden mist seeped through her fingers, stinging the already irritated skin; she grimaced but kept her hands flattened against the wood. Pressing her mouth against the trunk, the roughened bark digging whorled indentations on her lips and chin, Flora exhaled as much energy as she could channel in one breath.

The dark channel of rot gleamed, like a rivulet of lamp-oil catching the light of a nearby flame. Then half a dozen golden filaments began to feather out through the corruption, spreading like creeping mould and burning away the rot.

Only when the rotten patch had dissipated into the trunk, leaving only a faint shadow in its wake, did Flora retract her arms from the tree. Morrigan tutted impatiently, folding her arms across crimson silk-covered breasts.

"Are you quite finished? I think I see the irritating lay-sister hurrying in our direction; if we hurry, we shall avoid her."

Flora, remembering Leliana's enthusiastic earlier offer to run rings around the ramparts, went a shade paler and nodded rapidly. Taking a final glance across the riot of haphazard and abundant colour blooming in the dead Arlessa's garden, she beamed, pleased.

Morrigan let out an impatient huff and strode over to her in a billow of silk, gripping Flora's bare elbow hard enough to leave finger marks.

"Come."

Flora allowed the witch to steer her out of the walled garden and back alongside the fortress, across the lesser courtyard and into the barracks washroom. Fortunately, the guards were all out on patrol, each assigned extra rounds in the wake of the previous day's assassination attempt. Morrigan shoved a mildly confused but compliant Flora through to the washroom, where a cistern disgorged itself into a sunken stone trough. Coming straight from the subterranean depths of South Reach, the water was bitterly cold.

"Take this off,  _ugh,_  how can you stand being clad in such  _filth?_ " hissed Morrigan, plucking at Flora's sweaty clothing impatiently. Flora obediently squirmed out of her breeches and clambered into the stone trough. She sucked air rapidly through her teeth, horrified at the temperature.

" _Aieee,_  it's colder than it was yesterday!"

"And the shirt! 'Tis no good for anything now other than a cleaning rag," demanded Morrigan, amber eyes trained on her like a cat watching a mouse. Flora, teeth chattering, peeled the shirt over her head and dropped it onto the flagstones. She knelt in the stone trough, half-heartedly cupping frozen palmfuls of water and tipping them over herself.

"It's worse than the underground river in the Deep Roads!"

As Morrigan's eyes trawled over the girl's figure, she summoned the memory of their campsite on the side of Lake Calenhad, the first morning after leaving Lothering. After bathing Flora had crouched beside the fire, letting the blanket drop with the lack of modesty characteristic of anyone raised in communal circumstance; Morrigan had queried how she kept such a slender figure in the face of her vast, all-consuming appetite.

Now, as Morrigan cast her gaze once more over Flora's unclothed body, the differences seemed to leap out and brand themselves on the witch's eyes. She was undeniably still slender, but there was a slight blurring to the sharp angles of her face, a near imperceptible softening. Her breasts appeared a fraction more swollen, but the most damning sign was her stomach. It was curved only gently, so shallow that it could have been excused as the product of overeating at dinner; yet Morrigan had been with Flora for hours and seen no food pass her lips.

Quite suddenly, Morrigan sat down on one of the wooden changing benches; for once in her life unable to think of a supercilious comment. Flora, hearing the witch sit but unable to see due to the heavy curtain of hair plastered across her face, looked blindly in her direction.

"Morrigan?"

When no reply was forthcoming, Flora removed a strand of damp hair from her eyes and peered across at the dark-haired woman. For the first time since Flora had first laid eyes on her in the Korcari Wilds, the witch looked stunned. Flora stared at her for a moment, then opened her mouth to enquire whether she was alright.

Before Flora could speak, Morrigan rose to her feet and stalked out of the washroom in a clatter of beads and tiny, dangling bones. Flora gaped after her for a moment, wondering what she had done to offend the woman while also acknowledging that it did not take much to do so. Not wanting to clamber back into her sweaty clothing, she managed to scavenge a spare shirt and breeches from a nearby garment chest. Fortunately, the Arl's guards were on such lengthy and convoluted schedules that she went undisturbed.

Flora tied her hair into a damp, lopsided bun on top of her head as she nudged her rear against the door leading back out into the courtyard. As she emerged, temporarily dazzled by the glare of the low sun off the flagstones, she collided squarely against a polished silverite breastplate.

"Oh!" she yelped, squinting up at the breastplate's owner. "I'm sorry- oh, Lieutenant Rutherford. The sun was in my face."

The lieutenant directed his response to a cobweb on the wall over her left shoulder; tawny eyes so determinedly focused that Flora turned around to see what he was looking at. On seeing only the crumbling limestone, she turned back around and gazed up at him with mild perplexion.

"Did you still want to practise resisting the dispel?" Cullen asked the cobweb abruptly. Flora gave a tentative nod, recalling the lurch of utter helplessness she had felt when the stray Templar spell had shattered her barrier.

"Yes, please."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: More Gardening! I thought of a more interesting chapter name this time, though.
> 
> So in this chapter, Flora demonstrates again how her creation magic can be utilised – I'm trying to show growth in terms of her ability, while still sticking to her limited range of spells. I wanted to give myself a bit of a writing challenge by having a Warden who was disadvantaged from the start – she's a junior recruitin all senses of the word, and can't cast offensive spells, which is a slight issue when there's a Darkspawn invasion, lol. It's been really fun to explore in a creative way how she can use her limited magic for different things. Although, growing flowers is fking useless when it comes to a Blight, haha
> 
> I didn't realise at the time but the dead Arlessa's overgrown garden is obviously influenced by The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett. I looooved that book/film when I was younger! I don't know if anyone outside of Britain has heard of it though.
> 
> Dual meaning to the chapter title, obviously!
> 
> List of key people who know Flora is up the duff: Wynne, Morrigan, Eamon, Teagan, Leonas
> 
> List of key people who do not know Flora is up the duff: Flora, Alistair (lol)


	160. Penetrated By A Templar

 

The young Templar officer turned abruptly on his heel, scanning the courtyard. It was moderately busy, the last few merchants packing up their caravans in preparation for the journey to Denerim. A messenger from Redcliffe had just arrived, unslinging a satchel full of letters from his travel-dusted saddle. Over in the far corner, several more Templars were heading towards the training area, tossing idle comments lightly between them.

Cullen eyed his Chantry brethren for a moment; then glanced over his shoulder at Flora. She was winding strands of wet hair around the lopsided bun on top of her head, a rivulet of water slowly wending its way down the hollow of her throat.

"We need to find somewhere more discreet," he said, casting a searching eye around the ramparts and towers of South Reach fortress. "Do you know anywhere?"

Flora thought hard for several seconds and then pointed upwards to the flat roof of the western tower.

"No one ever goes up there," she offered, as Cullen shaded his eyes and stared up at the sunlit tower. Finally, he gave a little abrupt nod. He turned to head across the cobblestones, and then paused, shoulders stiffening.

"Do you… trust me enough to be alone with me?"

_Templar and mage: Chantry law setting each at eternal odds; bound to play the part of guard and prisoner, the subjugator and the subdued._

Flora nodded dutifully, and the Templar allowed himself to relax an almost imperceptible fraction.

The young officer led the way, chin raised and purposeful in his stride. Nobody questioned him, recognising the Chantry's silent authority weighting his walk; and he ascended the spiral stairway up to the west tower roof without incident. Flora drew greater attention, being both Warden and Cousland. Oghren greeted her cheerfully on the ramparts, his arm slung around a blushing elven servant; and on their own floor, Bann Teagan raised a hand and smiled at her. However, Flora was beginning to grow used to the attention and had become necessarily adept at extracting herself swiftly and diplomatically.

She was just climbing the last curve of winding steps up to the west tower roof when her knee gave a twinge of protest. It had barely tolerated her afternoon of planting and weeding; and this final ascension was a step too far. The muscle spasm was so sudden and painful that she faltered, reaching out a hand to brace herself against the wall. Then a lean, meticulously toned arm slid itself through hers. A pair of amused dark eyes flashed at her, a sly grin curling the side of a sensual mouth.

"Allow me to assist, my lily."

Arm in arm, the Warden and the elven assassin ascended the final flight of steps. Zevran smiled across at her, eyes trawling appreciatively over the wet skin visible at the open collar of her shirt.

"Is it my imagination or has your bosom expanded,  _mi sirenita?_ It appears somewhat  _swollen_."

Unable to help herself, Flora laughed, well accustomed to the Antivan's proudly inappropriate style of conversation.

"Maybe. Leliana thinks I'm eating too much, she's going to ban me from the kitchens."

Zevran smiled at her wickedly, lifting his free hand and curling his palm around the shape of her breast, a half-inch away from the cotton.

"I could confirm for you, if you like. But it is an examination that must be  _hands-on_ , preferably unclothed. Only then can I gain a true measure of any change in mass."

Flora stuck out her tongue at him and the elf cackled, giving her elbow a little squeeze as they approached the door to the tower roof. In his haste to avoid detection, the young officer had allowed it to swing shut behind him.

"What are you two doing up here, anyway?" asked Zevran, curiosity momentarily overriding his natural lusty instinct.

"Lieutenant Rutherford is going to try and penetrate me," replied Flora solemnly, and the elf let out a slightly strangulated laugh.

"Such injustice! I knew Alistair would come around to sharing your lovely body; but  _I_  was going to be the first. How can a fumbling virginal Templar possibly compare to my expert caresses?!"

"Penetrate my  _shield_ ," explained Flora, shooting him a rather nonplussed expression. "I'm going to try and resist him."

"Ah," replied the elf, recalling the incident with Chaim's apparent 'accidental' misjudging of his dispel, and the consequences thereof for Flora. His tone took on a more serious note as his eyes narrowed. "I might stay and watch his clumsy attempts to 'penetrate' you, then."

To take the steel away from his words Zevran gave her a light pat on the rear, flashing a sweet little smile.

The late-afternoon sun cast a mellow glow over the top of the western tower. It was flat and roughly paved, ringed with low battlements. A flagpole bearing the colours of Leonas Bryland and South Reach rose from one corner, its standards hanging limp in the windless afternoon. Cullen Rutherford was waiting near this flagpole, sweating slightly despite the cooling temperature.

Flora advanced forwards, stopping several metres away and gazing at him with some trepidation. The lieutenant made an awkward gesture at her and she correctly assumed that he wanted her to shield herself. Her fingertips stung with the characteristic prickle of magic; as she brought up her hand, the light swelled forth like a second skin, expanding into a gleaming barrier.

The Templar raised his own hand, the lyrium pulsing through his veins lending him a strange, borrowed potency. The next moment Flora felt like a fish plucked abruptly from the sea and tossed onto the dock; experiencing a sudden and shocking lack of air in her surrounding area. Gasping as though a sack had been plunged over her head and pulled shut, she dropped to her knees and coughed, the barrier disintegrating into sparks around her. The elf, leaning back against the stone battlements, gave a little inward wince.

Lieutenant Rutherford swallowed his guilt and roughly gestured for her to stand. Flora, tongue and lips tingling, clambered upright and lifted her hands. The second dispel had exactly the same effect and she once more sunk to her knees with her shield shattering in fragments of light around her. The world swam before her eyes, grey stone blurring with cornflower blue sky; her tongue feeling swollen and strange against the prickling roof of her mouth.

"Again!"

This time Flora barely had time to raise her shield before the third dispel hit her squarely in the centre of her chest. She collapsed onto all fours, grazing her knees and palms against the grey stone, gasping as though she might be sick. Sweat was dripping down her forehead, the salt stinging as it seeped into her eyes. Breaking into a series of coughs as though her lungs were trying to escape the rigid confines of her ribcage, Flora inhaled unsteadily. For a brief moment she fancied that she saw the lurid green veins of the Fade flickering through the limpid evening sunlight.

_**His magic is artificial; a fraudulent potency borrowed from earthly substance.** _

_**Yours is drawn from the vast dreaming depths of the Fade, and from us.** _

A gloved hand reached down and helped her to her feet. Cullen gazed at her, his expression reflecting mingled guilt and anxiety.

"Do you want to continue?"

She didn't trust her numb tongue to sufficiently articulate a response; and so Flora merely nodded, her shaking hand spilling half of Zevran's silently offered water pouch over her chest.

The young officer stepped back and watched Flora summon the shield. He lofted a hand and mouthed the incantation.

_**Focus!** _

Flora felt the dispel impact her barrier, percussive reverberations shuddering down her arm. It pressed insistently against the shield; seeking a way through the fine, tightly-woven golden filaments. She could feel the incantation beating at the edges of her brain, crashing like a storm surge against a sea wall. For a span of several elongated heartbeats the Templar's words gnawed at the edges of her shield, before finally penetrating it and striking her in the mouth. Flora swayed, but the potency of the spell had been drained, and she did not fall.

Zevran let out a murmur of approval and even Cullen allowed the corner of his mouth to twist upwards. A moment later the hint of a smile vanished and he was impassive once again, raising his hand.

"Again."

They practised for another hour, until Flora was able to resist the dispel for a full minute. Exhausted, dull numbness running through to her bones and sweat surging from every pore; she was too exhausted to grin. Zevran clasped her damp palm and squeezed it excitedly, his congratulations muffled through the thudding of her own heartbeat in her ear. The sun had just finished setting, leaving its flame-tinged remnants in a darkening sky. Far below them in the main courtyard, those nobles still remaining at South Reach were gathering for dinner.

"Thank you," Flora managed to wheeze eventually, her tongue feeling oddly limp. Cullen nodded stiffly, and if he was afraid that the Chantry would find out what he had done; there was no sign of it in his impassive face.

"We should practise again," he replied after a moment, his voice clipped. "Before you leave for Denerim."

Flora nodded, the clammy material of her shirt clinging to her shoulder-blades as the sweat cooled on her skin. Politely declining Zevran's lewd offer of a bath, she limped painfully down the winding staircase and made her way back to the Warden-assigned corridor. It was empty, and she assumed that the occupants must have already departed for dinner. Not sure how to fill up the bathtub in their own quarters herself; she wandered aimlessly in the passageway for several minutes before bumping into a capable-looking woman in Cousland livery.

The retainer, whose hair was shorn for practicality over aesthetic, adeptly hid her surprise at seeing the old teyrn's daughter dishevelled and perspiring. In a smoothly deferent voice, she offered the use of the bathing room in the Cousland quarters, which had a small reservoir of pumped water. A sweaty Flora gratefully accepted, trailing down the corridor in the briskly efficient wake of the Cousland servant.

Neither Finian nor Fergus were present in the lavishly appointed guest quarters, and Flora assumed that they had both gone to dinner. Once they had reached the tiled bathing room, the woman quickly filled a large copper tub using a complex series of pipes. The water disgorged into the bath was warm and had a faint, iridescent sheen to it. Once the servant had gone, Flora leaned down and took a tentative sniff within the bathtub. It smelt powdery and formal; her suspicions were correct, the water had been  _scented._

The concept of putting perfume in a bath was so foreign and amusing to Flora that she snickered to herself for the duration of her disrobing. Leaving her damp clothing on the floor, she clambered into the copper tub; deciding that she would bathe as quickly as possible before descending to the main hall to intercept the second course of dinner.

Unfortunately, despite Flora's best intentions, her exhaustion conspired with the soothing warmth of the water. She fell asleep in minutes, her head tilted back against the rim of the tub. When she awoke, the window-framed sunset had yielded to a rich, starless night and the water was cold and stagnant around her. The fire lay dead in the hearth and the lamp-boys had not yet reached the west wing on their rounds. The Cousland quarters were dark and still, the furniture casting strange shadows against the flagstones.

Dripping, Flora clambered out of the tub and went to scavenge some fresh clothing; finally settling for one of Finian's less-fancy white shirts and a pair of rough wool breeches that she had last seen on the narrow hips of his favourite retainer, Tommaso. Letting her hair hang wet and heavy over her shoulders, she padded barefoot out into the bedchamber. Two Cousland-liveried guards were standing at either side of the door. They were in the middle of an argument about the empty grates and absent lamp-boys; but when she entered they both immediately stood to attention, muttering  _Lady Cousland_ in unison.

Flora, still not used to the salutation, gave a small half-grimace in response and made a hasty exit, emerging onto the minstrel's gallery that overlooked the great hall. This too was cloaked in shadow, unlit wooden torches positioned at regular intervals in iron brackets. The only source of illumination came from the hall below, where the two great fireplaces produced sufficient heat and light to fill the high-ceilinged space.

Impulsively Flora went to the balustrade and leaned her elbows against it, peering down at the long wooden tables below. It appeared that she had slept through dinner; the hall's only occupant was a servant collecting up the last of the empty dishes on a silver tray. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of Redcliffe crimson disappearing into the adjacent meeting chamber, and reflexively shrank back; grateful to be missing the post-dinner briefing.

Suddenly, a brawny, muscled arm slid around her waist as the solid figure of a man pressed against her from behind. Deft fingers pulled aside wet hair and an eager mouth brushed over the tender skin of her neck.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol the chapter title made me laugh for about two minutes, I have such a juvenile sense of humour. So I wanted to build up Cullen's story arc more than what the game allows you to do, and I thought this would be a nice mini plotline to develop. Flora's shield is by no means impenetrable – any Templar can dispel it, and blood magic can also get through it as well.
> 
> Flora is going to be well pissed at missing her dinner! She's a girl who loves her food.


	161. Music on the Minstrels' Gallery

Chapter 162: Music On the Minstrels' Gallery

Flora leaned forward against the balustrade of the minstrels' gallery, gazing down at the lone servant in the great hall below. Although her face displayed its customary solemnity, she could feel twisting strands of desire starting to snake their way throughout her belly. Her brother-warden's mouth meandered briefly over her ear, a tongue tracing the shell-like curve before the lobe was bitten with infinitesimal gentleness.

At this, a small whimper broke free from her throat and Flora clung to the wooden railing, staring unseeingly down at the blazing hearth below. The minstrels' gallery was cloaked in shadow but not completely obscured; the lone servant was still collecting the last cutlery from dinner. The lips twisted into a grin against her neck, and she felt a man's arousal pressing directly against her rear. She gave an experimental wriggle and heard a soft moan escape between Alistair's teeth.

Large, capable hands came forward and cupped her breasts through the damp material of her shirt. Sword-calloused thumbs quickly sought out her nipples and began to circle them, teasing them to ripe attention beneath the linen. The pull of desire grew tauter within her and she felt her legs tremble, no longer certain of supporting her weight.

In spite of the measured pace in which he had begun his ministrations, Alistair's own lust was quickly sabotaging his plan for a slow seduction. Impatient fingers pulled at the opening of her shirt; several buttons dropping to the flagstones until he finally parted the folds of material in triumph.

A small sound escaped Flora's lips as she felt him pressing her up against the wooden railing, breasts now bared and ready for his caresses. Immediately fingers returned to fondle her nipples, his breath now coming in heated pants against her neck. She could feel his length hard, pressing into the part of her buttocks as he rocked himself forwards with rapidly escalating lust. Twisting her neck, Flora's mouth collided with his, the lips of her brother-warden as familiar as her own. He kissed her as a starving man would attack a feast, inhaling her as though she were air in the depths of the ocean. She squirmed against him, impatient, half-watching the servant vanishing into the passageway leading to the kitchens.

Moments later Flora's breeches were being pulled down to her knees; a groan of desire heating her ear as her nakedness beneath them was revealed. Rough palms cupped her rear for a moment, clumsily tentative, one curious, exploratory thumb tracing the line of her buttock before the fingers slipped to more familiar territory. As he began to stroke in the way he had learnt worked best, her knees weakened and she clutched the wooden balustrade with both hands to keep upright.

While Alistair's fingers groped between her legs, his mouth returned hungrily to the side of her neck. He worried at the skin softly, biting hard enough to leave the ghosts of teeth-marks behind. She let out an involuntary whimper and slumped forward against the wooden railing, wet tendrils of hair snaking their way free from the untidy bun. As she bent, the sight of her sweat-slick rear proved too much for the bastard prince; he took himself in hand and guided his length between her thighs. As he sunk himself to the hilt, a constricted groan tore its way from his throat.

Soon the rhythmic sound of flesh in motion echoed around the gallery, amplified by the vaulted ceiling's cunningly designed acoustics. Alistair growled lewdly into his sister-warden's ear; murmuring what he wanted to do to her with a profane crudeness that belied his normally gentle nature. She responded with no less enthusiasm, offering wordless reply of pants and wanton little moans. There was one murmured suggestion that made her eyes widen; even as a twist of shocked desire flared in her belly.

Considerate even in the depths of his lust, he brought her to climax with his calloused thumb before his own hips shuddered compulsively. As he spent himself within her, he brought her face around to his and devoured her mouth with his own. Flora slumped against the wooden balcony railing, gaping like a fish plucked from the sea. She dazedly wondered if her eyes were crossed, and came to the conclusion that they probably were.

Reluctant to part from his sister-warden, Alistair ground himself against her buttocks, determined to continue. Unfortunately, his plans were thwarted by the sound of several retainers conversing in the adjoining corridor. He had barely sufficient time to deliver two deep, longing thrusts before reluctantly pulling himself away.

The two Wardens, slightly dishevelled, meandered slowly back down the passageway towards their assigned quarters. Flora needed to clutch her shirt closed with one hand, several buttons had been torn free by Alistair in his enthusiasm. Her other hand was groping at her throat, the prickling golden magic seeping from beneath her fingernails and blurring the marks left by her brother-warden's teeth.

"We don't have to do – what I suggested while we were…," Alistair murmured as they approached their quarters, heat rising from the collar of his tunic. "It was just an idea."

Flora glanced over at him, her expression thoughtful.

"Well, I wouldn't mind  _trying_  it," she replied slowly after some deliberation, and Alistair swallowed, a flush warming the cool olive of his skin. She flashed a discreet smile in his direction and he let out a soft groan under his breath. Half-wondering if their quarters were empty – an unlikely prospect – Alistair passed the South Reach guards standing watch and nudged the door open.

His hopes were dashed at the realisation that their quarters were not empty; rather, half of the fortress appeared to be present. Zevran lounged against the fireplace, his expression amused as he quirked a wicked eyebrow. Trying and failing not to glance at the elf, Finian shifted anxiously from foot to foot at the opposite end of the hearth. Leliana was sharpening a blade on the bed, one toned thigh crossed over the other, her expression thoughtful. Fergus, traces of gauntness still reflected in his face, stood stiffly beside his brother.

Yet Flora's eyes were not drawn to the people, but the paraphernalia set up in centre of the room. The bathtub was filled with opaque lyrium-laced water, the dark, glimmering surface reminiscent of a star-speckled sky. The teyrn's hollow-cheeked face was reflected in the large mirror, which once more rested flat on the Orlesian rug. Wynne was just weighing out some diluted lyrium crystals into her cupped palm, mouthing the measurements quietly to herself. Pale blue eyes lifted and met Flora's, her voice brisk and inviting no discussion.

"Ah,  _finally_. Your mind has had sufficient time to rest, Flora. Time to try and retrieve your Highever memories again."

Flora stopped so suddenly in the doorway that Alistair, who had paused courteously to allow her through, collided with her back. Her eyes went from the lyrium-laced bath, to the flat, dark surface of the mirror; and she felt a small, tight knot of fear coalescing in the back of her throat. Behind her she could sense her brother-warden tensing, a rare flare of anger forming deep in his stomach. Before he could release a vehement denial she brought up the back of her hand against his chest.

"It's fine," she said, her eyes drifting over to Fergus' sad, hollow-cheeked visage; the loss of his family writ bare on his features. "I'll do it."

Alistair hissed between his teeth, hands going to her arms and turning her to face him.

"Flo- "

"It's fine," she repeated, insistent even as his anxious hazel eyes searched her face. "I want to do it."

" _Flora- "_

She squirmed away from him and thrust down the breeches impatiently, Finian's lengthy shirt falling to her knees. Zevran almost made the obligatory comment on seeing her bare legs; then thought better of it as she stalked across the flagstones towards the bathtub. Finian half-smiled at her, though his storm-tossed gaze was also fraught. Flora clambered into the bathtub, hissing slightly at the coolness of the water even as she felt the prickle of lyrium on her skin. Alistair hovered to one side, a dark and scowling presence on the periphery of her vision.

"This is the third bath I've had today," Flora said to nobody in particular, leaning her head back against the copper rim of the tub. "I'll be extra clean."

"You needed one," chirped Zevran and then laughed when she shot him a suspicious look. "Such  _sweet music_  is made on the minstrels' gallery, don't you think?"

Alistair nearly fell into the bathtub as Fergus' nostrils flared imperceptibly. Flora narrowed her eyes at Zevran and the elf responded with a sweet, indolent smile. Leliana looked as though she were highly tempted to plant her throwing knife squarely in the centre of the elf's amused face.

Wynne, overly brisk to disguise the academic's pleasure she felt about the whole ritual, gestured to Fergus. He removed his Highever signet ring and loosed it into the lyrium-edged water; Flora felt it collide with her knee before dropping to the bottom of the tub.

"Are you ready?" the senior enchanter asked and Flora nodded; but her response was interrupted by Alistair crouching beside the tub and taking her chin in his hand, his eyes darting over the planes and angles of her face as though memorising them before she slipped beyond his reach.

"If it gets too dangerous _, stop it_ ," he murmured, speaking to her and no other. "You can rouse yourself from the Fade, can't you?"

Flora nodded dutifully and Alistair let out a sigh, leaning over to press a quick and fierce kiss against her forehead. She leaned back against the copper rim and Wynne added a final vial of lyrium to the shimmering water, shaking out the last few gleaming particles.

"Alright, child. Whenever you're ready," the senior enchanter said at last, lifting the engraved silver vessel out of its case in preparation. Zevran and Leliana, studiously ignoring one another, advanced forwards to station themselves around the mirror. The bard's natural curiosity into Flora's convoluted past had prompted her attendance. This was an urge secretly shared by the elf, despite his outwardly professed desire to see the memory of the two Wardens engaged in copulation.

Flora felt the silvery cool heat of the Cousland stare resting on her, combining with Alistair's own anxious gaze. Dropping her eyes, she raised her hand to her forehead. Golden energy pulsed from her fingertips, rolling almost-viscous down to her wrists. The gleaming globules of light sunk into her skin; all it took was a fragment of focus to increase the anaesthetic properties of her magic. Within the span of a heartbeat, she slumped back senseless against the copper tub, her eyes closing as she self-anaesthetised herself into a stupor. Alistair, his mouth sealed into a tight line of disapproval, reached out to clasp her limp fingers within his own and gave them a tight squeeze. Glancing down, he saw that her fingernails were bitten almost to the quick; a childhood habit that she had never managed to shake.

"Perhaps if we increase the volume of liquid lyrium, it will allow access into the deeper parts of her memory," Wynne said out loud, although she was talking to no one in particular.

"Do nothing that endangers her," interjected Fergus hastily, lines of tension contorted around his pursed mouth.

Wynne brought out the spool of golden thread and doled out lengths to each person present, instructing them to affix the magic-infused thread around each entry point into the room. Since their ritual would cause a ripple in the Veil; this would theoretically prevent demons from taking advantage of the temporary weakness.

Alistair and Zevran worked in conjunction to stretch the thread across the arrow-slit window.

"Were you spying on us earlier in the gallery?" hissed Alistair, nostrils flaring even as a flush spread up from the collar of his tunic. Zevran flashed the prince an enigmatic smile, tying the end of the thread into a delicate knot.

"You and your sister-warden are both spectacularly unobservant," he stated bluntly, unwinding another golden length. "Initially I had not intended my presence to be a secret; I merely came to check on her after the training session with the Templar. But when I happened upon you both, I decided to linger in the shadows for a time."

Alistair scowled, his own larger fingers not as deft in tying the knots. He cursed under his breath as yet another amputated thread was left to flutter in the evening breeze.

"Why do you like watching us so much?" he asked, making a clumsy attempt to amend his mistake. "I feel like you're judging my… my  _aptitude_. It's worse than the Templar trials!"

Zevran smiled to himself, reaching out and adeptly rectifying the torn thread.

"Because I appreciate beauty in all of its varied forms; and you two are very beautiful together," murmured the elf, dropping his voice as Leliana glanced suspiciously in their direction. "As an Antivan, I always appreciate the aesthetic."

Alistair narrowed his eyes, and the elf let out a reluctant laugh.

"And, of course, it is the only way I will see  _mi sirenita_ in such wanton display," he admitted, frankly. "It is no secret that I lust for her."

The bastard prince let out a non-committal grunt; even he in his obliviousness was not unaware of this. The elf had openly demonstrated his desire for Alistair's fellow Warden since their first meeting.

"Incidentally, Alistair," the elf added, lowering his tone still further as they went to re-join the other party. "Some of the things you say to your sister-wardenare so  _delightfully_  obscene. I never thought such wanton suggestion could come out of that Chantry-raised mouth."

While the elf cackled merrily, a blushing Alistair nearly fell into the bathtub; earning himself a scowl of disapproval from the senior enchanter.

"Do I have to ask you both to leave?" Wynne hissed, stirring the lyrium-infused bathwater until it grew cloudy. "Either be quiet, or quit the room!"

Once they were settled, Alistair noticed the absence of the young lieutenant who had supervised the last ritual. The senior enchanter, when questioned, shook her head briefly.

"She's more than proficient in defending herself, and the spirits that aid her are powerful. I doubt she is in any danger of possession."

Alistair fell silent with a little grimace, placing himself in a position where he could see the mirror while still gripping his sister-warden's nail-bitten fingers.

Wynne held up a finger, requesting silence. The room fell into a muted hush, the faint, acrid tang of lyrium lacing the air. In the hearth, a log split with a crack that made Finian jump. The senior enchanter leaned forward and scooped up a cupful of clouded bathwater, then spilled it over the mirror's gleaming, opaque surface. Immediately the glass misted over; and as before, they heard vague noises before shadowed images coalesced into existence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OK so this chapter was hilarious to edit while watching Top Gear with my parents: "what are you doing on the laptop, mrsrockatansky?" "oh just researching Elizabethan trade routes and patterns for work!" Although I do actually have to do that over the next couple of weeks, haha.
> 
> I like this chapter even though the first bit is basically 50 Shades; it reminds me of being a carefree teenager who basically just wants to do it all the time (OH GOD THAT WAS A DECADE AGO? I AM SO OLD) and the two Wardens are only 19 and 20, after all.
> 
> But I love the dynamic in the second half most of all – Flora confronted with this option of having her Highever memories unlocked; essentially acknowledging that she is Florence Cousland as opposed to Flora of Herring. She's basically doing it for Fergus' benefit at this point, which Alistair is fully aware of and one reason why he is resistant to the idea. Tune in next time for some Circle memories, including …. Satinalia costume balls/lemon costumes! Young Cullen! Climbing on Tower roofs! Also, Anders?!
> 
> Oh I edited this in real quick for people who might have not seen a minstrels' gallery in person - basically, it's just a balcony overlooking the great hall in a castle or large manor, and it's for the musicians (i.e. minstrels) to play without getting in the way of the fancypants nobles jigging around/eating/whatever below!


	162. The Circle Memories: Part One

" _Class, you have one more minute to study the spell before your practical demonstration of flame conjuration."_

_The instructor's strident voice echoed to the eaves of the Circle classroom. Situated high above Lake Calenhad, the elegance of the academic chamber was only marred by ugly iron bars soldered over the leaded windows. The walls were overflowing with bookshelves tall enough to require ladders, and a series of wooden desks were laid out in regimented rows. The teacher, a dark-haired woman clad in the maroon robes of a senior enchanter, was poised behind a lectern at the front of the room. A pair of Templar stood at either side of the door, their expressions impassive._

_Students of all ages were seated at the desks; leather-bound tomes spread open before them. Their expressions ranged from eager confidence to tentative apprehension. Each was aware that the ability to defend themselves meant the difference between a successful Harrowing and death at the end of a Templar's sword._

_Flora had placed herself deliberately at the back of the class, behind a tall and broad-shouldered young man with an air of swaggering confidence. She was clad in the plain khaki tunic of an apprentice; and the slightly shorter length of her braid indicated that she was perhaps seventeen. Her expression was gloomy as she gazed down at the book, the letters unintelligible squiggles of black ink._

"What language do you teach them in at the Circle?" enquired Finian, his brow furrowed as he squinted at the strange text. Wynne shook her head, eyes lit like candles with intellectual glee.

"This is from her perspective, remember; and she was not able to read then."

Fergus shot a quick glance over at Alistair, who by all accounts taught Flora what rudimentary literacy she had. The bastard prince did not meet his eye; too busy gazing down in fascination at this younger version of his sister-warden. Physically, she had not seemed to change a great deal between seventeen and nineteen, and the Cousland features were already writ stark on her face.

_Sighing inwardly and resigning herself to the fact that the book may as well have been written in Ancient Tevinter; Flora slunk down further behind her taller classmate and surreptitiously took out a bread roll from her pocket. She had just taken her third bite when the instructor spotted her; the dark-haired woman's nostrils flaring in anger._

" _Apprentice Flora, I assume that since you are snacking, you have defied all expectations and finally mastered the art of conjuring the flame."_

" _Maker knows it's been long enough," interjected the tall apprentice, his tone snide. "How long have you been in this class, anyway?"_

_Gloomily Flora rose to her feet, well aware of what was about to happen. As she had predicted, the instructor challenged her to light the candle that stood on the desk before her. After a minute of concentrating so hard that Flora thought she might actually be physically sick, it became obvious that no combustion was happening. As had happened on countless prior occasions, the instructor expelled her from the classroom with practised disapproval, accompanied by smirks and muted snickers._

_Well used to the procedure, Flora dutifully went to retrieve the cleaning rags and the bucket from the Tranquil storage chamber; before kneeling in the passageway and setting about the task of mopping the foot-worn flagstones. From inside the classroom, she could hear the instructor calling up each student in turn to light their own candle. From the delighted exclamations and vocal praise of the instructor, it appeared that the exercise had been a resounding success._

_At one point, Wynne and First Enchanter Irving walked past, deep in conversation. Wynne was gesticulating, her face animated; while Irving nodded dutifully with a somewhat wearied expression. They stepped around Flora without sparing her a glance, too caught up in their own dialogue._

_Finally the classroom door opened and students poured out, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. A group came towards Flora, the confident tall apprentice stopping to gaze down at her with a contemptuous sneer. She squeezed the damp rags into the bucket, avoiding their curious, amused stares._

" _Ten silver that she ends up skewered on a Templar sword at her Harrowing," he said loudly to his elven companion, who let out a little snort._

" _I'll take that wager. Although what demon would want to possess something quite so useless?"_

" _Aye. They should just Tranquilise her now. Stupid and incompetent, what a waste of a pretty face."_

_The instructor walked past, clearly aware of what was transpiring but doing nothing to intervene. Flora, well accustomed to this type of exchange, squeezed the damp rag into the bucket before surveying the clean, wet flagstones. The tall student, glancing quickly over his shoulder, stepped forward and gave the bucket a vicious little kick. Dirty water spilled out over the passageway, staining the tiles._

_Flora, rolling her eyes but secretly grateful that she would now miss extended study in the library, reached out to set the bucket upright. The two students moved on with curling lips, deliberately scuffing their boots over the grubby stone._

" _It'd be much easier if you could just… cast the spell." Jowan gazed down at her, several books clutched against his maroon-clad chest. As he spoke, he dipped the end of his staff into her empty bucket. A steady stream of clean water poured forth, filling the wooden receptacle to the brim._

_Flora gave a mild shrug, soaking the rags before leaning forward to scrub at the newly-stained flagstones. This was a chore she had become well-accustomed to during her time at the Circle. Back in Herring, many girls had aspirations of becoming servants up at the castle in Highever; a dream which Flora had shared until her pa told her point blank she was never going to the town, which – as he told it – was full of unsavoury characters._

" _I would if I could, but I can't," she replied, and it was clear that this was a familiar conversation between the two of them. "I try my best but nothin' happens."_

_Her northern accent cut through her words far more strongly, the words soft and low, running together in a drawl._

" _Have you tried… focusing harder?"_

_Flora did not deign to dignify this with a response; and when she looked up, Jowan was gone, hurrying to catch up with the tall apprentice._

Back in the arlina's chamber Wynne was caught between satisfaction that they had successfully uncovered a deeper layer of memory, and guilt over her apparent past ignorance of Flora's ability.

"If I had known she had such potential as a creationist, I would have tutored Flora myself," she murmured, brow creasing. "I don't think I even noticed the girl before her Harrowing."

"How is it that my sister spent four years in a centre of academic learning and nobody taught her to read?" enquired Fergus, his voice outwardly polite but his eyes steely and hard as silverite. Wynne put a hand to her head, grimacing.

"We have many apprentices under our wing. The literacy of a single child is not a priority," she replied, a thread of defensiveness running through her tone. "We have greater concerns within a Circle."

Alistair was not listening to the senior enchanter or the teyrn as they argued over culpability; his memory revisiting the scornful faces of the other apprentices and the casual insults flung towards his younger sister-warden as she mopped the floors like a servant. He squeezed Flora's limp fingers hard as she lay slumped in the water, bringing her hand to his mouth and kissing the warm skin.

"How  _dare_ they," he said, the outrage writ plainly on his face. "Calling her stupid and- and saying she should be made Tranquil!"

"She didn't seem too fazed by it," interjected Zevran, fingers idly caressing the hilt of his dagger. Leliana put a hand on the bastard prince's elbow, her voice calming.

"The elf is right," she murmured soothingly, while surreptitiously feeling the taut muscle of Alistair's bicep. "Clearly, she put little stock in their words."

Wynne cleared her throat, lowering the silver vessel once more to the cloudy water.

"Let us continue."

_The ground floor of the Circle Tower lacked the elegant architecture and intellectual finery of its loftier counterparts. The rear chamber housed a Templar barrack and a heavily guarded back entrance, the room's décor starkly utilitarian. From the narrow, winding staircase faint laughter and music drifted down from above, light and airy. A small sprig of holly tied over one barred window was the only indication that it was Satinalia._

_Knight-Commander Greagoir stood impatiently at the foot of the staircase, squinting up into the darkness. Several other Templar were in various states of undress, replacing their swords on plain wooden racks._

_In the centre of the room were a small gaggle of Chantry officials, clustered around a wooden table. In their midst, flat on his back, was a distressed lay-brother in sweat stained robes. He was clammy and quivering, his teeth chattering as he stared blindly at the vaulted ceiling._

" _Remind me again why Enchanter Deanna is unable to assist," muttered one Templar officer to another. His companion snorted, glancing over at the hanging sprig of holly._

" _It's the annual Satinalia costume ball. The instructor is inebriated, as are most of our charges."_

" _I've never even heard of this other girl. Is she Harrowed?"_

" _No, she's just an apprentice. The Rutherford boy recommended her; claims she's a good healer."_

_The two older Templars glanced over at a slighter, more nervous-looking Cullen, who shifted from foot to foot before dropping his gaze to the floor._

_A lemon arrived at the foot of the steps, panting slightly from descending six flights of stairs. Knight-Commander Greagoir's jaw dropped, his bristled eyebrows rising to the ceiling._

" _What the fuck are you supposed to be?" asked one officer in stark incredulity._

" _I'm a lemon," said the lemon, defensively._

_The Knight-Commander lifted his eyes to the heavens._

" _Maker preserve us," he snarled, then made a rough gesture to the whimpering Chantry officials. "Stand guard, men. The lemon is unharrowed."_

_Said lemon took off its hat, and then struggled slightly to remove the spherical plaidweave costume. Finally one of the Templars lost his patience and stepped forward to pull it from her with little gentility. Flora emerged from the crumpled costume, flushed and out of breath._

_She must have been about fifteen or sixteen years old, the fine-boned Cousland cheekbones only just emerging from a child's rounder face. The fox-fur hair was much shorter and loosely tied in two untidy braids. Still, the solemn grey eyes and wide, curving mouth were immediately recognisable. She wore only a thin yellow vest and smallclothes; her skin not yet pallid from years spent indoors._

" _Everyone's drinkin' WINE," Flora observed with rural piety, jabbing a finger upwards as she padded barefoot towards the wooden table. "And NASTY BEER. They'll all feel proper sick tomorrow, eh."_

_She made an incongruous figure, slight and barely clothed; surrounded by several fully-armoured figures falling in step behind her._

" _I hope you're not also inebriated," muttered one of them, and Flora shook her head solemnly._

" _No, but I did eat lots. I'm gonna feel sick in the mornin' too," she admitted, eyes falling on the sick man as he wheezed, hacking up white fluid from his lungs._

_Despite the fact that Flora had come to assist them, the accompanying Chantry officials still eyed her with deep mistrust and suspicion as she approached._

" _Lay-brother Benjamin has Frost-cough, mage. Can you heal this?"_

_The younger Flora nodded dutifully, paying no heed to the Chantry sisters parting rapidly before her._

" _Mm," she said, and there was no doubt in her tone. "I healed it lots of times in Herring. 'Scuse me."_

_Flora clambered up on the table, kneeling beside the sickly lay-brother. He groaned, grey hairs just beginning to sprout in his beard, eyes half-closed and rheumatic. She leaned down just as he broke into another spasm of coughing; without flinching, she put a childish, nail-bitten hand to his face._

" _Ssh," Flora whispered, patting his cheek with her small fingers while gently tilting his head back. "Lie still. This might sting a bit, eh."_

_The Chantry sisters let out a little hiss of alarm as the girl ducked her head, planting her mouth firmly on the man's own sweaty lips. The energy surged forward from Flora's mouth even as one hand dropped to his bare, grey-haired chest, her fingers working in little gestures to break up the congestion beneath the skin. When she let her eyes drift out of focus, she could see the golden mist spilling down his throat, curling tendrils into the complex folds of his lungs, purging the bone-white congestion._

_**Inhale; exhale.** _

_The Templars eyed her with expressions ranging from confusion to disbelief; this form of administering healing far more primal than the formal, civilised spell casting they customarily witnessed. Yet as they watched, the man's erratically heaving chest settled into steady, even motion, and the colour flooding back to his face. It took only a few minutes to withdraw the sickness; Flora could feel the creation magic prickling in her throat as her body reflexively neutralised the infection. The Templars watched in astonishment, though their fingers never moved from the hilts of their blades._

_**Good girl.** _

_Finally the man blinked and his gaze was clear and coherent. Flora withdrew hastily, slithering off the table and returning to stand barefoot on the flagstones. The Chantry mother and her sisters drew around the lay-brother, thanking the Maker and squarely ignoring Flora as she wiped the man's spittle from her mouth with the back of her hand._

" _Maker's Breath," said one of the officers after a moment, eyebrows raised. "She's far quicker than Enchanter Deanna. That was a good call, young Rutherford."_

_Knight-Commander Greagoir nodded, watching a yawning Flora gather up the remnants of the wire-frame lemon._

" _We'll summon her in the future rather than Deanna," he said, addressing his adjutant rather than Flora herself. "She can be of good use to the Chantry."_

The memory disappeared in a sudden swirl of cloud, the voices distorting and figures blurring to non-existence. There was a faint hiss as the amber flames in the hearth began to take on a vaguely greenish hue. Leliana was the first to notice, nudging the senior enchanter's arm. Wynne glanced over at Alistair, who was distractedly fussing over the slumped Flora, then murmured a quick response.

"Yes, the demons are noticing her but she'll be fine for now. We can do another brief one; the more layers of memory we can uncover, the quicker we can reach Highever."

"It does seem rather a waste to have kept someone like Florence locked up in a Circle," said Fergus at last, glancing across at his limp sister. Alistair was adjusting her head to rest more comfortably against the metal bathtub, his face taut with concern. She was still insensible, her mouth hanging open and a rather gormless expression on her face.

"Surely, a healer of her calibre would have been best utilised travelling around the villages, with a Templar escort?"

Wynne gave a slight shrug, spilling the contents of the third cup over the mirror.

"I didn't create the system," she replied distractedly, drawing nearer to the clouded glass. "The Chantry would never endorse it. Now, let's see what we have here."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So the linguistics of the word Harrowing is quite interesting – a harrow is an old farming tool that would turn the soil in preparation for seeds; i.e. it would literally 'tear up' the earth. Then, extrapolated from that, a 'harrowing' experience is a terrible, devastating one that would emotionally 'tear' you up. It could also be a reference to a Biblical phrase 'the harrowing of hell'; which refers to Jesus going to hell and basically wreaking havoc in order to save the souls of the just. Hmmm! I'm such an etymology geek, lol.
> 
> So Flora didn't have a great experience in the Circle – she was always bottom of the class, healing and shielding not being in much demand in such a tightly controlled location. I thought it was a funny parallel about how Herring girls would aspire to go and work in Highever, in Castle Cousland ; but when Flora dares to suggest it to her Herring-father, he is like NO, THE TOWN IS FULL OF DEGENERATES! You will never go there! Hmmmm I wonder why, lol
> 
> Satinalia is obviously derived from the Ancient Roman festival of Saturnalia, held mid-December and a time of much drinking and merrymaking (i.e. debauchery!) It's basically the predecessor to Christmas. God I wish I had specialised in Roman history, it's so fascinating! Also I love that Flo dresses up as a LEMON when everyone else is dressed as Orlesian harlequins and Rivaini belly-dancers, lol. 
> 
> Finally, Flora's primal manner of healing is indicative of the close relationship she has with the spirits; a relationship which grew organically while she was in Herring (as opposed to formal, classical magic training in a Circle)
> 
> Also, note Flo's Herring accent! That definitely got toned down during her four years in the Circle :P


	163. The Circle Memories: Part Two

 

_Flora, young and still freckled from the weak Herring sun, emerged through a trapdoor onto a lower ledge of the Circle Tower roof. The apprentice clothes were too large for her slender frame and clearly intended to be grown into; the sleeves of her tunic and legs of her breeches had been rolled up several times. Glancing behind her nervously, Flora tucked her staff beneath her arm and began to clamber up toward the roof proper. It was a mellow spring evening, the sun midway through its descent towards the horizon._

_Once she had ascended to a high, flat expanse, using her staff to provide leverage on difficult sections; the fifteen year old girl turned her face to the north, towards where she knew Herring lay nestled sixty miles away on a rugged coastline. Far too distant to make out specifics, the sea was little more than a faint dark smudge on the horizon. After squinting in vain for several minutes, Flora sat down abruptly and hid her face in her small hands. Despite her best attempts to press the tears back into her eyes, they sprung forth regardless, sliding down her cheeks._

" _Templar or senior enchanter?"_

_The voice, light, clipped and faintly amused came from behind Flora and made her jump. Startled, she looked around and saw a slender young man with pale blond hair, shaggily cut around his shoulders. He was wearing the navy garb of a Harrowed mage, and carried his staff jauntily beneath his arm._

" _What?" snuffled Flora, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and relaxing slightly now that she knew it was not someone come to drag her back inside. The young man snorted, lowering himself elegantly into a cross-legged stance beside her._

" _Was it Templar or a senior enchanter that made you cry?" he asked patiently, tapping his long fingers against his knees. Despite his serene appearance, he appeared to have an excess of pent-up energy; manifesting in jittering hands and manically tapping toes._

" _Oh," she replied, then shook her head solemnly. "Nah, I miss my home, and my parents."_

" _Ah. When did you get caught?"_

" _Three weeks ago," she replied glumly, watching as the young man leapt to his feet again._

" _Guess how many times I've been caught?" he shot back at her, bracing his hand against a stone parapet and leaning out over the vast drop._

" _Um," said Flora, doubtfully. "Once?"_

_The young man let out a cackle, flicking a stone over the edge and watching it plummet to the lake below._

" _Four," he replied triumphantly, returning to sit back down next to her. "Next time, the bastards won't catch me. Do you know any levitation spells?"_

_Flora shook her head dolefully, prying a splinter of wood free from her staff. "No, I'm a healer. I can't do nothin' else."_

_He shrugged mildly, casting her a sideways glance._

" _Nothing wrong with being a healer. You're from the north coast?"_

_She nodded, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Mm. My name's Flora."_

_He nodded, then sprung to his feet for a second time and squinted over the edge, shading his eyes against the setting sun._

" _Do you think if I jumped, I'd survive the fall? It is water."_

" _No," Flora replied decisively, slightly shocked that he would even consider it. "It'd be like hittin' stone. You'd splatter your brains out."_

" _At least I could do this to the Templars as I fell past the windows," he said, then made a rude gesture and let out another cackle._

_Flora shot him a disapproving look, her dad's parting instruction to 'be a good girl and do whatever they tell you,' ringing in her ears. The young man glanced sideways at her, curiously. He saw the wedge of cheese she had cradled in her lap, and his expression relented somewhat._

" _There's a back passage to the kitchen that no-one checks," he said in an undertone, although they were alone on the rooftop. "It's on the fifth floor, next to the statue of First Enchanter Whitbone. I've used it a few times. And most of the Templars aren't too bad. Keep away from Captain Duerril though, he's a bit handsy with the ladies. He prefers blonds though, so you'll be alright. The name's Anders, incidentally."_

Several things then happened at once in the arlina's bedchamber, running into one another with rapid succession. The fire flared a bright, lurid green, giving forth a burst of heat so intense that the Orlesian silk rug set before the hearth began to smoulder. Simultaneously, Alistair felt Flora's damp palm grow warm against his own, the characteristic prickle of magic dancing over his skin. Wynne raised her staff, sending a gout of water over the smoking rug.

"A demon attempts to penetrate the Veil. Stand ready," she said, her voice steely; Fergus and Finian glanced at one another in bewilderment, the younger frightened and the elder confused.

"This ritual is  _too_  dangerous- " began the pale-faced teyrn, and then suddenly the fire shrunk back into the iron grate; the green growing milder and more sallow until the flames had returned to their normal amber hue.

"It's gone," breathed Wynne, watching Leliana slowly release her grip on the hilt of her dagger.

Flora sat bolt upright in the bathtub, her eyes snapping open. The first person she saw was her brother-warden, swooping forward to wrap his arms around her in an unhappily protective embrace. She squeezed him back between her elbows, holding her magic-reddened palms outwards.

"What demon was it?" asked Wynne, keeping her tone deliberately calm to stop the Cousland brothers from raising any objections to future probing. "Anger?"

"No, desire," replied Flora, trying not to laugh in spite of her sore palms. "It offered me one hundred virgins."

She cackled weakly, even as Alistair let out a groan; unable to find the humour in his lover getting into an altercation with any demon.

"Did you kill it?" asked Leliana, her tone leaving no doubt in anyone's mind that  _she_ would not allow any demon to escape her clutches.

Flora nodded her head, shivering slightly as the lyrium-laced water began to rapidly cool.

"Mm," she replied, somewhat vaguely. "I had some help."

Alistair had had more than enough of this talk of demons. Regardless of Flora's wet shirt, he lifted her out of the bath and steered her over to the bed. Without being asked, a solemn and silent pair of Cousland brothers assisted in the manhandling of the copper tub back into the washroom.

Wynne exhaled, eyes alight with academic's delight as she advanced on the bed, removing a roll of linen from the medicine pouch she wore on her waist.

"It's fascinating," the senior enchanter murmured as a yawning Flora held up her magic-burnt hands. "The apostate who performed the memory charm on you was clearly very skilled. However, I'm confident that we will soon reach the Highever memories."

Flora gave a little shrug, leaning back wearily against the pillows as Wynne wrapped the linen bandages around her palms.

"I've been to the Val Royeaux Circle ball; everyone was dressed as courtesans and dancers. I'd never seen such beautiful costumes," mused Leliana, carefully plucking the golden threads from the doorway. "Did you really go to the Satinalia ball clad as a  _lemon?"_

As Flora opened her mouth to reply the corridor door flew open, crashing against the stone wall. It was Arl Eamon, lined face grim and a drawn sword in his hand.

"We have good reason to believe that there's a pair of assassins in the fortress," he stated bluntly, eyes immediately going to Fergus. "My lord, Finian, you both ought to stay here. It's probable that Couslands are the targets."

Springing to attention, Leliana immediately drew her daggers. Alistair also reflexively rose to his feet, and then cast a look over at Flora. She was still sprawled on the bed, her eyes shadowed from the exertion of the ritual. Arl Eamon followed his gaze, giving a slight nod.

"Alistair, you stay here, perhaps with one other. The rest of your companions are already aiding in the search."

Zevran inclined his head, the humour drained from his face and replaced with the carefully blank mien of the professional assassin.

"I'll stay."

The Arl gave a tight nod before withdrawing; Leliana and Wynne at his side and the door locked shut in their wake. A cold night breeze stole in, the flames guttering ominously in the hearth. Alistair strode over to the window, suddenly grateful for the narrowness of the arrow-slit. He peered down into the main courtyard below, all appeared deserted and silent. The only sign that something was amiss was that all the torches had been extinguished, plunging the square into a mass of shadows. Gritting his teeth, Alistair returned to the door and positioned himself before it, sword held loosely in one hand.

Finian sank down onto the chaise, fingers moving nervously over his fine cambric breeches. The deposed teyrn bore an expression of mingled frustration and resignation; desperate to confront Howe's hired killers face to face but aware of his physical limitations and residual weakness. Zevran sauntered over to the bed, his features carefully arranged in detached neutrality. Flora peered up at him, knowing the elf well enough to see through the mask of impassivity.

"Are you alright?" she asked, stifling another yawn. The fight with the demon had not proven to be difficult, but had still been somewhat draining. Zevran ignored her question, clambering up to sit beside her on the pillows before gesturing lightly towards where Alistair stood in front of the doorway.

"Such a solid and impenetrable wall of muscle," he purred, shooting her a darting little smile. "I feel rather extraneous,  _mi sirenita._ The prince can defend us both."

Flora refused to allow herself to be distracted, fixing him with her best disapproving-Wynne stare. Zevran skilfully deflected the implicit question, smile widening as he dropped his gaze.

"Your wet shirt is proving rather a distraction," he murmured, lowering his voice beneath the Cousland brothers' anxious conversation. "I find my gaze drawn inexplicably downwards."

The elf brushed his fingers over her collarbone, lifting them just before they reached the swell of her cloth-covered breast. Flora was not dissuaded, narrowing her eyes at him.

"What's wrong?"

Zevran sighed, rolling his eyes and leaning back against the pillows. She could see the multitude of weapons that the elf wore beneath his leathers, the glint of metal at his knee, waist and elbow.

"It may not be that the assassins are targeting  _you_ ," he murmured, reluctantly. "It may be that the Crows are targeting  _me_  for my defection."

Flora gazed at him, and the elf continued with an air of tired resignation.

"The guild does not look kindly on those who betray them. It would perhaps be safer that I leave you and your companions, and try and to elude them alone. I have no wish to bring further danger to you,  _carina._ "

In response Flora reached out and put her hand on his arm, carefully avoiding the dagger strapped just above his elbow.

"What happened to Rinna won't happen to you, I promise," she whispered, her proficient memory able to summon the name with ease. "You're free to leave if you want, but I'd rather you stayed."

Zevran closed his eyes for a moment, and then reached up to touch her fingers gently.

" _Mi limónita,_ I knew that you and your brother-warden were bound to end up as lovers from the moment I first met you. Watching you together was like some long, drawn out form of foreplay. Yet I cannot help but wish…ah,  _Fen'harel's teeth."_

The elf sighed, closing his eyes once more with an air of resignation. Flora gazed at him with slight trepidation, recalling the moment that they had first met on the way to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It had been a grey, miserable morning traipsing through gradually climbing forests; she had been horribly sick from the increasing altitude.

"You wish that you had killed us both and collected the contract," she said solemnly, missing the point in spectacular fashion. Zevran opened one eye incredulously, staring at her in confusion.

"No,  _carina,"_ he murmured, but seemed reluctant to expand further on what he had meant. Flora patted his arm once more, then slithered off the bed and crossed the flagstones towards her brother-warden. Alistair glanced sideways at her, his face alight with concern.

"Sweetheart, stay behind me," he implored, one eye on her and the other on the door. "You're exhausted."

"But how am I meant to shield you if I can't see what's coming?" Flora asked in confusion, at which Alistair let out a little groan. She stood beside him, barefoot and still damp from the lyrium-infused water, flexing her stiff fingers absentmindedly.

"Is my shirt really see-through?"

Alistair glanced compulsively down at her, and then hissed through his teeth.

" _Yes_. Don't distract me, Flo."

"How can I distract you just by standing here?" she retorted indignantly.

"Because- because… just let me protect  _you_  for once." The words emerged in a tangled rush from his mouth, heated in their earnestness.

Flora gazed up at him, inexplicably touched; used to being the one who constantly stood in front and defended others. She leaned up to kiss his cheek before returning to sit beside Finian on the chaise. Her brother was twisting the end of his silken sleeve between sweaty fingers, his face waxy with fear. Flora reached out for his hand and he gripped it, his elegant scholar's fingers clutching hers.

"Don't worry," she whispered in his ear, squeezing his palm against her own. "Nothing will get past my brother-warden."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Flora, as usual, was assisted in the Fade against the demon by the two spirits who grant her the ability to heal and shield; similar what happened in her Harrowing. Just as a reminder (because the chapter introducing them was ages ago), the spirit who channels healing energy through Flora is a spirit of Compassion that takes on the form of a faceless golden woman, clad in veils; and the spirit that allows her to shield takes on the form of a faceless silver knight complete with sword and shield, Valour
> 
> Also, Anders in the Circle Tower! I haven't played Dragon Age 2, but I researched it as part of my preparation to write this story, and saw that he was in Kinloch Hold at the same time as Flora! I had to keep his age super-ambiguous though, because I couldn't find it anywhere!
> 
> I liked writing about how Alistair was standing guard in the doorway – it's a nice change to have him in the role of sole protector for once, since usually it's Flora defending people from attack.
> 
> Also, lol at Flora being slightly carrotlike (Welsh in-joke sorry, carrot = 'moron' in Welsh) with Zevran.


	164. A Myth And A Marriage

 

True to Flora's word, Alistair stood a silent and motionless vigil in front of the bedchamber door for three hours straight; eyes fixed on the iron-studded wood and fingers not straying from the hilt of his sword. Outside the night grew richer and darker, the shadows lengthening and temperature dropping as the fire consumed the last of the wood in the hearth. Zevran reclined on the bed, idly sliding a whetstone up and down the edge of a particularly wicked-looking blade. Despite the tension, Flora had fallen asleep on the chaise, half-slithering off with her head on Finian's knee. He was preoccupying himself with braiding sections of her hair together, winding the oxblood strands with nimble fingers. Fergus had paced the length and breadth of the room several times over, his face white and set.

Finally there came a rapid staccato knock on the door, and they all tensed; an abruptly woken Flora sliding off the chaise and sitting up on the flagstones. Alistair raised his sword, stepping closer to the iron-bound door.

"Who is it?"

"Leonas," came the Arl's voice, wearied but triumphant. "The senior enchanter is with me."

Alistair reached forward to unbolt the door, his sword still poised to strike. Only when Leonas Bryland entered, followed closely by Wynne, did the young Warden relax a fraction.

"Was it an assassin?" asked Fergus, his voice strained. The Arl inclined his head, not bothering to hide his exhaustion.

"Aye," Leonas replied, glancing over his shoulder. "A pair of the bastards."

"The Qunari and the drunkard dwarf killed one before he could be questioned," interjected Wynne with mild exasperation. "Leliana found the other. She's questioning him now."

Alistair grimaced, his eyes meeting the senior enchanter's, both aware of what Leliana's 'questioning' would entail. Zevran's face lit up eagerly and he sprung from the bed, sauntering towards the door with deliberate coolness.

"I shan't allow the lay-sister to have all the fun," he murmured, flashing a devilish smile. "Excuse me while I offer my assistance."

"Is that it? The threat is over?" asked Finian hopefully, while his elder brother bore a more dubious expression.

"What if there are more than two of them?" added Alistair, sharing the teyrn's suspicion. Arl Bryland inclined his head, surreptitiously stifling another yawn.

"We found the letter of employment, naming the pair. The contract was for the deaths of the two Cousland sons, and the capture of the daughter. They had mage shackles with them."

"And the signatory?" asked Alistair, forehead prickling with nervous sweat. Even as Leonas spoke, the bastard prince knew the name that would emerge.

"Rendon Howe."

" _Not_ Loghain?"

The Arl of South Reach shook his head, and Alistair fell into a bemused silence. Flora, the chill of the flagstones seeping through the long shirt to numb the skin of her thighs, peered over at her brother-warden as he turned around to shrug at her.

"Loghain hasn't - sent assassins for months," she said, yawning mid-sentence.

The senior enchanter nodded, her pallid blue eyes earnest. "Maybe he's finally realised that there  _is_  a Blight, and that he needs the Grey Wardens alive."

Alistair's expression immediately crashed into a scowl. Flora knew that he was about to embark on a tirade involving the General's betrayal at Ostagar, and the resulting almost total eradication of the Fereldan chapter of Wardens. Seeing how weary both Wynne and the Arl were after the arduous task of tracking down the assassins, Flora hauled herself to her feet with some difficulty. Her knee throbbed with a dull, steady ache as she crossed the flagstones to her brother-warden.

"Thank you for standing guard over us," she said, smiling up at him even as her fingers worked at his clenched grip on the sword.

Alistair stared down at his sister-warden, letting his hand slacken around the hilt as she pried it gently from his fingers. Flora continued to beam, fixing his anxious hazel gaze with her own grey irises. She vaguely heard Arl Leonas suggesting that all three Couslands remain in the arlina's chamber for the night with a triple guard posted outside; but she was concentrating on her brother-warden and did not listen to the specifics.

Temporarily forgetting about her own tiredness, Flora led Alistair over to the bed with a bandage-bound palm, barely noticing Leonas and Wynne withdrawing discretely. Standing beside the hanging velvet bed-curtain, Alistair obediently let her unfasten his tunic and slide it from his broad arms.

Flora faltered somewhat on seeing the taut olive musculature of the bastard prince's chest, the sight somehow still new and fascinating to her. As she paused in admiration, he roused himself from the valley of Ostagar and drew her towards him; lips seeking out the sensitive patch of skin below her ear.

As Alistair's hand moved over her clothed breast to cup it, Finian let out a pointed cough.

"Just to remind you that we're still here," he said pleasantly, trying not to laugh at the horrified expression on the teyrn's face. "And that  _is_  our little sister you're groping."

Alistair, who had indeed forgotten about the other Couslands hidden in the shadows of the room, reluctantly stopped unbuttoning Flora's shirt. She winked at him before clambering onto the bed and retrieving a dropped cushion.

"I'm tired," she announced, sitting against the headboard and peering beneath the bandages on her palms to inspect the reddened flesh. "Let's sleep."

It was a request rather than an instruction, but the others obeyed it dutifully. Finian took one chaise and Fergus the pallet bed; while Alistair fitted his body protectively around that of his slender female counterpart, pulling the blanket up over them both.

The room fell into a sombre silence, as though the anxiety and anger felt by its occupants had manifested into a tangible cloud that hung above them like a shroud. Finian shifted position on the chaise frequently enough that the legs gave a creak of protest, while his elder brother was also clearly restless on the pallet.

"Flo," murmured Alistair at last, trying to banish the spectre of Loghain's face from the inside of his eyelids. "Tell me one of your Herring stories."

Flora thought for a moment, feeling the solid, reassuring thud of her brother-warden's heartbeat between her shoulder blades.

"A fisherman once saw a group of children torturing a stranded turtle," she began, her soft, low voice easily carrying through the darkness. "He rescued the turtle and carried it back into the sea. The turtle turned out to be the daughter of the Sea King, and she offered the fisherman a chance to visit her underground palace. The fisherman agreed, and was taken to the Sea King's coral castle. He spent three days there, and when he was about to leave, the turtle gave him a magic box. She told him that it would protect him from all harm, but he must never open it."

Flora paused for a moment, wondering if any of them had gone to sleep. Looking down at the floor, she saw the steely glint of Fergus' eyes gazing back up at her from the pallet mattress.

"When the fisherman returned to his village, he recognised no-one and no-one knew him. When he told them who he was, the people said that someone of that name had vanished into the sea three  _hundred_ years ago. The fisherman, devastated, accidentally opened the box and a white mist came out. When it cleared, the fisherman was bent double and had a long white beard. The next moment he fell dead, for in the box was his  _old age."_

Alistair pressed his mouth against the back of Flora's neck, pulling her closer within the circle of his arms.

"All of your Herring stories are sad," he murmured; listening to the slow, even breaths of Finian as he settled down to sleep. Flora rolled over to gaze up at him her eyes wide.

"That one wasn't sad at all," she whispered back, considerate of her now sleeping brothers. "The fisherman got to see the great coral castle of the Sea King before he died. I would die happy too if I had seen that."

She then let out a little yelp as Alistair's fingers compulsively tightened around her elbow. He stared down at her, fine-cut face hard and blazing like a brand in the darkness.

"Don't even  _say_ it, Flo."

"Ow, my arm. What?"

"I mean it, Flora. You promised!"

Flora cast her prodigious memory back, recalling a whispered avowal in a Chantry mother's quarters, all the way back in Redcliffe.

_Promise to what? Never die?_

_**Yes.** _

"Sorry," she said, returning to the present. Alistair shook his head for a moment, pressing his face against her hair.

"Maker's Breath, you're not going anywhere, my darling," he murmured, lifting a leg over her thigh to keep her close. "Give me a kiss. But  _quietly_ , so your brother doesn't chop my manhood off."

Flora shot him an arch look, brushing a finger over the stubble covering his jaw.

"That would be a shame," she whispered solemnly. "I would miss it a great deal."

Alistair let out a half-groan, pressing his face against her neck.

"Stop it, my Satinalia lemon. Don't tease me."

Flora grinned and took pity on him, curling herself into his body in a way that was more companionable than erotic. Tilting her face upwards, she gave him a soft and platonic peck on the lips. He reached out and felt her fingers already stretching to wrap around his own.

"'Night, Alistair."

"Night, Flo. Sleep tight."

The next morning found South Reach awash with drizzle, the sky wreathed in soft grey cloud. The rain fell gentle and relentless, flooding gutters and pooling in the gaps between the flagstones in the courtyard.

Alistair awoke half-naked, with the blankets tangled around his waist and an empty space beside him. Beneath the window Fergus was lying flat on his back on the pallet mattress, snoring with reckless abandonment. Finian was curled up on the chaise, his long limbs bent awkwardly within the confined space.

The bastard prince frowned and sat up, glancing down at the indented cushion where he had expected his sister-warden's head to be resting. Before he could swing his legs down from the bed, the door to the chamber edged open. Flora slithered inside, barefoot and clad only in Finian's long undershirt. Her pale skin was a shade whiter than usual, and the faint sheen of sweat glimmered on her forehead. Alistair watched her cross to the dresser and take several gulps from Fergus's water pouch.

"Flo?"

Flora jumped and looked over at him, splashing some of the water down the front of her shirt. He reached out a hand and she came dutifully, crossing the flagstones and clambering onto the bed. Alistair folded her into his arms, resting his chin on the top of her head. The oxblood hair, half-loose from its leather tie, felt damp against his skin.

"I needed some fresh air," Flora said truthfully, feeling him courteously arrange the blanket around her shoulders. "I went and sat on the ramparts for a bit."

"It's probably from Wynne rummaging around in your mind last night," Alistair theorised, fingers idly running up and down her cotton-covered back. "Or too much lyrium."

Flora nodded uncertainly, setting her cheek against the familiar taut muscle of her brother-warden's chest.

_Could I be…?_ she thought-  _might Wynne have been right?_

_No. It's not possible._

For several minutes both Wardens lay in companionable silence, listening to the rain drumming against the cobbles outside. Alistair slid his hand beneath the shirt and began to draw idle patterns on the bare skin of her back, his finger tracing the  _Peraquialus_ from memory. Flora lifted her face and smiled up at him, Alistair glanced sideways to check that her brothers were still sleeping before pressing his mouth to her own.

As usual, he was unable to stop himself from deepening the kiss; his lips parting hers with an insistently probing tongue. Flora made scant effort to resist him, offering up her mouth as unclaimed territory ripe for requisition. Alistair set about conquering it with enthusiasm, rolling over on top of her without breaking the kiss.

Just then Finian let out a muffled grunt and shifted slightly on the chaise. Both Wardens froze in place before Flora squirmed her way out from between Alistair's hands. She curled up demurely on her side, facing away from her brother-warden as she tugged the blanket up around her waist.

The next moment she felt Alistair wrap his arms around her from behind, heated lips brushing her ear. His arousal was obvious, pressing against the top of her rear. In defiance of her better judgement Flora squirmed back against him, her heart beginning to beat a rapid staccato against her ribcage. Alistair let out a soft groan into her hair, his breath ghosting over her neck.

Within seconds his hand had stolen between her sweat-slick thighs and begun to fondle her, two fingers thrusting softly while a calloused thumb traced delicate little circles. Flora gaped silently, eyes bulging, pressing her face into a cushion to stifle the moan that was determined to escape her throat.

Feeling her brother-warden grinning against her neck, she reached back and wrapped her fingers around the base of his shaft. She could almost sense the smile slipping from Alistair's face as her fist began to stroke his length, replaced with a ragged inhalation.

As the sun inched its way half-heartedly up the drizzly expanse of the horizon; brother and sister-warden pleasured each other quietly beneath the blanket. Alistair spent himself first over her palm with a gasp, which was met with muffled gloating from Flora. He then took his revenge by bringing her to three climaxes in rapid succession, only withdrawing his hand once she was slumped against the cushions, weary and panting.

Several minutes later, there came a sharp rap at the door. After a few moments the Arl of South Reach entered in rumpled and stained clothing, the shadows dark beneath his eyes. Leliana followed in his wake, her face as bright as when she had spent the night in solitary prayer.

Fergus sat up almost immediately, while Finian grumbled and pulled a cushion over his head, reluctant to awaken.

"So Leliana has managed to extract Howe's purpose from the assassin," Leonas Bryland said bluntly, dispensing with any form of polite greeting. Flora swung her bare legs over the bed and yawned, while Alistair fumbled to surreptitiously pull his breeches back on under the blanket.

"Let me guess, he wants all us Couslands dead so that his stolen claim over Highever goes unchallenged," mumbled Finian, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with slender scholar's fingers.

"Not quite," replied Leonas, his voice rough-edged from lack of sleep. "His plan is somewhat more nefarious."

"Rendon Howe  _does_  want both male heirs dead," confirmed Leliana, sensing the arl's reluctance to explain further. "Whereas the daughter- that's you, Flora-"

"But I can't inherit anything," interrupted a confused Flora, sensing Alistair tense up beside her. "I'm a Cousland, but I'm also a mage."

Leliana grimaced, the words coming out in an apologetic rush.

"He plans to first Tranquilise you, before taking you as a wife to legitimise his claim to Highever."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So the story about the fisherman and the turtle is actually taken from an old Japanese folk legend, called Urashima Taro. I've read so many sea-based myths and legends during my research-gathering for Herring stories, it's been absolutely fascinating. I grew up literally right on the coast in Wales and there's so many fascinating Welsh myths involving the sea; I'm definitely going to include one in future chapters!
> 
> So here Howe's nefarious plan is revealed (and of course this is off the top of my own head, since a mage Cousland is not game canon): he intends to legitimise his own claim to Highever by Tranquilising Flora and then marrying her (he is a widower, I checked!) Of course this is SUPER shady, and I think he could only pull it off in a Ferelden dominated by his ally, Loghain.


	165. The Treachery Of Arl Howe

 

_They say that being Tranquilised is a form of decapitation._

The room was very still for several moments, the Arl's sordid intention sinking into the mind of each person present like a dark stain before several different reactions erupted forth. Fergus launched into a stream of incomprehensible cursing, his face rapidly turning the same scarlet shade as his hair. Finian's face had flushed a similar hue, but he was trying to calm his brother down with little success.

Alistair, a great tide of rage sweeping upwards from his belly, was poised to retrieve his sword and take the fastest horse to Rendon Howe's last known location; when he happened to glance sideways at his sister-warden. In direct contrast to her brothers, Flora was sitting very still on the bed and her cheeks were slowly draining of colour. Alistair knew that fear manifested itself as solemnity on her face; and when he saw the graveness of her expression, he realised how frightened she was.

Shoving the rage to the back of his mind, Alistair slung his arm around his younger counterpart's shoulders. No longer making any attempt to hide her fear, Flora huddled against him and he could feel her shivering as though struck by a stray frost spell. As he rubbed his hand up and down her spine, Alistair looked over at the grim Arl Bryland and the equally stern-faced Leliana. The idea of Flora's identity being erased in a heartbeat and replaced by a blank nothingness; all so that some pretender to Highever could consolidate his own fraudulent claim and gain the ultimate compliant wife in the process, was so utterly horrific that Alistair could not fully comprehend it.

"You know, I didn't think that I could hate anyone more than Loghain," he said tightly, sliding his palm through Flora's tangled hair to cup the back of her head. Beneath his thumb Alistair could feel the sturdily curving skull that defended the fragile brain, and all the thoughts, memories and characteristics contained within.

"But Rendon Howe has just earned a place at the top of my  _Bastards of Thedas_ list."

Flora swallowed damply and Alistair tilted her face up towards his, raising his eyebrows.

"Chin up, Flo. You know that I would  _never_  let him do that to you – not in a million years. You  _know_  that, don't you?"

Flora, who could not count reliably beyond thirty, thought that a million sounded like quite a lot. She nodded tentatively, and Alistair returned the gesture with firm reassurance, his voice steady.

"So there's no need to be upset, is there?"

Flora shook her head obediently, her grey eyes brightening like the sun breaking through a clouded sky.

"He'd be missing out on a lot of hilarious marine-based humour by Tranquilising me," she said, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. Alistair, relieved that she felt able to make light of the situation, smiled down at her.

"What's life without a good fish joke, my dear?"

When Flora grinned back up at him Alistair knew that she had inwardly composed herself. He leaned forward and kissed her softly in the centre of her forehead, as a brother might do a sister.

"I'm going to lead another patrol around the perimeter of the castle," interjected Leonas, steely in his determination to preserve the safety of his dead friend's children. "I suggest you all stay inside. It's raining, anyway."

"My lord, you ought to  _sleep_ ," murmured Leliana, placing a hand on his arm. "You've been up all night."

Leonas shook his head tightly, the furrowed lines on his forehead as deep as if they had been drawn by a plough.

"It's  _my_  castle's defences that have been compromised," he replied tightly, fingers returning to stroke the hilt of his sword. "I'll not see them penetrated a second time."

They watched South Reach's Arl stalk towards the door with militaristic discipline, shoulders thrown back and head held high despite his obvious exhaustion.

"Oh," said Flora suddenly, recalling Cullen's offer of further dispel-resistance practise. She put a hand on Alistair's bare arm and gave it a squeeze. "Speaking of that, I'm going to let Lieutenant Rutherford try and  _penetrate_  me again later. Do you want to watch?"

There was a mild crashing noise as the Arl collided with the door frame. Alistair, who was used to Flora's peculiarities of speech, snorted and gave a little nod.

"Of course, my darling. I'd be fascinated to see whatever…. that turns out to be," he said pleasantly, flashing her a sideways smile.

After breaking their fast, several of the Wardens' companions headed up to the library. The rain had abated to a fine, misty drizzle but no one felt any particular inclination to go outside; although nobody was willing to admit it, each of them was on edge after the previous night's assassination attempt.

It was Wynne's suggestion that they spend the morning in the library amidst the greater and lesser writers of Thedas; and nobody had been quick enough to form an excuse. Leliana was leading the way, demonstrating an impressive knowledge of the back passageways of the fortress.

"It matters not to me," purred Zevran, who joined them smoothly from an interconnecting passageway as they made their way up to the top level of South Reach fortress. "I like to see the senior enchanter ascending and descending bookcase ladders. It is not a  _displeasing_  view."

The elf ignored the incredulous expression of Alistair and the disapproving scowl of Leliana; sidling up to Flora who was grinning to herself rather stupidly through a mouthful of apple.

"What are you smiling at,  _carina?_ "

"Oh," mumbled Flora in reply, swallowing the fruit as they began to climb another winding stone staircase. "Nothing much."

In actuality, she was pleased that the rain would water the flowers she had spent so many hours assiduously coaxing to life the previous day. The elf's smile widened and took on a thicker edge, his voice dropping intimately as he noted Alistair now trapped in lengthy conversation with Wynne.

"Are you excited over the prospect of being  _penetrated_  by the young Templar again? I overheard the tail end of that conversation. You bad little girl."

"I'm not  _bad_ ," said Flora indignantly, lifting the visor on a suit of armour as they passed by. "I'm good, I've always been good."

"Not according to what I hear our bastard prince say," murmured Zevran, letting the flat of his palm swing against her rear and cackling when she yelped. "You let him do some  _extremely_ naughty things to- "

Flora escaped to the front of the group, pretending to have a deep and abiding fascination with whatever Wynne was talking about to her brother-warden.

"Why is your head bright red?" Alistair whispered in Flora's ear, and she glanced pointedly over her shoulder towards Zevran. Both Wardens looked back at the elf, who smiled sweetly before making an extremely explicit gesture with his fingers and tongue. Alistair stumbled on the trailing hem of Wynne's skirt, earning himself a glower from the senior enchanter. Flora couldn't help but laugh and Zevran flashed her a conspiratorial grin.

The library was empty save for Pether the Circle emissary, who was seated at one of the long reading tables. He greeted them in his customary neutral monotone and Flora faltered in the doorway, feeling a sudden cold weight in her stomach as she gazed at the Tranquil. Leliana collided with her back and let out a little utterance in Orlesian, Wynne gestured her forward impatiently but it was as though Flora had been struck by a mage's paralysis spell.

The lay-sister gave a tut and moved around Flora, immediately sailing over to a shelf etched with a Chantry  _sol_ went over to Pether and struck up a discussion about Irving's letter on the most recent updates from Kinloch Hold. It seemed that they had managed to purge one floor of the maleficar's gristly residue; but it would most likely take a year before the corruption was purged in its entirety. Many of the younger apprentices had been temporarily rehoused in the Jainen Circle on Ferelden's northern coast.

Flora was still struck dumb in the entrance, unable to stop herself from listening to the Tranquil's cool, unemotional drone. After a while, she realised that Alistair was gripping her arm and trying to get her attention.

"What's the matter with my Rialto lily?" she heard Zevran ask, his voice still light and laughing. Clearly, he had not been present when the second assassin had confessed Arl Howe's sinister plan.

"Arl Howe wants to make Flo Tranquil and then  _marry_ her once she has no choice in the matter," came Alistair's contemptuous response.

There was a long silence, and then the sound of rapid, purposeful footsteps. Flora, jolted from her miasma of gloom, looked around to see Zevran striding away down the corridor with a face like thunder. Both Wardens glanced at each other for a heartbeat, before chasing after the elf.

"I shall return within the week and present you with Rendon Howe's head," Zevran informed them coolly over his shoulder as he strode. Alistair caught up to him and grabbed his arm, pushing the elf against the wall to arrest his movement.

Despite the anger seething beneath his carefully arranged features, Zevran could not help but peer up at the taller man beneath his thin golden eyelashes.

"Ah, Alistair, how I have longed for the day when you would  _thrust_  me up against the wall," he purred, flashing small, pointed teeth. A deep scarlet flush emerged from the collar of Alistair's tunic and began to creep up his neck, but he kept a tight grip on the elf's arm.

Flora interjected herself between them, gazing across at Zevran anxiously.

"Arl Howe knows who you are," she began, forcing steadiness into her voice. "You'd be arrested the moment he saw you."

Zevran glanced away, but Flora had seen the flash of awareness in his eyes; he knew this as well as she. Thus encouraged she continued, putting a hand on his arm.

"And we want to create a better impression than Loghain; we won't hire assassins to do our work for us. Sorry, no offence," she added hastily.

"None taken, my Rialto lily," Zevran murmured, with an odd look on his face that soon settled into resignation. The next moment he had leaned forward and planted a swift peck on a startled Flora's partially-open mouth.

"Apologies,  _carina,_ " he said lightly as he withdrew, patting her head. "I could not resist. And I hope you are not too angry with me."

This last part was directed towards a bemused Alistair. "You are a very benevolent and  _fortunate_  man, and I'm sure you will not begrudge me my little follies."

Alistair muttered under his breath but without rancour; secretly relieved that the elf had distracted Flora from the sad, grim spectre of the Tranquil.

Flora let out a little snort before tilting her head towards the library.

"You can come and teach me some Antivan," she said placatingly to the elf, sliding her fingers through Alistair's and giving them a little squeeze. "I'm in a scholarly mood this morning. I'm determined to make Wynne proud of me."

Wynne and Pether continued their murmured conversation about the situation at Kinloch; Leliana had found an old biography of Andraste's life and had curled herself up elegantly in an ornate Orlesian armchair. Alistair searched in vain for a history of the Grey Wardens, clambering up the ladders to peer along the highest shelves and inadvertently dusting the vaulted ceiling beams with his hair. Finally giving up, he pulled out a Templar chronicle from the Blessed Age and returned to where Zevran was quietly teaching Flora how to curse in Antivan.

"You have to roll the  _r_ ,  _mi sirenita,"_ the elf was murmuring, sticking out his tongue to demonstrate.  _"Fierro."_

" _Fierrrro."_

Leliana shot him a dirty look from the depths of the padded armchair, clearly assuming that he was simulating something inappropriate.

Flora laughed and received a far more evil stare from Wynne, who broke off her conversation with the Tranquil to call pointedly across the library.

"Flora, moments like this will be few and far between once we get to Denerim. I suggest you take advantage of the quiet and  _practise your literacy."_

A smug Alistair pointedly held up  _In Service of the Chantry: A Life of Faith_ and smirked at Flora, who crossed her eyes at him as she disappeared into the stacks.

Zevran sauntered over to Leliana and draped himself over the back of the Orlesian chair, peering down at her book before murmuring a comment into her ear. Eyes not moving from the page before her, the lay-sister gave a slight nod. From the slight stiffening of the elf's posture and the steeliness of Leliana's expression, it was clear that they were discussing Arl Howe.

Meanwhile Flora was pulling one indecipherable title after another from the shelves, squinting down at the unintelligible text in bewilderment. Finally, on a bottom shelf hidden behind a stack of what appeared to be financial ledgers, she pulled out a red leather-bound tome. The last three words of the title she recognised from the map they had used in Orzammar – ' _the Deep Road.'_

"P-r-o- prob? Probbing?" Flora read the first word of the title to herself, narrowing her eyes. Carrying the book to the reading table, she spelt the word out loud in the hope that somebody would translate it for her.

" _Probing,"_ supplied Wynne, during a brief pause in conversation. Flora was delighted that she had picked up such a  _relevant_  book- surely it had to be a tome on the Darkspawn, perhaps written by a former Warden!

There was silence in the library for the next half-candle length; Pether left with an armful of scrolls while Wynne began another of her lengthy missives to Irving. Leliana had flicked ahead to the chapter on Andraste's crusade against Tevinter, pale blue eyes devouring the text eagerly. Zevran was dozing in the armchair beside her, booted feet propped up on the reading table. Alistair had read several gushing pages upon which the Templar propagandised his own accomplishments, before growing bored. He nudged Flora's knee with his toe but she ignored him, increasingly perplexed by  _Probing the Deep Road._

"What does this word say?" she demanded after some time, her brow furrowed. "L-u-b-r-i-c-a-t-i- "

"Lubrication," replied Alistair automatically, then gaped, dropping his own book on the reading table with a thud. "Wait, what are you  _reading?!"_

"It's about the Deep Road. I thought it was about the Wardens," she replied, increasingly uncertain. "But I don't know what any of these words mean."

Alistair came to sit beside her, peering down at the text. Immediately a bright red flush flared on his cheeks, his eyebrows shooting to the ceiling.

"Flo, this isn't a book on the Deep Road where the Darkspawn live," he said in a slightly strangled voice, as Zevran's head shot upright. "I think it's…  _ah_ …"

Immediately the elf was at his side, leaning down to read the title of the book.

"Ah yes,  _Probing the Deep Road:_ a classic work from the Orlesian school of erotic literature." Zevran read several lines silently, lips working to himself. "This translation is clumsy; the original is far more poetic and lyrical."

"What does the title even  _mean?"_  asked Alistair in confusion, hoping that the flush had faded away. Zevran's eyes glittered and he leaned forward, mouthing something in the bastard prince's ear. Immediately Alistair gaped, turning wide and shocked eyes on the grinning elf.

"Come now, Alistair, don't look so shocked," he murmured, as Flora's head rotated back and forth between the two men curiously. "As the Marchers say:  _don't knock it until you try it_."

"What  _does_  it mean?" interrupted Flora impatiently, and Zevran's gaze lit up like twin lanterns.

"Allow me to enlighten you, my Rialto lily," he began eagerly; then Alistair had intercepted them, bodily blocking his sister-warden from the elf's lecherous intent.

"No, no, she doesn't need to  _hear_ \- "

"Ooh, there's illustrations in the back!" Flora piped up, and then let out a little strangulated squawk.

"Are they meant to be Darkspawn? What are they  _doing_ to each other? Is this what they do when they aren't causing a Blight!?"

Alistair snatched the book away from Flora in a slight panic, as Zevran slung an arm around her shoulders and murmured that he would be  _quite_ happy to provide a practical demonstration later that evening.

It was at that moment that the door thudded open with a bang, hitting the wall and sending several flakes of plaster drifting to the flagstones. They all jumped, each with thoughts of assassins weighing heavily on the mind. Alistair's free hand fell to his sword hilt, only for his fingers to slacken when the Arl of South Reach appeared in the doorway. Realising that he was still clutching  _Probing the Deep Road,_ the young Warden dropped the book as though the cover were molten.

Leonas Bryland's face was drawn and immediately they leapt to the conclusion that something terrible had happened. Both Wynne and Leliana rose from their seats, the bard advancing across the flagstones with anxiety writ across her features.

"Arl Leonas, is all well?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: This was such a fun chapter to write! Well, the first part wasn't that fun – all about Howe's dodgy plan to illegally Tranquilise the Cousland daughter to legitimise her claim to Highever, then marry her - no doubt with some shady Howe-funded priest. Actually, a really interesting parallel that occurred to me was that what Howe is proposing, is pretty much what Bryce and Eleanor Cousland had done to their daughter before she was sent away to Herring. Of course, wiping a five year old's mind is very different from a nineteen year old's – but it's the same principle.
> 
> Lecherous Zevran is so much fun to write – but actually, the thing that I love most about his character is that he's a lot deeper than he comes off. It actually annoys me a little bit when I see longer stories that depict him as a shallow sex-crazed pervert. He actually really cares about the plight of mages, and the more disadvantaged individuals in society – I think this is one reason why him and Flora get on so well, since she was raised in disadvantaged circumstances. I have a bit in a chapter coming up which demonstrates this quite well.
> 
> Fierro = Spanish slang for a lengthy male member (I have a pretty juvenile sense of humour, lol)
> 
> I'll leave Probing the Deep Road up to your interpretation, haha. Both Alistair and Flora are pretty sheltered when it comes to sex!


	166. Flowers and Dispels

 

The Arl of South Reach made an effort to compose himself upon seeing the stir that his entrance into the library had caused. This was only half-successful; his fingers jittered against his thighs and his lips were drawn wide and tight to his jaw.

"My wife's arbour," Leonas said in an odd voice, eyes moving between the Wardens and their companions. "We saw it during the perimeter patrol. Last week it was covered with weeds and rotted trees. Now it's full of- it's full of  _flowers_. It's not possible."

Flora was at first paralysed by fear that she had disturbed the sanctity of some sacred shrine by tampering with the garden, not wholly sure if the Arl's eyes were gleaming with gratitude or outrage. Then, when it became obvious that the militaristic arl was not angry and was instead overcome with emotion; Flora slunk lower behind the reading table and tried to make herself as unobtrusive as possible. She could feel Alistair's eyes swivelling towards her, clearly recalling how she had coaxed the Lady's flowers to unfurl in the depths of the Brecilian Forest. In her naivety, Flora had assumed that the Arl would see the garden, appreciate it and then continue with his daily business.

"To advance the growth of life would be the work of a powerful creationist," murmured Wynne, whom the Arl's eyes had first fallen on. "It was not me."

Leonas Bryland next glanced over to Flora, who had retrieved the dropped copy of  _Probing the Deep Road_ and was holding it before her face, pretending to be fascinated. The illusion was spoiled somewhat by the fact that the book was held upside-down.

"The garden is filled with chrysanthemums," he said slowly, recalling a conversation beside a flower-merchant's wagon several days prior. "My wife's favourite flower. It was  _you!"_

The others turned to look at her with startled expressions and Flora cringed inwardly, staring down at the book. What she saw there was so explicit that she hastily looked back up again, cheeks flaring.

When Flora did raise her eyes once more, Arl Bryland was standing before her, trembling like a plucked lute string.

"You've been so kind in sheltering us here," Flora explained hesitantly, directing her words to the vaulted ceiling. "I wanted to do something to thank you. It was no trouble."

Then Leonas Bryland, the fourth most powerful individual in Ferelden, took her hand and dropped to his knees before her.

Flora was paralysed in horror, feeling the curious eyes of her companions burning between her shoulder blades. In small increments she became aware of how cold Bryland's fingers were, and of the slight shudder betraying his militaristic posture.  _This is someone who lost their Alistair,_ she thought suddenly, the realisation like a candle igniting in a dark room.  _He's still grieving, even years after her death._

Impulsively Flora reached out to put her hand on top of the man's head, feeling the fragile skull beneath the thinning hair, and the Arl responded with an almost infinitesimal relaxation. The next moment he had kissed the back of the hand he was holding, and then turned it over and pressed his lips against her palm in a gesture far more Orlesian than Fereldan.

Soon after, as though coming to his senses and recalling that Flora was a mere handful of years older than his daughter – or possibly remembering that she was a Theirin prince's lover – the Arl rose abruptly and gave a short, militaristic bow. Turning on his heel, he strode out with his two retainers, not quickly enough to disguise the flush rising to his cheeks.

After the door shut in Leonas Bryland's wake, there was a long silence. Flora, uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed, went to sit down again at the reading table. She was intercepted by Alistair, who gripped her arms and peered down at her as if the answer to all the world's mysteries lay written in the lines and angles of her face.

"My sweet girl," he said after a moment, and there was a strange, almost-reverence in his tone as his thumb came up to trace the angle of her jaw. "My  _sweet_ girl."

"Leonas Bryland would walk willingly into the jaws of the Archdemon for the Wardens now," murmured Leliana to Wynne under her breath, and the senior enchanter gave a slight nod. She did not say this out loud, however, since both were aware that Flora's gesture had been born from compassion rather than desire for political gain.

"The Arl wants to probe  _your_ Deep Road, my Rialto lily," purred Zevran, resorting to lechery to disguise the sour melancholic taste that had risen beneath his tongue, bitter as a gulp of rotted wine.

This had the desired effect of shattering the taut atmosphere, Leliana let out a squeal of disapproval and Wynne muttered darkly beneath her breath. However, Alistair did not allow himself to become distracted by lewd commentary; he drew his sister-warden into his arms and kissed her.

"Bryland is guaranteed loyal to our cause, as are the Guerrin brothers," murmured Wynne, absentmindedly letting ink drip from the end of her quill onto the wooden table. "Bann Reginalda seems to be staying loyal despite reports of Loghain's agents approaching her in Denerim. The Bann of Calon?"

"I am nearly certain he will vote in our favour," replied Leliana, taking a silk handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbing up the spilled ink. "As will the Arl of Edgehall. However, Arl Kendells has not deigned to respond to our letters, nor has Bann Lanya.

"It's no use, I  _must_  have her," interrupted Zevran in a dramatic whisper, inserting his head between the two women. "Only then will I get over this infatuation."

The elf gestured towards where Alistair had sat down in an armchair, Flora perched easily on his broad thigh. The bastard prince had spurned  _Deep Road_ in favour of  _Exotic Fish,_ finding the marine-themed tome far safer territory. They watched Flora articulate each word laboriously, absent-mindedly winding a lock of hair around her wrist as her eyes followed Alistair's calloused finger across the page.

Wynne sighed, ducking her head back towards the missive. "And when we get to Denerim, the majority of nobles there will have been living under Loghain's rule for nearly a half-year. They may have become accustomed to him."

Leliana put her hand on the older woman's arm, her melodic Orlesian accent low and soothing.

"Denerim loves a Theirin, and Alistair is the likeness of Maric in the proper clothing."

"And her?"

Leliana let a small smile creep across her face, shaking her head slightly. The beads she had been given by the Bann of Calon rattled around her delicate neck.

"She'll be fine," the lay-sister murmured, sliding the pendant around to rest in the hollow of her throat. "She's young, and very beautiful, and despite all odds has united an army behind her. I could not think of a better figurehead for our crusade against Mac Tir."

"Flo, that page only took half the time," Alistair said suddenly, looking up from the  _Anderfels Grey Salmon._ "Your reading has improved threefold since we arrived here."

Flora, for whom being praised for anything academic was a novelty, went bright red with pleasure. She threw her arms around her brother-warden's neck and kissed him on the cheek.

"It's only because of you," she informed him earnestly, curling her fingers into the golden tendrils of his hair. "Without you, I wouldn't have any _letters_  at all. You're a good and patient teacher."

Alistair nodded, pride suffusing his features. "Well, I  _did_  teach you," he repeated, then let out an incredulous half-laugh. "Maker, I can't believe  _I_  taught anyone anything. If only my old Chantry mother could hear this!"

"I'll write her a letter," replied Flora, and Alistair grinned down at her, eyes bright with affection.

Just then the library door was opened with less force than Arl Leonas' entry; but the face that emerged was no less stern.

"Lady Cou- Warden-  _Flora,"_  said Cullen Rutherford, and for the first time he was able to look her directly in the eye without flushing. "I overheard Arl Eamon talking about Howe's plan. Shall we go and practise?"

Flora nodded, clambering off Alistair's knee before smiling down at her brother-warden and offering him her hand.

"Do you want to watch Lieutenant Rutherford try and penetrate me?" she offered, at which the young officer's eyes nearly bulged from his head.

Alistair snorted obligingly, taking the offered hand and rising to his feet far more gracefully than she had done.

"Can't think of a better way to spend the afternoon," he said cheerfully, placing  _Exotic Fish_ back on the reading table. "Lead on, my dear."

Zevran let out a wicked cackle, leaning forward over the back of Leliana's armchair.

"Have fun with your two blond Templars,  _carina,"_ he called, shattering the library's meticulously crafted hush. "You certainly seem to have a type!"

"Quiet, _fierro!"_ yelled back Flora over her shoulder with similar disregard for the scholarly atmosphere.

"Mind your  _'r's!"_

" _Fierrrro!"_

The prince, the mage and the Templar spent the next three hours on top of the west tower; persisting through several more bouts of drizzle and the gathering of ominous thunderclouds overhead. The late-afternoon sky was the colour of a bruise and the fields were expanses of damp stubble, stretching out behind the wet wooden roofs of South Reach town. The guards patrolling the ramparts below scuttled from one overhanging shelter to another, avoiding the puddles that had formed wherever the flagstones were particularly well-trodden.

Soon, all three of them were soaked to the skin. Alistair was shivering in a waterlogged velvet tunic as he leaned against the battlements, arms folded across his chest. The rain was running down the young officer's visor, tapping a soft melodic patter on his metallic spaulders. Flora, a northerner who was used to rain, had tied her hair in a lopsided knot on top of her head and was hopping from foot to foot. She was soaked in equal measure from water and sweat, her clothes clinging unpleasantly to her skin.

When Lieutenant Rutherford brought up his hand again, Flora dutifully summoned the barrier; the filmy golden light expanding around her like the bubbles made by children from soap and water.

Then, as Flora had been doing for the past half-hour, she turned around to face the opposite wall. A fraction of a second later, she felt the atmosphere tauten, a brief moment where the oxygen seemed to pull out of her lungs. When the  _dispellation_ shot towards her a heartbeat later, she was ready for it.

The lyrium-powered incantation hit her barrier and ricocheted away, fizzling into nonexistence near the flagpole. Flora crowed in delight, having only been able to repel the dispel half the time when she had her back turned and could not see it coming.

"Ha! I did it,  _I did it_ \- " she announced delightedly to the battlements, and was so busy exalting that she failed to notice the second little vacuum of oxygen. The second silence hit her barrier with a metallic bell-like clang, and split it neatly in two.

The air sucked from her lungs, Flora fell onto her hands and knees straight into a puddle, mouth and tongue tingling. She inhaled unsteadily, her vision simultaneously narrowing and blurring. The puddle before her doubled into two separate pools of water, each reflecting the dull cloud above.

Suddenly a hand was on Flora's shoulder, steadying her and holding a leather pouch to her lips. Her mouth and tongue were still numb and the water simply spilled back out, mingling with the sweat and rain soaking her shirt.

"Deep breaths, sweetheart," she heard Alistair murmur, before his voice took on a sharper edge. "Maker's Breath, that was a dirty trick, Lieutenant. She was only expecting one dispel, not  _two."_

"If Howe does have some corrupt Templar at his beck and call, she has to be ready for dirty tricks," retorted Cullen, a flush rising to his cheeks at his own daring. "Or do you  _want_  to be Tranquilised, mage?"

Flora, sitting on her rear in a grubby puddle and feeling distinctly sorry for herself, shook her head glumly.

"' _O_ ," she denied, her tongue still lolling feebly against her teeth. " _'ot 'eally_."

Alistair's anxious, handsome face finally came into focus as he crouched before her with his hands on her elbows.

"Enough for today, Flo," he said, quiet and stern. "I don't want you exhausted."

Flora thought about protesting, and then felt a yawn of tiredness deep in the back of her mind.

_**Enough.** _

This was combined with a dull throb of complaint from her knee; the joint clearly unhappy about the several tumbles she had taken throughout the afternoon. So instead of trying to argue, Flora nodded without complaint and allowed Alistair to help her upright, feeling his arm slide through hers as her breathing fell into a steady rhythm once more.

A low roll of thunder echoed across the sky, signalling the fall of a fresh bout of rain. Avoiding the largest puddles, Alistair splashed across the tower roof, gripping his sister-warden firmly by the elbow.

They paused before Cullen, who wore an expression of mingled guilt and defiance.

"The Templars from the Jainen Circle are coming to collect Connor in three days' time," he said, directing the comment towards the rain-slick flagstones. "We don't have much longer to get this right."

Flora bowed her head, the wet bundle of hair slipping sideways to hang beside her ear.

"Thank you," she said impulsively, smiling at him even as he assiduously avoided her gaze. "You've made me think better of Templars."

The young lieutenant did not reply, but continued to stare intently at his own feet as though they did not belong to him. Alistair gave a little nod, before steering Flora gently away.

"I hope I was never that obvious in my desire for you," he muttered, adjusting the lopsided knot of hair back on top of her head. "Let's get inside."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So healers have got to be pretty compassionate, right? Otherwise I doubt a Spirit of Compassion would be particularly keen to assist them with their healing. I wanted to create a protagonist who might not be the most academically bright or the most witty - Flora is definitely not going to be spitting sassy lines in battle - but someone who was fundamentally kind at heart.
> 
> I find Leliana's choice of words interesting here - she uses the term 'figurehead' to describe Flora's role within their faction. It's obvious that noone's really sure what kind of role a young mage/Cousland, Warden-Recruit posing as Warden-Commander would actually take on within Denerim. Lol, look at me talking about characters as if they've taken on a will of their own! To be fair, it does feel a bit like that at times!
> 
> Cullen's arc is almost coming to an end within my story, but I like this extra bit of character development for our nervous, 19 year old young Templar! I wonder if he would be quite so eager to teach a mage how to resist dispels later on in his career? From the research I've done, it seems like he gets a bit more hardcore as he gets older.
> 
> ALSO I THINK I JUST BROKE 500,000 WORDS WITH THIS UPDATE? WTF? HOW IS THIS STORY HALF A MILLION WORDS? War and Peace is only like 580,000 words... WATCH OUT, TOLSTOY, I'M COMING FOR YOOOOOU! Thank you to everyone who has read half a million of my weirdo words for some reason haha


	167. Vein To The Heart

By the time that the Wardens descended to the ramparts and reached the arlina's quarters, both of them were soaked to the skin. Alistair leaned out into the corridor and requested that hot water be brought to fill the copper tub in the washroom. Fortunately, a fresh vat had just been prepared; several scullions brought in a series of buckets and poured them into the tub.

While the servants had been preparing the bath, Flora had removed her saturated leather boots and turned them upside-down in front of the hearth to dry out. Alistair did the same, grimacing as a not-insignificant amount of water tipped out onto the Orlesian rug.

"I like the rain," Flora said, stepping back to allow the last bucket procession to pass through to the washroom. "It pours down all the time in Herring, no matter the season."

Alistair shook the water from himself like a Mabari, watching Flora as she struggled to unravel the knot of hair perched precariously on top of her skull.

"You can keep the rain, my dear," he replied, prodding the saturated rug with his toe. "I'd be happy if it were sunny every day."

"Then all the plants would die," countered Flora, indignantly. " _And_ all the fruit and vegetables."

Although she had not been referring to the dead Arlessa's rejuvenated garden, this was where Alistair's mind immediately leapt, and his eyes softened. Absentmindedly thanking the servants as they left, he strode across the room and took his sister-warden's face between his calloused palms; gazing down at her with an unreadable expression.

"Flora," he said quietly and she looked up at him with slight wariness; Alistair rarely called her by her proper name. He brushed his thumb down the gentle slope of her nose, and then pressed it against the plump swell of her lower lip. His eyes were suddenly awash with regret, the bright hazel irises shadowed.

"I know it's impossible," he said, his words coming out raw and ragged-edged. "But I would have married you in a heartbeat. I swear it, Flo."

Flora gazed up at him, and saw the sudden bright gleam of tears in Alistair's eyes.

"Maker, I can't- I don't even  _want_  the crown if you're not with me," he said in a rush, blinking hard and rubbing his hand roughly over his eyes. "I just want to be with you."

Flora reached up and caught hold of Alistair's hand, pressing his fingers to her breast and clutching them tightly.

"I know," she whispered, understanding wholly how it felt to have an unwanted destiny thrust upon her. "But I'll be there, Alistair, I promise. We don't need a Chantry blessing to bind us together. I'll always be your…  _sister-warden_."

"Swear it, Flora," he demanded, staring into her eyes with a blazing intensity that she so rarely saw in her gentle, even-tempered companion.

"I swear," she replied dutifully, and saw her brother-warden's body visibly relax. He reached into the inner pocket of his tunic and took out the gold ring that she had given him months ago, on the road to Orzammar. The metal gleamed brightly; Alistair had kept it in far better condition than she had. Flora gazed at it, her eyes moving automatically to the engraved  _F, C._

_I thought it stood for Flora of Herring Cove. I never even questioned how my parents would have afforded a solid gold ring. We didn't even have enough coin to buy new nets; instead patching and repairing the old ones over and over._

"But it was your Satinalia present," Flora whispered, feeling the silvery weight of Alistair's Chantry locket against the hollow of her throat. "I need to give you something else in return."

"Flora, I'm already the most fortunate man in Thedas."

Alistair took Flora's hand and kissed each of her knuckles in turn, as reverent as if he were paying homage to the Divine. Taking the ring, he pushed it gently but with irrevocable purpose onto the fourth finger of her left hand.

"One of the senior Wardens once told me why the ring is worn on here," he said softly, brushing his thumb over the burnished metal. "He had a wife from Tevinter, once, and they have an old belief that the vein running from _this_  finger- "

Here he broke off and ran his own finger down Flora's palm, over her wrist and up the inside of her arm, brushing over the wet material of her shirt. It traced her collarbone and dropped to the swell of her left breast, pausing there.

"Well, they believed that it ran straight to the heart."

Flora stared up at him, feeling the rhythmic pulse of her body throbbing against her brother-warden's curved fingers. Alistair gazed back down at her, his eyes moving from the wet hair hanging over her shoulders to the pink skin visible through the saturated shirt. He could feel her nipple responding obediently to his calloused fingertip, and let out a soft groan of desire.

Dropping his head to her breast he took her clothed nipple between his lips and began to work it with his tongue; gratified by the helpless little noises that began to escape her throat. Taking advantage of the proximity of his ear Flora moved her mouth close and bit at the lobe, before whispering lewdly what she wanted him to do to her. The crudeness of her request in contrast with the softness of her voice was nearly enough to send a gaping Alistair over the edge, and it was only his Warden-instilled discipline that prevented him from spending into her teasing fingers.

What measure of self-control Alistair had gathered was quickly abandoned as he thrust his sister-warden down onto the Orlesian rug in front of the fireplace. He removed her wet clothes with little care for fragile seams; tearing her shirt straight down the middle to expose her breasts. Too impatient to remove her breeches, he yanked them down to her knees and pulled her smallclothes to one side. Spitting on his palm and coating his length, he found the correct angle and sheathed himself to the hilt in one deep, penetrative thrust.

The next few hours were a testament to Alistair's Warden stamina as he took her hard and relentless before the hearth; their bodies struggling together in mutual desire, sweaty limbs entangled and fingers clutching whatever might lend traction. Knowing that despite appearances Flora was sturdy enough to take it; his lust was rough and uncompromising. It was the kind of lovemaking that resulted in bruises and bite-marks, in grazed knees and scratches from bitten nails. The hearth spat and smoked behind them, casting an ochre aura over the flagstones as the daylight waned.

Finally, the last two Wardens in Ferelden lay alongside one another on the rug, hair and skin saturated with sweat, dazed and satiated. Alistair reached out and touched his sister-warden's damp face with infinite gentility, his gaze wandering over her tousled hair and full lips. She gazed back at him with distant, daydreaming eyes; her collarbone wreathed in the remnants of hard, possessive kisses.

"What are you thinking about, my dear?" Alistair asked her, letting his hand curl around to cup her breast loosely. Flora blinked, then smiled at him and reached down to adjust the leather strapping around her knee, which had become loosened during their exertions.

"I was wondering what Duncan would say if he could see us," she whispered, gazing up at the ceiling as though she could see straight through the wooden eaves to the heavens; where she believed Duncan's spirit to be riding alongside the phantasmal heroes of old at the helm of the  _Peraquialus._ "Do you think he would be cross?"

Alistair thought for a long moment, fingers idly teasing her nipple as he summoned the face of his mentor to the forefront of his mind.

"I don't think he would mind," he said, finally. "I've heard that he had affairs in the past, including with mages. Actually, he had a bit of a reputation for it."

"And we haven't become distracted from what we need to do," added Flora, her voice catching slightly as his hand dropped between her parted thighs. "We've got our army, and we're going to confront Loghain. And Howe."

"Mm," replied Alistair, caressing her lazily with the ball of his thumb. "I have more reason to fight now than I ever did before."

There was more truth in this answer than Alistair could articulate in words. With every step he had taken over the rough-spun Fereldan earth, a throbbing vein had shot down to connect to the heart of the land itself. Having trod from the lofty western peaks of the mountains to the tangled expanse of the eastern forests; Alistair had formed a deep and abiding bond with a country that he had previously only ever felt a superficial loyalty towards. It was desire to restore the ravaged south and protect the rest of this endangered land that drove him towards the crown, rather than his own personal ambition.

Inextricably bound with Ferelden in Alistair's heart was the girl who had walked its length and breadth alongside him. When he looked at Flora, he saw the Waking Sea in her solemn grey eyes, her hair as the tangled scarlet vines of the Brecilian Forest, and her skin the creamy white-gold of the Frostbacks. There was no distinction between the land and the girl, both of which he had grown to love over the past half-year.

"Maker's Breath," he murmured finally as she smiled at him; brightness spreading over her solemn features like the first rays of sunrise. "You're so beautiful, Flo."

Flora beamed toothily and Alistair let out a soft hiss of desire, rolling over on top of her once again.

Meanwhile, Leliana had been attempting to see the Wardens for several hours. She had first approached the door to the arlina's chamber late-afternoon, only to be told by the smirking guards that the Theirin lord and the Cousland girl were  _occupied._ Muttering something distinctly un-pious under her breath, the bard strode away with a toss of her magnificent head.

She had returned a half-candle length later, only to find the guards still hiding their grins with feigned graveness.

"I'm afraid that the Wardens are still busy," said one of them, his bristled moustache twitching. "Sorry, my lady."

Leliana let out a string of fluent Orlesian curses, not bothering to disguise her irritation this time as she stalked away.

As dinner approached, the bard reasoned that the greedy Flora would not allow herself to skip a meal. Even as she approached the door, the moustachioed guard shook his head.

"Ben here reckons they'll continue until nightfall," he said cheerfully, gesturing to his companion. "The prince has plenty of stamina, it seems."

"We'll see about that," Leliana replied grimly, elbowing her way past the two men and barging her way into the arlina's chamber.

The room was bathed in an amber glow from the hearth, the light spilling over the flagstones to illuminate said young lord and Cousland daughter. Alistair was reclined back against the cushions, his hands resting on the hips of his sister-warden. Flora was straddling him, the blankets tangled around her waist and dark red hair falling loose down her slender back. As she rocked in rhythmic motion, Alistair groaned and pushed himself upright to take her breast in his mouth. Both were breathing hard, wholly caught up in their mutual desire and oblivious to the world beyond each other.

Alistair's lips had just closed around a small nipple when his gaze fell on Leliana, stubborn and stationary beside the door.

" _Agh!"_  he yelped, gazing at the bard with mingled irritation and surprise. "Have you not heard of privacy?"

Flora peered around, plucking a sweaty strand of hair from her face and narrowing her eyes. Even at a distance she could see the lines of tension around Leliana's mouth, and the strain beneath the usual cool pallor of the blue irises.

"Are you alright?"

Leliana grimaced, and the sight of the Orlesian-trained bard flustered was so unusual that Flora was taken aback.

Ignoring Alistair's whine of protest and firmly removing his hands from her hips, Flora clambered off him and reached for the arlina's silk dressing robe. Alistair, with a little grunt of frustration, snatched up a decorous cushion and shuffled across to the washroom, shooting Leliana a sour look as he went.

The glimpse of Alistair's taut olive buttocks distracted Leliana somewhat and she blinked, momentarily lost for words. Flora moved over to a relatively undisturbed spot on the bed and patted the sheet, gazing at the bard in mild alarm.

"What's the matter?"

Leliana went to sit beside Flora, composing herself as she sank onto the blanket. Although the customary Orlesian mask had fallen back into place, there were visible cracks in the smooth neutrality of her expression.

"Those assassins from last night," the bard started, her voice deliberately measured. "Although they turned out to be Howe's men, there was –  _is_  – a chance that an assassin may be sent for me."

Flora blinked, absentmindedly fiddling with a fuchsia ribbon on the hem of the arlina's dressing robe. From the washroom Alistair let out a disgruntled snort, discovering that the bathwater was now stone-cold.

"Why would anyone want to come after you?" Flora said, rather naively. "You're nice, and kind. And you work for the Chantry."

Leliana let out a little humourless laugh, gazing unseeingly across the chamber.

"I didn't always work for the Chantry,  _chérie."_

"You were a bard in Orlais," remembered Flora, only having the faintest understanding of what this actually entailed. "You worked at the court of Empress Celene. There was a lady with birds in her hair."

Leliana smiled without warmth, her eyes shadowed.

"Yes, but there was… a period of time between those two parts of my life that I haven't told you about."

While a cursing Alistair bathed in cold water next door; Leliana hesitantly told Flora of the years she had not yet mentioned, the story coming out in fits and starts. It seemed that the bard had once been in a small elite cadre of assassins, who worked together to carry out some notoriously difficult targets and heists. It appeared that Leliana had been betrayed by the leader – an Orlesian by the name of Marjolaine – and had fled into the Chantry to avoid further persecution. By the way that her voice trembled when she spoke of the woman, it was apparent that they had held a connection deeper than mere colleagues.

Flora listened quietly, unravelling the remainder of the pink ribbon from the robe's hemline. When Leliana had spoken of Marjolaine, fingers shaking around the hilt of her dagger, Flora reached out and put her hand on the Chantry sister's knee.

"Well, it doesn't matter how clever she is," she said firmly, recalling that Zevran had had similar fears about his own assassin brethren. "If she does come for you, we'll protect you, won't we?"

This was directed to Alistair, who had just emerged from the washroom clad in a pair of breeches, towelling his hair dry with a square of cambric.

"Of course," he said dutifully, sitting on Flora's other side. Noticing that the bard was sneaking subtle glances at his sister-warden's small breast as it emerged from the robe; he reached across and discreetly adjusted the silk to cover her back up.

"Don't worry about it," continued Flora earnestly, putting her arm around the bard's shoulders and giving her a little squeeze. "We'll be ready for her if she tries anything."

Leliana nodded, the Orlesian mask falling once again over her face, fully repaired. She rose with customary grace, bowing her head delicately.

"Thank you," she murmured, flashing both Wardens a courtier's smile. "I feel better for having told you. Sorry for… interrupting."

Flora shook her head with a little beam, while Alistair let out a disgruntled  _harrumph_ , reaching for a flagon of weak ale left on the bedside table.

"Oh, and Florence, I suggest that you come down for dinner and eat something," the bard called as she edged open the door. "I believe that Wynne wants to probe your mind again later. She believes she is very close to the hidden memories of Highever."

"Mm, alright. Wait! ' _Probing the Deep Road',"_ said Flora suddenly, recalling the title of the strange book from the library, the contents of which had made no sense to her. "What does that even mean, anyway?"

Leliana quirked an eyebrow at Alistair. The bastard prince nearly choked on his mouthful of ale, olive cheeks warming rapidly as Flora shot him a curious glance.

"I believe it's your brother-warden's duty to explain," said Leliana sweetly, waltzing out of the room and leaving Alistair to mouth frantically. "See you at dinner."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So the wedding ring finger vein running to the heart was actually an ancient Roman belief! I thought that since old Tevinter is quite clearly based on Rome, it was quite a nice thing to include. I didn't even know that and I've worn my rings on the fourth finger of my left hand for years, haha. It inspired the name of the chapter! Although that also has a double meaning, when you look at the passage with Alistair and Ferelden.
> 
> So I mentioned ages ago that I was 'hardening' Alistair (or developing his character) in a different way from in-game; and that's partly illustrated in his chapter – the fact that he's become deeply attached to Ferelden throughout his journeys is a driving force behind his acceptance of the crown/responsibility.
> 
> Lol, I've also mentioned before that privacy is a Victorian concept – i.e. with the burgeoning middle classes able to afford separate bedrooms in their houses for the first time! It's not something that would have existed during the pseudo-late medieval period, and as a historian I'm a sucker for historical accuracy!
> 
> I like this chapter because it has sweetness and lewdness in equal measure. And a bit of classic Herring crudeness in Flora's whispered request to Alistair early on – she definitely told him to fuck her, haha


	168. The Herring Memories: Part One

There were several teasing remarks and sly looks when the Wardens arrived late to dinner. Most of them were aimed at Alistair, who was unable to stop himself from flushing as he chewed his way through a rabbit leg. Flora, who merely gave an enigmatic smile in response to Oghren's lecherous commentary, remained far more composed.

"There are teeth-marks on your  _neck,_ little sister," hissed Finian into her ear as the servants brought out a selection of marzipan fruits for dessert. "Fergus is having a silent fit. Did your princely lover begin his dinner in the bed-chamber?"

Flora snorted inelegantly into her silver chalice of water. She glanced sideways at Alistair, who was studiously attempting to avoid the eldest Cousland's glower. As she looked down the table, she noticed that the Arls of Redcliffe and South Reach were both gazing at her, conferring quietly with one another. She eyed them for a moment, and then gave a little wave.

Eamon startled, then quickly rearranged his features into a kind, surface-level smile and nodded back at her. Before Flora could spend too much time wondering about the subject of their conversation, the Val Royeaux inspired dessert arrived. The cunningly crafted marzipan fruits proved to be a suitable distraction; and even the doggedly patriotic Alistair had to admit that they were delicious, despite being Orlesian.

As Leliana had warned, Wynne had left dinner early to prepare the bathtub and mirror in the arlina's bedchamber; ready for their next attempt at the ritual. When the Wardens returned later that evening she was waiting impatiently, her eyes aglow with academic curiosity. For the senior enchanter, the careful peeling apart of Flora's mind had been a scholarly pursuit – she was planning to write a bulletin on the subject to be sent to all the major Circles in Thedas.

The subject of the ritual prepared herself; the lyrium was duly added. The bathtub water turned a milky blue, and then clouded over into a mist. Wynne gathered a cupful, before spilling it carefully over the opaque surface of the mirror. As before, sounds and noises began to emerge from the reflected miasma; with increasing volume, the sound of the sea began to fill the arlina's bedchamber. The memory was so potent that those present could almost taste the salt-tang in the air.

_Ferelden's northern coastline was locally known as the Storm Coast, named for both the frequent atmospheric disturbance and for the fury wreaked upon it by the Waking Sea. It was harsh and unlovely in geography, lined with sheer granite cliffs and punctuated by odd cubic formations of rock thrusting up from the stone below. By some strange conjunction of weather and underwater topography, the sea here was never in a state of calm; its surface rolling in a constant frenzied agitation. It beat itself daily in an age-old battle against the cliffs, throwing up frustrated surges of white-flecked water. The northerners who dwelt on Ferelden's Storm Coast – and those who made a living upon its capricious waters – were as hardened and tough as the surrounding granite cliffs. They were taciturn and pragmatic of character, and fatalistic by necessity; aware that the sea that sustained them could also destroy them with callous indifference._

_The village of Herring lay in a small cove that sheltered it from the worst of the sea's wrath. Protected by the great reef known as the Hag's Teeth, the settlement was little more than a ramshackle collection of stone and slate buildings, huddled around a tiny Chantry. Wooden buildings had no place in Herring, they would have rotted away within months from the constant dampness and sea mist lurking in the air._

_A small stone harbour had been constructed in one part of the cove, little more than a curving wall of boulders punctuated with rusting iron rods. To these makeshift piles a cluster of boats were moored, plain and unpainted, their sides splintered from being constantly jostled against the rock and each other. Further up the beach, lobster and crab pots were wedged clumsily in tide-pools, half-buried in brackish water._

_It was the hour before sunrise and the sea was just waking, rolling its lazy wrath against the Hag's Teeth. The tide had dragged itself out, revealing an expanse of dark, gritty sand and the petrified remains of ill-faring ships. A weak light filtered across the Storm Coast, softening its harsh edges and loaning it a strange, fleeting almost-beauty._

_Apart from the gulls swooping down with piercing cries, the only movement on the beach was the small figure of a child. Barefoot, scrambling over the rocky boulders with the fearlessness of youth, a little fisherman's daughter carried a bucket in one hand and a sandwich in the other. She was thin, probably too thin for a child who should still have been sporting puppy-fat; but the features which would later define her face were just beginning to emerge. Grey eyes were set wide apart in a pallid face, and the dark-red hair had been tied back in two short pigtails. She wore a threadbare, overlarge jumper and her breeches were held up with knotted twine. Her face was solemn in expression, which was not an uncommon trait amongst the grim-natured inhabitants of Herring. In her bucket, several crabs were crawling blindly over one another, retrieved from the lobster pots wedged in the tide pools._

_Humming tunelessly to herself through a mouthful of bread and mackerel, Flora clambered over a rough edged boulder and slithered recklessly down to the tide pool. Immediately she let out a little yelp of pain, eyes widening and fingers loosening on the bucket. It tipped to one side, several occupants making a last scuttle for freedom across the rock._

" _Stoppit! Come back, crabbies!" yelled the child with imperious indignation, clutching a bleeding foot while making a futile grab for one of the fugitive crustaceans. She managed to retrieve the majority, lunging over the rocks to grab them by their scuttling legs before hurling them back into the bucket._

" _Yer BAD," Flora told the recaptured crabs sternly, sitting back against the stone and pulling her leg up over her knee to inspect her injury. "Now I dropped me sand-wich."_

_A jagged rock had sliced a two inch long gash on the soft underside of the child's foot, the blood garish and scarlet against the pale skin. She held up a small hand and watched the golden mist rising from beneath her fingernails. The creation energy flowed out effortlessly over the wound, knitting the skin back together even as she grimaced at the sting. In seconds, her foot was seamless and whole again, without even the faintest mark left behind._

_**Good girl.** _

The words were incongruous, whispered in a voice neither male nor female; filtering through the memory like salt dissolving in a wash of water. As they echoed through the room, the image faded away within the mirror, leaving behind only opaque darkness.

There was silence in the arlina's bed-chamber, as the adolescent subject of the memory lolled senseless in the lyrium-edged bathwater. Wynne was the first to move, clearing her throat as she wiped away the remaining drops of water with a handkerchief.

"So that's where our sister grew up," murmured Finian, wrinkling his nose with theatrical distaste. "What a grim and joyless dump! From the way she speaks about Herring, it's the most magical place in Thedas. It appears  _hideous."_

"Well, it has a rural… charm to it," spoke up Leliana rather unconvincingly; for Herring did seem to be utterly charmless.

"It's her home," murmured Alistair, holding his sister-warden's limp fingers and gazing at her still face with soft, anxious eyes. He felt a strange mixture of privilege and voyeuristic guilt in gaining this glimpse into his sister-warden's past; although it was also somewhat disconcerting to see her as a child, now that he had seen Flora the way he had.

"Keep going," breathed Fergus, fascinated by such insight into the parallel existence that his Cousland sister had been living while he had been raised in affluent luxury twenty miles down the coast.

Wynne nodded, gathering another cupful of water and spilling it over the mirror. The sound of lightning arcing across the sky came so loudly that at first they looked towards the window, before realising that it had risen from the glass surface.

_The night sky was ink-black, purplish storm clouds turning the atmosphere into a miasma of electric violence. The Waking Sea hurled itself with increasing vehemence against the cliffs, while lashing rain turned its surface into a frothing cauldron._

_The men of Herring were clustered in front of their tiny Chantry, huddled beneath the slate overhang of its roof and shouting to one another above the shrieking wind. Hard-faced and weathered of skin, they conferred amongst each other before turning to the oldest, a man in his fifties with a net of wrinkles over his face._

" _Beacon's blown out an' it's the trade season. There'll be Marcher ships caught in this." One man canted his head towards the wild, foaming rage of the sea, just visible beyond the natural barrier of the Hag's Teeth. "Wrecks tonigh', mark my words."_

" _Pel, get yer lassie," spoke up another, a thick northern accent burring his words together. "Lest we want to be picking men's bones from the Teeth in't morning."_

_He held out a length of rope, the action requiring no further words._

_Pel nodded, jerking his head back and releasing a salt-roughened bellow towards one of the smaller huts beside the Chantry._

" _Flor-ah!"_

_Flora emerged, twelve or thirteen, the features that would define her as a Cousland far more stark on her emerging-adult face. She was still clad in the shapeless clothes of a child, although clearly beginning to outgrow them._

" _Pa?"_

" _Come on, lass," muttered the taciturn Pel, offering no explanation as he turned towards the roiling beach. Flora, still barefoot, scuttled after her father as he set himself stubbornly against the driving wind._

_Their destination was the Hag's Teeth, a jagged reef of rocks that both protected Herring and brought passing ships to their doom. Dark and vicious, near-invisible at night; they rose from the mists like traitor's daggers, ready to chew into wooden hulls._

_There was a rough-hewn path over the Teeth, a treacherous waterlogged trail slick with seaweed. Saltwater ran constantly over the stone, threatening to pull the unsuspecting into the frothing depths. Pel strode ahead, head down against the driving rain, relying on the thick soles of his boots to keep him upright. Flora slithered after him, anchored to her dad by his weather-beaten hand._

_Still spry and strong for his age, Pel clambered over a boulder and hauled his child after him. They had reached the end of the Teeth, and were able to survey the wrath of the storm-tossed sea in all its magnificent, deadly fury. The water was boiling like a heated cauldron, illuminated by flashes of lightning that fragmented the angry sky. The wind was deafening, blasting salt water like a weapon and strong enough to knock a grown man from his feet. A small cluster of ships, not a mile from the shore, struggled bravely through the waves; drawing unknowingly closer to the cliffs in an attempt to gain shelter. Each one bore a different Marcher flag, torn ragged by the wind._

_Pel shot a quick glance at the ships as they drifted closer to the Hag's Teeth, mistakenly believing that the cove would offer sanctuary. He, who had resided in Herring for nearly half a century, knew better. The huge iron brazier behind them was filled with waterlogged wood, the warning fire extinguished by relentless rainfall. The Hag's Teeth lay shadowed and deadly beneath the waves, eagerly awaiting their next victims._

" _Go on."_

_Flora, familiar with the routine, dutifully flattened herself against the iron cage. Pel unslung the rope from around his shoulder and began to leash her to the extinguished brazier; winding it around her waist and securing her to the rusting metal. He had to brace himself against the driving wind, the occasional swell of sea washing over the rocky promontory and sucking greedily at his boots._

_Finally, once satisfied that she was tied fast, Pel turned to look down at his daughter. She sneezed, wet hair covering her face; he reached down to move it aside tenderly._

" _Be back at sun-up, lass," he muttered, patting her head with rough affection. "Yeh be alrigh' here?"_

" _Yes, pa."_

_The girl nodded dutifully, gazing up at her father. The water washed across the path once more, salt spray lashing at her body. Pel checked a final time that the rope bindings were secure, and then began to make the painstaking, treacherous journey back towards the shore._

_Flora took a deep breath, feeling her veins prickling as the creation magic began to flow through her; natural as breathing. Yellow light ran beneath her skin, as though her blood had been replaced by energy, spreading faster than the electricity that splintered the sky. The white-gold light rose from the surface of her skin, brighter than any man-made fire and unable to be extinguished by rain or seawater. She closed her eyes against her own luminosity, knowing that whatever source her magic was drawn from, it would allow her to sustain the ethereal flame until sunrise._

_The Marcher ships saw the warning flame blaze into life on the hidden reef and turned their prows port, forcing their way back out into the straits and away from the deadly promontory. The wind howled mournfully over the Hag's Teeth, as though the reef itself was disappointed at being deprived of its prey._

The memory dissipated in the mirror, the fading sound of the storm merging with the lesser wind blowing around the towers of South Reach fortress.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol, exactly 100 chapters ago Flora and Alistair got to second base in a tent on the way back to Redcliffe! The days of Wynne-terruptions are long behind us (though they've been replaced by Zevran and Leliana interruptions, lol).
> 
> The reason why Eamon and Leonas Bryland are giving Flora the eagle-eye at dinner? They both suspect that Flora is pregnant, and are determined to find out the truth!
> 
> I loved writing this chapter because I get to write about HERRING! Coastal villages hold a dear place in my heart anyway since I grew up on the Welsh coastline, which is probably why I waxed a bit too lyrical on the description, OH WELL. Herring is an ugly little village where the people are dour-faced and have little to no sense of humour; but it's also Flora's home and a place she longs to return to. I also wanted to demonstrate why these villagers accepted their young apostate – incidentally, the Herring Chantry is too small to have a full-time priest – despite their initial suspicions. Flora is a useful tool to this village; she heals their illnesses, replaces their beacon to keep ships from the Hag's teeth, and defends them from violent smugglers and ship-wreckers. Their concern for passing ships isn't entirely altruisti though – if a ship was wrecked, they have to let Highever know and THAT IS JUST HASSLE.
> 
> COME BACK CRABBIES! lol


	169. The Herring Memories: Part Two

 

"Well, that was  _dangerous_ ," said Finian indignantly, as the memory of his sister acting as an impromptu beacon on the Hag's Teeth faded away. As a Highever native, he knew full-well how deadly the northern storms could be. "I'm sure that our father had no idea that Florence would be used for such purposes when he sent her away."

"I think it was a stroke of genius," piped up Leliana, earning herself a glare from both Cousland brothers. "What better way to find acceptance among suspicious villagers than by making her magic an asset, rather than a threat?"

Meanwhile Zevran was laughing to himself with some incredulity as he summoned the face of Flora's Herring-father, the monosyllabic and heavy-set individual named 'Pel'.

"No offence to my little Rialto lily," he murmured, reaching out to stroke Flora's wan cheek as she slumped senseless in the bathwater. "But how in Thedas did she ever believe herself to be descended from  _that man?_ It's like a mongrel birthing a pedigree pup."

Alistair scowled, caught between gratitude towards the fisherman who had taken Flora in and raised her as his own; and horror that the aforementioned fisherman had then put her in such a treacherous situation. He smoothed Flora's hair over her head and impulsively planted a kiss against her slack mouth.

"He's her father, you shouldn't say anything bad," he said finally, watching Wynne fill up the silver vessel once more. "Flo loves him, she always talks about him."

"He's  _not_  her father," muttered Fergus under his breath and Alistair's nostrils flared. The young Warden could identify well with Flora's situation – rejected by a parent, and raised by another.

"Maybe not by birth, but at least this one didn't send her away," Alistair retorted, and Wynne held up an irritated hand.

"Quiet, both of you."

The senior enchanter spilled the water over the mirror for a third time, and they huddled around its gilded edges.

_The men of Herring clustered in their small Chantry muttering to one another; sparing the occasional glance over their shoulder at the injured man breathing unsteadily on the pallet behind them. A set of Templar armour was stacked at the prostrate man's feet, although there was no discipline evident in his sweating, bone-white features._

" _We can't do nothin' for him," murmured one man to Pel, who passed a hand over his balding head. "We can't use yer lass, or she'll be found out. All we can do is gi' him water and make him comfy. Maker'll take or leave him, as He sees fit."_

_The Templar let out a soft groan of pain, his head lying back at a strange angle and blood pooling at the base of his neck. Hovering anxiously in the doorway, a water flagon between her hands, was a far more recognisable Flora. At fifteen, she had gained all the height she would ever reach; and the fine-boned Cousland features were now writ plain on her solemn face. Her dark red hair was tied back at the nape of her neck in a clumsy braid, though long strands had broken free to frame her face._

_The other men left the tiny Chantry, Pel last of all, instructing his daughter sternly to give the mortally wounded Templar water and nothing else._

_Flora advanced barefoot across the sandy flagstones towards the prostrate man, who let out a soft, strangled moan of pain. Having been thrown from his horse and trampled under its hooves, his spine was broken in several places and he was not expected to last the night._

_She knelt down beside the wounded Templar, holding the water flagon dutifully to his mouth. The man was shuddering in a terrible parody of movement, his broken body writhing against the stained pallet. Bloodshot eyes tried to focus on her face; but instead of gratitude, another pitiful whimper slipped out of his sallow lips._

_Flora stared down at the man with naked conflict in her eyes; her natural compassion fighting with the desire to obey her father's instruction. Throughout her life she had been warned of the dangers that the Templars posed, that if they found her, they would either kill her where she stood or lock her in a terrible prison far from her beloved Herring. She and her parents had gone to great lengths to avoid drawing the attention of outsiders. When the priest from Skingle came to hold the weekly Chantry service, Flora was sent down to collect the lobster pots; and when the teyrn's bailiff came to collect taxes, she and her father went out on the boat for the day. She had always obeyed her dad's instructions to the letter, had always been a good girl and the most dutiful daughter in the village._

_She stared down at the man, who by Chantry law was her oppressor, trying her best to harden her heart against him. The Templar let out a soft groan of pain, trying to arch his shattered back and quivering. His bloodied pupil rolled and he mouthed wordlessly, tongue lolling from his lips. He might live, she reasoned to herself. He might survive without my help._

_**He will die.** _

_Flora put down the water flagon, feeling her heart beating wildly against her ribcage like a trapped bird. Leaning over him, she smiled to disguise the fear in her eyes._

" _Ssh," she whispered in his ear, feeling the creation magic already rolling upwards through her throat. "I'm gonna help you, don't move."_

_Lowering her head, Flora let her vision lose focus and slip under the bruised surface of his skin, beneath the torn muscle and twisted sinew; until she had located the fragmented column of bone below._

_**Exhale.** _

_Healing the fractures took two agonisingly lengthy hours. Every minute, Flora was expecting her father to come in and interrupt her; but he did not, nobody came. And then suddenly, abruptly, the Templar's broken body was whole again. The man sat up, slow and hesitant, staring around at the small, weather-beaten Chantry before focusing on Flora's face._

_She smiled down at him, despite her fear, pleased that she had been able to fix such a grievous wound. Particles of golden mist trickled from the corner of her mouth and she brushed them away, absentmindedly._

_Quick as a sea change, the Templar's face changed from wonder to outrage; he swung his legs from the pallet and stumbled upright._

" _Apostate!" he bellowed, striking her hard across the face with the back of his hand. "Get back!"_

_Flora, who had never been struck in her life, fell backwards hard against the edge of the Chantry altar. The Templar retrieved his sword from the tangle of armour and lurched towards her. Blood poured from Flora's nose as she scrabbled, terrified, across the flagstones, putting the altar between herself and the vengeful man._

_The Templar rounded the altar and converged on her, forcing her back against the limestone wall; the point of his sword at her throat._

" _You could be possessed. You could be an abomination," he hissed, saliva flecking Flora's face as he brought his mouth inches away from her face. "How dare you try and hide from the Chantry!"_

_"I ain't! I ain't!"_

_Flora, who had no idea what those terms meant, shook her head back and forth while crying openly; the blood from her nose mingling with tears on her cheeks. The Templar nudged his sword point forward and she brought up a hand, letting out a fresh wail as the golden shield expanded outwards._

_The Templar immediately retreated back across the small Chantry, his eyes dark and wary. Not stopping to gather his armour, he fled out into the darkness, leaving Flora cringing in horror against the wall._

_When she had told her father tearfully what had happened, he and several others had silently taken what makeshift weapons they owned and gone out into the night. They had searched unsuccessfully for hours but the Templar turned out to be as elusive as the Maker Himself._

_In the morning Pel had returned to their ramshackle, single room dwelling with a face both tight and resigned._

" _Pack up what yeh can," he muttered to his wife, who had her arm around a weeping Flora. "We're leavin.'"_

_Flora and her mother had scavenged what meagre possessions they owned in rope bags, when a cry of warning came from outside._

" _Pel, Pel! Templars! They've come from the Circle."_

_Pel lifted his chin, suddenly looking far older than his fifty years, and gazed down at his daughter with resignation. Flora stared up at him in horror, the colour drained from her face and her eyes swimming._

" _I'm sorry, lass," he muttered, with customary northern reticence. "Did my best."_

_The door flew open and suddenly their small dwelling was full of men clad in armour, their faces hidden by visors and weapons held at the ready. The Chantry's military arm took hold of Flora and pulled her outside at sword-point, where the villagers of Herring were huddled. Several of them looked ready to put up a fight, but were cowed by the presence of so many armoured men._

_Several Templars were on horseback, gathered around a cage pulled behind a carriage. An aristocratic youth with dark hair peered out of the window, his nose wrinkling with distaste as he surveyed the ugly little village._

" _Pa," wailed Flora, limp in the grip of two Templar officers. "Papa, I don't want ter leave. Help me!"_

_The Templars afforded no time for goodbyes, thrusting her into the wheeled cage and clambering in alongside her. One of them went to retrieve a mage cage from a rear compartment, having been told that this apostate could summon barriers._

" _Pa, I don't want ter go," begged Flora, winding her arms through the bars as her father gripped the cage door, staring at her with a terrible sadness. "They're gonna take me far away."_

" _You'll be fine," Pel mumbled in an urgent whisper, as his daughter's small fingers clutched his own beseechingly. "Do whatever they tell you to do. You're a good girl. You're a good girl, Florrie. Just do what they say."_

_Flora nodded frantically, and then yelped as the bindings of the mage cage were pinned in place around her, the bar shoved between her teeth and her hands bound above her head. She let out a muffled wail as the cage door slammed shut before her as the Templars made ready to leave._

_The cage started forward with a jolt and Flora fell over sideways, unable to right herself._

" _Be a good girl! Do whatever they say!" bellowed her father, trying his best to keep pace with the moving carriage._

_Flora's last view of Herring and her father was wrong-sided and blurred, a smudge of grim grey sea and a glimpse of stone buildings. Then the cage turned into an avenue of pine trees and Flora rolled helplessly, her face inadvertently turned to the floor. She began to cry once again, her cheek pressed against the wood._

The large mirror faded into clouds of opaque grey, before returning to its normal reflective self. A horrible silence hung over the arlina's bedchamber, like a dark cloud hovering beneath the vaulted ceiling. Wynne, whose own experience of being taken to the Circle had been largely positive, was grimacing. Alistair, who had come so close to committing his life to the Templars, felt a lurch of irrational guilt. Zevran leaned back against the cushions of the bed, uncharacteristically sombre.

"That's enough for tonight, senior enchanter," said Fergus at last, his voice breaking the quiet.

Wynne nodded, rising with a soft grunt and crossing to the bathtub. She placed her fingers on Flora's forehead, murmuring under her breath.

Flora opened her eyes with a yawn, rubbing the back of her hand over her mouth.

"Not a single demon bothered with me that time; I feel neglected," she said cheerfully, then frowned as she picked up on the melancholy atmosphere in the room. "Wait, why do you all look so depressed?"

Alistair impulsively reached down and hoisted Flora out of the water, her shirt streaming. He lowered her down to the edge of the bed and sat beside her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She eyed him with mild alarm, and then looked around at the other grave faces in the room. Even the perpetually smirking Zevran was looking solemn, his fingers wandering idly over the hilt of his dagger.

"Why are you looking at me so oddly? What did you see?" Flora asked warily, and Leliana let out a little sigh.

"Herring seems like a  _charming_  place," the bard lied, rising elegantly to her feet.

Immediately, Flora's face brightened.

"Oh, did you see Herring? Isn't it nice? I miss it  _so_  much; I haven't been back in four years. Wait, nearly  _five_. I wonder if they've rebuilt the Chantry yet?"

Finian's face twitched, unable to process the concept of  _Herring_ being associated with anything positive.

"I suggest we all get some sleep," Wynne said, finally. "Alistair, the Arl wants your presence all day tomorrow and you should be well-rested."

As the senior enchanter spoke, she lowered her staff into the bathtub; the water rapidly vanishing into its gnarled wooden head. Without the glowing starlight of the lyrium, the bedchamber suddenly seemed far darker, lit only by the remnants of the fire.

Once the copper tub was empty Wynne took her leave, patting Flora briefly on the shoulder as she departed in a swirl of maroon robes. The Cousland brothers were next to exit the arlina's chamber, Fergus ruffling his little sister's hair before leaving. Flora watched them go, perplexed, then turned to her brother-warden with confusion writ plain on her face.

"What was all that about?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Yesss, more Herring! Interestingly (and this was something that I didn't actually plan, it just emerged from the writing), it's turned out that Flora was far closer to her adoptive father than her mother.
> 
> I also liked writing this Herring scene because it shows how Flora was captured and taken to the Circle in the first place. I love the game because it gives you a little bit of an origin to each character before Ostagar; but I wasn't satisfied with my mage's starting point being 'she's in a Tower!' because I wondered how exactly she got INTO the Tower originally. And then I was like OOOH WHAT IF SHE WAS ALSO A COUSLAND and that's how I found myself in this mess haha
> 
> Also yes the aristocratic dark-haired young man in the coach is Jowan! Jowan cameo!


	170. I Can't Do This!

Flora, perturbed that everyone was treating her so oddly after viewing her Herring memories, sat sulking on the bed. Zevran, aware that he had no chance of sharing Finian's quarters while the young Cousland lord was immersed in such gloom, settled down on the chaise alongside the bed and picked up  _Probing the Deep Road._

" _Why-_ " Flora started, then was interrupted by Alistair pulling her into a tight embrace. She put her arms dutifully around his neck as he pressed his face against her ear, clutching her tightly to him as though he would never let go. The image of his sister-warden clamped into a mage cage, crying and helpless while being carted away from Herring like a criminal, was burned into his mind's eye.

"I love you, Flo," he mumbled into her hair, heedless of the bathwater soaking his tunic. "I'm sorry."

Flora patted his back, repeating the sentiment while simultaneously mouthing at Zevran, attempting to subtly question the reclining elf as Alistair reluctantly released her.

Zevran merely quirked an eyebrow above his book; casting a practised eye over her body.

"Your bosom looks delicious beneath that wet cotton,  _carina_ ," the elf commented, flashing her a lecherous yet distracted smile.

Flora pulled a hideous face at him before stalking across the arlina's bedchamber to the washroom, leaving damp footprints in her wake. The elf watched her go, stroking languid fingers absentmindedly over his chin as he raised  _Deep Road_ once again.

"Do you think she's….alright?" Alistair said, so caught up in his own anxiety that he failed to notice the explicit title in the elf's hand. "That was a horrible thing to have gone through."

Zevran let out a delicate snort, rolling his eyes and flicking the page over.

"Of course she is. She's  _fine_ , Alistair."

Alistair grimaced, passing a hand absentmindedly through his hair as he leaned back against the cushions, fidgeting. Zevran read another page and then let out a little grunt of frustration, waving his slender fingers.

"Alistair, she is  _fine._ That was a memory she has clearly reconciled herself with. Don't fret yourself over it, and  _don't_  bring it up with her, unless you wish to open the wound afresh."

The older man's voice was light, but his words were bound with steel. Alistair let out a helpless groan and leaned over to blow out the bedside candle, heedless of Zevran's immersion in the book. They could hear Flora humming to herself tunelessly in the washroom, splashing through the trickle of piped water from the cistern.

"I can't believe that Templar betrayed Flo after she healed him," Alistair said after a moment, his voice indignant. "If I knew who it was, I- I'd punch them in the  _face!"_

The elf snorted, reclining back on the shadowed couch and gazing up at the vaulted ceiling.

"She's a happy little creature," Zevran replied, and Alistair could only just make out the elf's mouth moving in the shadows. "Despite the misfortunes that have befallen her."

He looked as though he were about to continue, but then Flora emerged from the washroom into the darkness of the chamber and proceeded to promptly collide with the bathtub.

Before Alistair could leap prematurely to her aid Flora had picked herself up, glowering. She was clad in another of the arlina's silken nightgowns, an elaborate lavender garment decorated with oversized tulle roses.

"You look lovely,  _mi sirenita_ ," observed Zevran evilly, knowing that Flora despised overly fanciful clothing.

Flora scowled at him, flouncing across to the bed and folding herself into the blankets. "I'm a walking  _garden."_

Zevran snorted, settling back against the velvet cushions propped up on the chaise. "Goodnight, Wardens _._ Have a restful sleep."

Alistair reflexively lifted his arm and Flora wedged herself into his shoulder, trying to resist the urge to rip off each one of the giant, frilly roses. His hand came down to absentmindedly cup her head, fingers smoothing her hair behind her ear with gentle familiarity. She rested her cheek against his bare chest, listening to the solid, reassuring thud of his heartbeat.

Gradually, the elf's breathing settled into the soft rhythm of sleep; Flora raised her head and peered expectantly at Alistair through the gloom. He was already moving, rolling over to position himself on top of her beneath the blanket, resting his weight on his elbows as he moved to kiss her. Her mouth opened readily, ceding her tongue to his with the sweetness of yielding. One of Alistair's hands rested on her breast, groping it with clumsy ardour through the sheer material. The other hoisted the nightgown up around her waist; both Wardens aware that they had to be quick.

Suddenly Alistair froze, staring down at Flora as though she had suddenly transformed into Wynne. With a hissed groan slipping between his teeth, he rolled off her and slumped back against the cushions.

"I can't do this."

"Whaaat?" said Flora and a second voice in simultaneous disbelief.

Both Wardens then turned to Zevran, who gave a sheepish shrug from the chaise. Flora scowled down at the audacious elf, before sitting up in bed and raising her fingers. A white-gold flame flickered from beneath her nails, casting a shifting glow over Alistair's contorted features. She eyed him, with slight wariness.

"Are you alright?"

Alistair groaned once more, sitting up alongside her and rubbing the back of his hand over his face.

"I saw you as a  _child_ this evening, Flo," he said, the words forced through gritted teeth. "As a… little girl. That was only a few years ago, and now you're in bed with me, and - it's too strange."

Flora gazed at him, nonplussed, while Zevran let out a snort of disbelief.

"But I'm not little anymore," she said, carefully. "I'm nineteen. I'm only a year younger than you."

"I know it doesn't make sense," mumbled Alistair, one eyebrow twitching as he clambered out of the bed. "Sorry, Flo. I'm going to sleep in Wynne's chamber. Being near you is too- it's too  _hard."_

Both Zevran and Flora gaped at the bastard prince as he shuffled shamefacedly across the flagstones and knocked on the door to be let out by the guard.

When the door closed in Alistair's wake, Flora stared at it in bemusement for several seconds. Her confusion was shattered by Zevran launching himself with acrobatic finesse across the space between chaise and bed, landing on the mattress beside her.

"Alone at last,  _carina!"_ he purred with a comedic waggle of the eyebrows. "Time to consummate our secret passion!"

Flora, fuelled by perplexion and annoyance, swung a cushion directly into the elf's face, and it exploded into a maelstrom of feathers. This made Flora feel a little better.

Zevran spluttered, plucking strands of white fluff from his teeth.

"This is a most unusual form of foreplay, but I can work with it, my Rialto lily," he murmured, flashing her a white-toothed smile.

Flora slumped back against the remaining cushions, a frown embedding itself above her eyebrows.

"I'm  _not_  a child anymore," she repeated, scowling up at the ceiling. "I knew digging around in my mind was a bad idea."

"You need to show him that you're all  _woman_ ," replied Zevran, leering at the body disguised beneath the ugly, cabbage-sized fabric roses. "I can give you some ideas, if you like."

Flora grumbled something incoherent in response. Zevran eyed her for a moment, then let out a wistful sigh and patted her on the shoulder. The exaggerated charm vanished from his voice as he reverted to his rarely shown, more serious tone.

"Be patient,  _carina._ All…  _this_ is still new to him."

"Well, it's new to me too," protested Flora immediately, and the elf gave a little nod, relenting. He sat back against the headboard beside her, adjusting the cushions against the base of his spine.

"Let us talk of other things. A little bird tells me that our lovely lay-sister is also wary of ghosts from her past."

Flora nodded, absentmindedly bringing her fingers before her face to watch her nail-beds glow, the energy rising as natural and thoughtless as breathing.

"Why do people like you and Leliana become –  _killers_  – in the first place?" she asked after a moment, lifting the hem of the ridiculous floral nightgown above her knee and carefully unwinding the leather strapping. "You're both clever and skilled. There's a lot you could have done."

Zevran was silent for a long time, his eyes focused on the dying flames in the hearth. Flora discarded the strapping on the bed and peered down at her knee, sore and swollen after a day's hard usage.

"I cannot speak for Leliana, but despite her pretty accent I do not think that she was born with much of her own, either," the elf murmured after a moment. "True poverty is a cage not even you could break open, my lily. The Antivan Crows offered me a key."

Flora listened, trying her best to understand. Although her Herring parents had always been poor, they had never been  _destitute,_ and her father had always put food on the table. Zevran glanced down at her inflamed knee, and then cleared his throat.

"Allow me,  _cara;_ I have seen Alistair do it often enough. I promise my hand will not roam- unless, of course, you desire it."

When Flora nodded, the elf reached out agile fingers and began to rub the sore muscle with deft, practised motions. He looked at the young healer's solemn, fine-hewn profile and saw that she could not see his perspective. Her role in the world was to preserve life; whereas his own purpose was to end it.

"Think of it like this,  _corazon._ To be born both elven and impoverished – it is like being born a mage. The world dictates your life before you have even taken your first breath. When I think back on myself as a child, as a boy taken in by the Crows, I could see no other way to escape penury."

Flora looked sideways at him, and Zevran saw a glimmer of mingled understanding and sympathy in her pale, grey irises. Thus encouraged, he continued.

"I cannot lie, I  _do_  enjoy the path I have been set on; and perhaps that does make me a wicked man. But I will never know if I was born such, or whether the Crows crafted me thus."

He gave a little, humourless smile, his fingers tensing on her knee.

"Perhaps there might have been another way. But it is too late, now. No point in dwelling on it."

With fleet fingers Zevran bound the joint back up in the leather strapping with far more dexterity than she had ever demonstrated. Flora stared at him for a moment then put her arm around his shoulder, quashing a silent surge of rage as a fabric flower impeded her movement.

"It's never too late for anything," she said firmly, patting her fingers against the stark black lines decorating the elf's cheek. "And you're not a wicked man. You helped us."

Zevran was very still for a moment, his eyes half-closed. Then, in a sudden, lithe movement he rolled over Flora, pausing for a heartbeat above her with his weight suspended on his hands. She blinked up at him in surprise; but the elf merely delivered a swift kiss to her forehead before dropping down onto the chaise.

"Let me know if you get lonely up there,  _sirenita._ I'd prove a worthy distraction."

She snorted, turning over onto her side and clutching the cushion tightly to her chest.

"I'll let you know. 'Night, Zevran."

"Sweet dreams,  _florita."_

The next morning, Flora woke with the now customary churning stomach; the nausea augmented by the Archdemon's scaled face manifesting in her dreams once again. It had spoken without moving its jaw, strange and terrible whispers crawling into her ears like insects while the dragon flew above a dark-topped forest. It had been a poor night's sleep even before the creature's unwelcome intrusion; she had woken fitfully every few hours, unused to sleeping without her brother-warden's warm bulk beside her own.

Waking in a cold sweat with the sour taste of bile already rising in her throat, Flora did not have time to flee to the washroom. She lurched out of bed, feet tangled in the bedclothes, before dropping onto her hands and knees.

When Wynne sailed into the room, brisk and business-like, Flora was retching up the previous night's dinner, eyes streaming and throat burning. Zevran was crouched beside her, his head turning as the senior enchanter entered.

"Perfect timing," the elf murmured, a near undetectable throb of strain in his voice. "Can you help me with her?"

Together they got a wheezing Flora back upright and poured water down her throat; Wynne summoned a servant to clean up the mess while dismissing Flora's protests that she could do it herself.

"Sit down and drink," the senior enchanter said in a no-nonsense tone, striding over to the arrow slit window and opening the shutters to allow in some light. "All of it, child."

Zevran glanced over at Flora, then across at Wynne, raising a silent eyebrow. The senior enchanter did not meet the elf's curious stare, but instead cleared her own throat.

"There are some more letters for you to sign in your capacity as Warden-Commander," she said, nodding impatiently as Flora croaked " _Acting"._

"Alistair has departed with Arl Eamon to meet with the head of the Smiths' Guild in Greyhaven, so there's nothing for you to get distracted by."

"He's gone already?" Flora asked, spilling the water down the front of her nightgown and drenching the oversized roses. "Without saying goodbye?"

Wynne sighed, made aware of Alistair's anxiety after the Warden had crashed into her bedchamber the previous night and awkwardly tried to explain himself.

"He'll be back this evening, and I'm sure the image of you as a little girl will be far from his mind," she said diplomatically, but with a stern edge to her tone. "Oh, don't  _sulk,_ Florence."

Flora, whose expression had been slipping into surliness, took a deep and steadying breath.

"Are they still serving food in the main hall?" she asked, her focus shifting to her inadvertently emptied stomach.

Wynne eyed her in mild alarm. "You can't tell me that you're  _hungry,_ after expelling the contents of your guts out into the floor?"

" _Starving,_  actually, _"_ retorted Flora belligerently, pulling an old woollen jumper on over the loathed nightgown. "I'm going to get some breakfast."

As it transpired, Alistair had indeed left with Arl Eamon to visit the leader of the Fereldan Smiths' guild, whose estate was a half-day's ride away. He had been accompanied by Leliana, who had offered to provide the necessary diplomatic lubrication. Their intent was that the influential merchant would be able to provision their forces with sufficient weaponry to take on the Darkspawn. The man had once loyally supplied Maric's army, and Eamon hoped that he would do the same for the old king's youngest son. It was a fine day for riding; the sky was clear and the sun shone down with benevolent warmth, as though making amends for yesterday's grey drizzle.

A preoccupied Flora had eaten far too much breakfast; she had always found comfort in food when feeling despondent. Now suffering from self-induced queasiness, she heaved herself up the spiral staircase to Arl Bryland's solar and dutifully signed another series of letters and formal requests.

"I had no idea there was so much  _paperwork_ involved in preparing an army," she muttered to Oghren, who was reading the contents of each letter before handing it over to be signed. It was a far slower process than when Leliana was present; due to the dwarf's propensity for taking a swig of ale between each sentence.

"Logistics, accommodation, provisions, armaments," chanted the dwarf, handing her another roll of parchment while simultaneously retrieving another bottle from beneath the desk. Flora, who had been lost at  _logistics,_ eyed the redheaded warrior warily for a moment before taking the letter.

"What do you know about this kind of thing, anyway?"

The dwarf darted an appalled, slightly blood-shot look at her.

"Come on, Sparkles, you  _know_ I was once Orzammar's most legendary warrior!  _Seven_  successful Proving Grounds victories!"

"Winning in the Proving doesn't make you a military commander," pointed out Flora, earning herself a glower.

"Neither does being a Grey Warden  _recruit_ ," retorted Oghren, at which Flora gave a mild shrug of acquiescence.

After lunching on a pottage of slightly stale grains – the freshest food was being kept for Eamon's birthday banquet – Flora went to see her brothers. Fergus was outside in the greater courtyard drilling, determinedly building up his wasted muscle; while Finian was lounging on the steps leading up to the great hall. His favourite dark-haired retainer, the one with the wicked dancing eyes, was perched on the balustrade beside him.

"Here, Tom," said Finian, his gaze lighting up as it settled on Flora. "My sister is a pretty little creature, and she looks just like me. Wouldn't you want to take her to bed?"

Flora looked vaguely confused, as did Tommaso himself. The retainer allowed a small sigh to escape his lips before making an elaborate bow and politely taking his leave. Flora sat down on the steps beside Finian, as her brother released a gusty sigh.

"Are you trying to whore me out?" asked Flora with mild concern, working the dirt out from beneath a thumbnail. Finian snorted, eyeing his like-featured sister.

"I'm trying to get the stubborn creature to admit he would like to try laying with girls. He's become rather jealous after my exertions with Zevran, and I've told him to work his frustrations out on some new partners."

"Like me?" Flora shot him a dubious glance and Finian let out a little laugh.

"Of course not, sister. You were just a convenient passing example."

Flora leaned her head back against the step and closed her eyes, still not fully used to the sensation of sun against her face.

"I'm sure he can decide what he wants on his own terms," she mumbled, yawning.

Finian made a little dismissive noise, flicking some imaginary dust from his embroidered doublet.

Suddenly, rising from the town sprawled beneath South Reach fortress, came the repeated, frantic pealing of a bell. It rang on its own, a lone portent of danger, before being joined by the bells of the village Chantry.

Flora, who had heard that same sound heralding the destruction of Lothering in her dreams, sat bolt upright on the steps.

There came the distant sound of a man shouting from outside the fortress walls, followed by the thundering tumult of hooves. Dane, Leonas Bryland's right hand man, came charging into the courtyard on horseback; his face a blank mask of dread. Flora pulled her feet back hastily as he drew the horse up beside her and leapt off, striding to the warning bell that hung beside the main doorway.

"Darkspawn have been spotted in the fields to the south," Dane said shortly, glancing towards the barracks. "There's a lot of 'em. D'you need long to prepare yourself?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Zevran is a pretty deep character, he's so much more than just a pervert, haha. If you kill the mages in the Circle, he basically begs the Warden to reconsider, defending the position and rights of mages.
> 
> Finally, I'm not a military historian but I know a bit about medieval warfare; and the immense logistics involving in summoning and moving an army of that period. There's a quote from Arthur Conan Doyle's The White Company which talks about a medieval army on the move, mentioning the "tent-poles, cloth, spare arms, spurs, wedges, cooking kettles, horse-shoes, bags of nails…" etc etc! Why yes I am trying to make my fantasy game more boring and realistic, what of it?
> 
> Oh dear at Alistair freaking out and going to bunk with Wynne! He's still got young Flora in his head, which makes it a bit difficult to shag her, lol.
> 
> OH YES, A DARKSPAWN ATTACK! I got bored of politicking and wanted to include a bit more action haha. Except Alistair and Leliana have buggered off somewhere, super helpful


	171. Darkspawn At South Reach

Dane, Arl Bryland's right-hand man, gazed at Flora expectantly as they stood in the main courtyard of South Reach fortress. Just above their heads the alarm bell was being rung over and over by a wide-eyed stable boy, mingled fear and excitement blazing on his narrow face. Flora felt her heart spring back to life with a great lurch, her stomach roiling in the depths of her belly. She shook her head, clambering upright on legs that felt distinctly numb.

_Darkspawn, this far north. And Alistair's not here._

"No," she mumbled, trying to stop her teeth from chattering together. "I don't need long to prepare; I just need to get my staff."

Dane eyed her, and the doubt shone bright in his gaze. Although Flora had signed a half-hundred letters as the  _Warden-Commander of Ferelden (Acting);_ in reality, she was very much still the junior recruit, and Arl Bryland's man knew it.

"Where's the  _other_  Warden?" he asked, clearly putting more stock in Alistair's sword and shield than Flora's spells.

"Not here," Flora replied, wishing that she had not eaten quite so much at both breakfast and lunch.

"Can he  _get_  here in time?"

"No."

Dane hissed between his teeth but made no further comment, instead setting off for the barracks at a half-run.

Leaving behind a frantically mouthing Finian on the steps, Flora shot over to the west tower and barrelled her way up the spiral staircase; ignoring the frantic throbs of protest from her knee.

_Please, Maker, let it not be the whole Darkspawn horde,_ she thought frantically to herself, howling an apology over her shoulder to an elven servant she had inadvertently barged into.  _We're not ready yet. We aren't even close to ready. And Alistair isn't here._

Flora charged down the corridor, babbling something incoherent in a surprised Bann Teagan's face before hurling herself bodily into the arlina's bedchamber. As she retrieved her staff from beneath the bed, an even more ominous thought occurred to her.

_The forest that I saw the Archdemon flying above in my dream. Was that the Brecilian Forest? Is the Archdemon nearby?_

Feeling another lurch of nausea, Flora exchanged the arlina's nightgown for a pair of breeches and one of Alistair's shirts, hastily raking her hair back on top of her head. As she launched herself back into the corridor, Teagan intercepted her bodily; gripping her wrists with slightly more force than he had intended.

"What's going on?" he demanded, the hollow pealing of the bell incessant in the background. "Is it Howe? Assassins?"

"I wish it were," muttered Flora, attempting to squirm her way free from the man's hold. "It's Darkspawn."

Teagan released her with a sudden, shocked inhalation. Flora spun away and scuttled back down the passageway, staff wedged under her arm.

"Surely not the whole horde?" the Bann shouted after her, his voice raw with denial.

"Hope not!"

Flora heard Teagan bellowing for a manservant to bring his armour, his voice fading away as she hurled herself down the spiral staircase.

By the time that she reached the main courtyard, the men of South Reach had mustered. Knights mingled with foot soldiers, guards poured from the barracks and stable-lads brought forth horses. There was a sense of foreboding in the air, like some unseen funereal shroud hanging over the fortress. A handful of the men had fought the occasional rogue Darkspawn that had clawed its way through the surface of the earth; their stories of near-unkillable beasts whose very skin crawled with death were well-known in the barracks.

The only anticipatory faces present belonged to Sten and Oghren; the Qunari sporting  _Asala_ over one shoulder as he shifted from foot to foot, impatient for the off. Oghren roared as he saw Flora scramble down from the ramparts, waving his battle-ax in a triumphant lunge.

"At last, a bit of action!"

Wynne was already mounted, her staff slung over her back. Unlike the two warriors, she displayed no eagerness for the upcoming battle. Zevran, face neutral but eyes bright, was leaning against the stone wall and cleaning his blade calmly methodologically. Energy hummed over his body like mist rolling across the surface of the Waking Sea.

Arl Bryland emerged from the main hall, impatiently waving a servant off as he strapped his gauntlet into place. His horse was waiting at the foot of the steps; he mounted with militaristic efficiency. Spotting Flora he rode straight over to her, eyebrows rising incredulously behind his visor.

"You have no armour?"

Flora shook her head, watching Sten and Oghren mounting with varying degrees of ease. "I need to get some at some point, I suppose," she said vaguely, her words drowned out by the clamour of the bell.

Leonas looked around for a horse to mount her on, and then let out a bark of disbelief.

"Fergus, you can't! You're not yet recovered."

"I won't sit idle while my friend's lands are attacked," retorted Fergus, his voice muffled behind the helmet. He was riding Finian's fleet-footed charger, decorated in the rich blue and pale green of the Cousland livery. "Plus, I'd not let my little sister see more action than I. Need a ride, Florence?"

Flora nodded and Fergus reached down an arm, hauling her up onto the saddle before him. Arl Leonas nodded tightly, dropping the visor back over his face.

"As you wish," he replied tightly, signalling to a bugler. The call to ride out rang around the stern stone walls of South Reach fortress; and soon the courtyard echoed with the thunder of horses' hooves. In the absence of his elder brother, Teagan was leading the Redcliffe contingent of knights. Even so, Bryland's total forces numbered only fifty in total; Arl Eamon and the Bann of Calon had taken large parts of their retinue to Greyhaven to accompany Alistair. As they made their way down through the town of South Reach Flora felt a small lurch of disquiet, realising that this was the first time she would be fighting without the company of her brother-warden.

As if perceiving the direness of the situation, the afternoon sun had retreated behind the clouds, casting a greyish mien over the gently undulating fields. In the distance the Brecilian Forest bristled, a sinister dark mass spreading out across the horizon. They had not ridden for more than a quarter-hour when they spotted the Darkspawn troops, positioned at the bottom of a gentle slope. The creatures had paused, their attention diverted by a column of refugees. The topography of the landscape had disguised their progress from the Darkspawn until the curvature of the road had brought them face to face with the very enemy they had been fleeing. Now they were shrunk into a terrified huddle, trapped against a jagged ridge of rock.

Leonas and Teagan drew up their mounts abruptly, surveying the situation on the plain below. Fergus brought his horse up alongside them, Flora clutching her staff and trying to keep calm. Alistair's absence was affecting her far more than she wanted to admit; she felt as though she were missing a limb.

"There look to be about a hundred," muttered Teagan, glancing over his shoulder as though hoping that their own forces had miraculously doubled in number. "Maker, it'll be two to one."

Flora cast an appraising eye over the Darkspawn, their twisted silhouettes now familiar to her. She spotted Genlocks, loping along with their crooked gait; blackthorn bows slung over their shoulders. The majority of the force appeared to be Hurlocks, sporting a scavenged mixture of arms and armour. To her vast relief, she could see no ogres.

_I can feel them,_ she thought to herself, with a little shiver.  _A drone in my mind like a cluster of insects._

Beside her she could hear Sten murmuring quietly under his breath in his native tongue, shifting  _Asala_ in preparation.

"The Genlocks – the short ones – are archers, their arrows are poison. They're weaker, though," Flora said suddenly, and the nobles shifted in their saddles to look at her with some astonishment. She stared back at them, determined to share whatever knowledge she had gained from Ostagar and the journey into the Deep Roads.

"My old commander used to charge and engage them hand-to-hand," she continued, remembering Duncan as a whirl of silverite, blazing bright against the murky backdrop of the Korcari Wilds. "If you can run into them on horses, they won't be able to shoot."

"The dwarf and I will accompany this charge," stated Sten, and Oghren let out an incoherent cheer.

To Flora's surprise, all three men were now listening to her intently. She continued, the words coming out in a rush as she recalled the desperate predicament of the refugees.

"The tall ones are Hurlocks, and they're much stronger than a man; it's not a good idea to fight them directly." Flora remembered how the mages at Ostagar had practised on the training dummies, incinerating them from a distance. "It's better to shoot at them, or-,"

"Morrigan and I will stand with the archers," interrupted Wynne, gleaning the gist of the plan. Out of the corner of her eye Flora saw the dark-haired sorceress unfolding herself from the shape of a winged bird; having followed their progress from the sky. The witch nodded a silent, tight-lipped greeting towards the healer, her eyes already shifting towards the enemy below.

"And I will be wherever I am needed," murmured Zevran, his dark eyes sliding towards Flora. Every limb in his body seemed to be tense and trembling; a bowstring pulled taut in preparation for the loosing.

One indecipherable whisper rose above the mindless hum, curling its way into Flora's ear with poisonous intent. It lapped at her brain like a dark tide, and the pack of Darkspawn seemed to respond to its mellifluous instruction. Flora turned her head back towards the swarming mass below, and  _sensed_  rather than saw the presence of their commander; a shadowed manifestation of power lurking at the back of their ranks.

"We need to divert their attention from the people," muttered Leonas, who was the most experienced in military procedure. "And ideally, break up that solid formation of troops."

"I can do that," interrupted Flora, slightly guilty about cutting the Arl off mid-sentence but aware of the pressing nature of the situation. "But I need someone to take me down there."

"Ride with me," said Fergus immediately, voice muffled behind his laurel-inscribed helmet. "I've had experience fighting them. Just tell me where we need to go. Around the back to flank them?"

"No-o," said Flora, evasively. "Straight into the middle."

There was a long and incredulous pause.

"Straight into the  _middle?"_ repeated Arl Leonas, weakly. Flora nodded, craning her neck around to peer at Fergus through his visor. Grey-blue eyes stared back at her for a moment, before the teyrn gave a slight nod of acquiescence.

"Alright, sister. Into the middle it is."

"The refugees!" warned Wynne in a sharp voice, gesturing down at the plain below them. "The Darkspawn are advancing. Whatever you're planning, Flora, it needs to be done  _now_."

Flora wedged her staff more tightly under her arm before winding her fingers into the horse's mane.

"Wait for my signal, please," she called over her shoulder as Fergus nudged the mare forward. "Tell the men to stay away from their blood, it's poison."

The two Cousland siblings began to ride down the slope, picking up speed as the horse broke into a canter.

Several of the Darkspawn were starting to notice their approach; turning their bestial faces towards the lone advancing horse. Flora could smell the Blight rolling off them in waves, a putrid miasma that coagulated beneath her tongue. She heard Fergus coughing behind her, even as he urged the horse faster.

"So we just go… straight into the middle of them?" he clarified, eyes streaming from the cold currents of air. Flora nodded, already feeling the prickling of magic coursing through her veins; itching to manifest itself. Her heart was thudding against her ribcage, and she could also feel her breakfast and lunch rolling around in her stomach.

"Yes," Flora called over her shoulder, unwinding her fingers from the horse's mane. She began to slide precariously in the saddle; her weakened knee providing less stability on one side. Fergus, a far more experience rider, put an arm around her waist to hold her tightly in place. The outer ranks of Darkspawn had now turned towards them, their ragged mouths hanging open and their weapons rising. A bristling forest of rusted iron faced them; scythes and polearms wielded alongside conventional blades, as well as jagged shards of metal that resembled no human weapon.

"I hope you know what you're doing," hissed Fergus in her ear, urging the horse forwards. Flora nodded, the sour taste of Blight mingling with fear beneath her tongue.

"I- I think so –  _ **(we do)**_ – we, I  _do_."

Trusting in Fergus' arm to keep her astride the saddle, she raised both hands, hearing Duncan's whisper in her ear.

_Wait. Wait until you can see the whites of their eyes. And then strike!_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Alistair has gone AWOL on the first large-scale Darkspawn encounter since the Deep Roads, oh dear! And poor Flora – who is, let us not forget a HEALER! A support character! A back bencher! – is now in charge of the assault. However, she does have some pretty hefty experience to call upon to assist Arl Bryland in his defence of South Reach.
> 
> The quote from Duncan about the whites of their eyes is actually first attributed to a battle from the American Revolutionary War, the Battle of Bunker Hill in 1775. Apparently the American commander told his troops not to shoot the British (boo!) until they could see the whites of their eyes! HISTORY


	172. Healer On The Front Line

The two Cousland siblings charged down the hill towards the cluster of Darkspawn, Fergus securing Flora with his arm as she raised both hands. The moment that she made eye contact with one of the enemy, a seven-foot Hurlock with a partially exposed skull, Flora brought up her shield. The gleaming, white-gold energy expanded around them in a surge of arcane-infused air; she pushed her fingertips together as though preparing to dive into a body of water. The front of the barrier formed into a prow-like wedge, like the bow of a ship. She heard Fergus yell something in her ear, his words swept away in a gust of wind.

They ploughed into the first ranks of Darkspawn, knocking them back like skittles. The horse, whom Finian had won off an Orlesian general's son at the gambling table, demonstrated every inch of its militaristic prestige; charging gleefully through the enemy and stamping down fallen foes with silverite-laced hooves. Fergus let out a wordless yell of part-disbelief and part-delight on realising that his sword was able to penetrate his sister's shield from within. Using his knees to instruct the horse, he swung his blade with his free hand; the razor-edged silverite slicing easily through putrid flesh.

For several minutes, brother and sister wheeled back and forth on horseback, scattering the previously ordered ranks into milling, shrieking chaos. The Darkspawn launched increasingly enraged attacks but were unable to penetrate the gleaming shield. Flora, squinting through the filmy, shifting light of the barrier, nudged Fergus.

"The refugees!" she called, her words drowned beneath the battlefield furore. Fergus heard her anyway, and nudged the horse's head towards the cringing mass of people. There were about two dozen of them in total, ranging in age from shrieking infants to elderly old men, frantically wielding whatever they had to hand in an attempt to defend themselves.

The Couslands barrelled towards them, and Fergus felt his sister beginning to squirm in the saddle, preparing to extract herself.

"Drop me off and then go around the back," she instructed, maintaining the barrier with one hand while fumbling for her staff. Fergus stared incredulously at the back of his sister's dark-red head; uncovered and vulnerable.

"I'm not leaving you in the middle of this!"

"Yes, you have to," muttered Flora, swinging one leg precariously over the edge of the saddle and tucking the staff beneath her arm. "Don't stop, keep going as quick as you can."

The horse reached the crowd of huddled refugees, who turned pale and frightened faces towards them. As instructed, Fergus kept the horse moving; then let out a yell as his sister half-slid, half-fell out of the saddle.

"Keep going!" Flora breathed, clambering to her feet and retrieving her staff from where it had landed on the damp grass. Fergus gave her a tight nod, his face unreadable behind the metallic visor. Then he drove his heels into the horse's side and, with a last hard glance at his younger sister, wheeled off on the outskirts of the melee.

The next moment, Flora flung up her hand and sent a flare of white-gold light towards the grey skies, bright and brilliant as orbed lightning. She heard, in the far distance, the raised yell of defiant male voices; followed by the thundering of hooves.

_See, Loghain, that's how you respond to a Grey Warden signal,_ Flora thought irrationally to herself, transferring her staff into the other hand and turning to face the refugees. They were staring at her in alarm, and she realised that they were unused to seeing a mage without the usual Templar escort.

"Stay behind this," she breathed, there being no time for introductions. "It should last a while."

Flora jammed one end of her staff unceremoniously into the mud, flicking her fingers to either side. The barrier sprung out before them, pulsing gently, and those nearest to it let out a little cry of fear, recoiling.

"It won't hurt you," she assured them, sweeping loose strands of hair from her face and glancing over her shoulder. She could see Morrigan's staff, a bright codicil of flame, incinerating a half-dozen Darkspawn in a sweep. Somewhere within the mass of shrieking Genlocks, Sten and Oghren were whirling their blades in a synchronised meat-grinder; as they had once done months ago in the depths of the Deep Roads.

Then, insidious and alluring, Flora heard a whisper licking at the back of her mind. There was something horribly familiar about it, with a start she realised that it was not dissimilar to the way that she was able to sense the nearness of her own brother-warden. She turned her head and saw the field of battle open up; fighting bodies shifting apart to reveal the tall, crooked figure of the Darkspawn emissary.

As she left the staff pulsing its barrier in her wake, the refugees cringed away from her and the Darkspawn in equal measure. Flora began to pick her way across the battlefield, bringing up her hands to deflect any attempted blows. The sounds of the fighting were muffled by the whispers of the Darkspawn emissary, slithering into the far corners of her mind and echoing in her ears. For a moment she thought she heard Zevran shouting something towards her, his voice urgent; but then his words were swept away on the tide of the commander's instruction.

There was nothing especial about the place where the emissary had stationed itself. It stood alone, beside a small copse of trees, seven foot high and slender as a willow. However, there was nothing natural about its twisted, artificial stance; it was as though some lesser god had made a mockery of life, and then spurned it in horror and disgust. Its skin was the sallow grey of a corpse dragged from the river, with leather strapping wound around a malformed skull to keep it in one piece. Two small, red eyes burned within the mass of scar-tissue that made up its face. Arms that were little more than papery skin stretched over bone ended in trailing clusters of long, curling claws. It oozed miasma from every gaping pore, tendrils of gaseous Blight drifting in its wake.

It was a sight near-as repulsive as the Broodmother, and Flora felt her lunch churning in her stomach once again. The sounds of battle faded away as she stared at it, and it gazed back at her with apathetic derision. Barely sparing the Warden a glance, it flicked the curving, claw-like fingers in her direction. The grass erupted into flame at her feet and Flora scuttled to one side, towards the small cluster of trees.

_If Alistair was here, he would be charging towards it,_ she thought miserably, feeling sweat trickling down her forehead.  _How can I kill something with healing and shielding? I hope the leader of the smiths' guild has been worth your time, brother-warden._

The creature's head whipped around to follow Flora, eerily snake-like. Bringing its blackwood staff around in a curving motion, the Darkspawn emissary summoned a wall of flame from the dried earth; sending it barrelling towards her with a hiss. Flora brought up her shield and felt no more than a rush of warm air as the flame passed over her. The copse of trees behind her was consumed in an instant, their charred remains sending plumes of smoke into the air.

The creature stopped and stared at her, the ashen eyes igniting with sudden interest. The next moment, she saw its wizened lips moving and felt a sudden lack of oxygen in the air. It was a familiar sensation, and Flora gave silent thanks to the young Templar who had practised with her on the roof of the western tower.

_**Hold your focus.** _

The dispel incantation struck the side of her shield, sending pulses over the white-gold surface. Yet the barrier held firm; and it was this failure more than anything that caught the emissary's full attention. It glided towards her with feet that seemed not to touch the earth, then raised skeletal arms and began to lash its claw-like hands, sending blasts of arcane energy through the air.

Flora felt the strikes as physical blows against her shield, more violent than anything that Sten had ever thrown at her. She stumbled backwards, straight into the burning copse; the branches and broken trunks splintering as the emissary lashed his way after her. The smoke from the wet wood was able to penetrate her shield, and her eyes began to sting, and then to stream. The Darkspawn commander bore down on her, ashen eyes glowing through the grey fumes; now fully focused on her as prey.

Emerging on the other side of the flaming wood, a half-blind Flora tripped over a protruding root and fell down hard on her rear. Her shield flickered and the emissary saw its chance, beginning to swoop forward with arms raised. She cringed back, the oxygen momentarily snatched from her lungs by the smoke; unable to cast until she had air to exhale. Then the Darkspawn let out a high, bat-like shriek and whirled a clawed hand around, sending an unseen assailant crashing back. A silverite dagger gleamed from its shoulder-blade as it turned back to her, enraged.

Flora had regained both her breath and her feet, the shield firmly in place as she backed away. The creature, nostrils flaring, began to advance. She stared at it, panic throbbing in her stomach.

_What can I do? How do I kill it? I'm just a healer._

_**Use what tools you have at your disposal.** _

The idea rose in her mind like a fresh-caught fish reeled above the surface of the water. Rather than backing away, Flora stood where she was, on the edge of the charred copse. Smoke still hung low on the ground, obscuring her vision beyond a dozen yards, but the creature was nearer than that now. Taking a deep breath, Flora dropped her shield, feigning exhaustion.

The emissary let out a triumphant snarl, the predatory eyes glowing like embers embedded deep within its face. It came closer still, like a vision from a nightmare; but Flora had seen far worse things in her dreams and this lone creature could not compare.

As it neared, the creature's jaw dropped down, unhinging like a snake to reveal several rows of serrated teeth. It let out a throaty snarl; now close enough for her to smell the noxious air belched from its Blighted lungs. Flora feigned an attempt to bring up her shield, magic sparking lamely between her fingers. The Darkspawn let out a howl, cavernous jaw hanging open, and lunged towards her with claws aloft.

Flora brought up her arms as if to defend herself, but instead she thrust her right hand directly into the creature's unhinged mouth. She felt broken teeth scraping her skin, the sour wetness of the creature's rotted tongue brushing against her knuckles; and only when her hand was submerged to the wrist did she summon her shield.

The white-gold barrier expanded outwards like a second skin, faster than the blink of an eye; blasting the Darkspawn's skull apart instantly in fragments of bone and brain.

The creature's headless body swayed for a moment, clawed arms held outwards in frozen momentum. Then slowly, it toppled backwards, putrid blood spilling from its ragged neck.

Flora lowered her arm, slightly stunned. Her hand was bleeding and she was splattered from head to toe with the reeking contents of the creature's skull, but otherwise, she was unharmed. Turning as though in a dream, through the dissipating smoke and the charred trees; she could see the remnants of the Darkspawn, confused and leaderless, attempting to scatter. Men were giving shouts of triumph as they hacked down the fleeing creatures.

She turned back to the Darkspawn's corpse, stepping away from the pool of blackened blood as it soaked into the earth beside her feet. Feeling something wedged beside her ear, Flora reached up to pull a fragment of the commander's skull from her hair; staring at the greyish bone as it lay in the palm of her hand.

Then, gradually increasing in volume, Flora heard someone calling her name. She turned, and saw Arl Leonas striding towards her, his face bright with victory. He gripped her by the elbows, shouting incoherently; and then Fergus was there too, to her relief. Their armour was blood-splattered, but they both appeared unharmed.

"The bastards are retreating," crowed her brother, his helmet tucked beneath his arm. "Maker's Breath, that felt good. What's that  _smell?"_

Flora, emerging from her post-battle daze, finally realised what she was covered in.

"Ah! It's  _me!"_  she yowled, her eyes bulging in horror. "Brains, it's  _brains_ \- get them off!"

Fergus hastily positioned himself in front of his sister, who apparently had a Circle-induced lack of propriety. As Flora wriggled out of her breeches and hurled them away in disgust, Teagan advanced with a hand half-clamped over his eyes.

"Here, I always keep a spare tunic in my saddlebag," the bann said, attempting to keep a straight face. Fergus, squinting hard towards the sky, passed the garment to his sister. Flora pulled it over her head, the scarlet linen falling to mid-thigh.

Venturing around the men, clad in Teagan's shirt and a pair of the arlina's beribboned silk bloomers, Flora immediately made a beeline back towards the main field of battle to see if her healing skills were needed. She could hear Oghren boasting, challenging a silent Sten about how many of the creatures he had taken down. When the Qunari eventually replied, the dwarf gave a disgruntled mutter in response.

Eight men out of their fifty had been killed, a remarkably low figure considering that they had been outnumbered two to one. Still, Flora could not help but feel a wrench of sadness as she passed the row of sheet-covered bodies; resolving to say a prayer for them in South Reach's small Chantry later.

Several of the refugees were clustered around a figure leaning against a boulder. Flora, her heart leaping suddenly into her mouth, recognised the wounded figure as Wynne. The old woman was sallow-faced, her grey hair trailing down from the bun.

Ignoring the calls of Fergus and Arl Leonas behind her, heedless of the pain in her knee; a rapidly paling Flora shot over to the senior enchanter's side, the refugee women scattering as she dropped to her knees beside the elderly mage.

"It's nothing, child," murmured Wynne, seeing Flora's horrified face. "Just a few broken ribs."

Flora reached out to place her hands on the woman's abdomen, feeling the sweat-damp velvet of the maroon robe beneath her palms.

"Don't  _cry,"_ instructed Wynne firmly, but it was too late, tears had started to roll down Flora's cheeks even as she began to summon the healing energy. "Oh, you ridiculous girl. Stop it  _immediately_. It was entirely my own fault, I was careless."

The sternness in her voice was pure senior enchanter chiding a junior apprentice.

"I'm sorry," bleated Flora, wiping her nose with the back of her teeth-scraped hand, leaving a trail of blood over her face. "Keep still."

Around her, the men worked to sling the Darkspawn corpses into a putrid pile in the charred remains of the wood, material tied over their mouths and noses. Morrigan, who had quickly discarded her own staff in favour of the Darkspawn emissary's more powerful weapon, proceeded to test it on the bodies. A gout of flame spewed from the staff's head, setting the corpses aflame in seconds. The witch let out a delighted cackle, her golden eyes flaring. Arl Leonas was busy speaking to the refugees, who turned out to be from a village in Loghain's teyrnir; not far from the devastated Gwaren.

Flora was barely aware of the movement around her, focused wholly on repairing Wynne's two cracked ribs. The fractures were hairline; it took her a little less than five minutes to mend them both. She sat back on her heels, wiping her cheeks as the senior enchanter accepted Fergus' help in rising unsteadily to her feet.

Strained voices rose suddenly above the others; and then Teagan was calling to her from the other side of the burning pyre.

" _Flora!_ Flora, come here. _Quickly!"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Flora had to be a little bit creative here, since she can't cast offensively. Oh well, it might not have been the most elegant kill, but whatever does the job…! Incidentally, we see a major weakness with Flora's abilities in this chapter – she can't summon her shield unless she has air in her lungs, so anything that restricts her breathing is going to stop her from casting. I think Flo redeemed herself pretty well though, for her first engagement with the Darkspawn, without her brother-warden at her side.


	173. Zevran's Ambiguous Kiss

The Darkspawn pyre consumed itself within minutes, sending plumes of acrid smoke towards the setting sun. Flora clambered up, her heart seizing in her chest at the urgency in the bann's tone as he called her name. She half-limped, half-ran around the reeking bonfire towards where Teagan was crouching. He was speaking to someone lying down; Flora drew closer and felt her stomach give a horrible lurch.

Zevran was sprawled in the grass, white-blond hair spread dishevelled around his head. His skin was pale beneath the rich nut-brown tan, the inked markings standing out like claw marks on his cheeks. One hand was resting on his stomach, elegant fingers set lightly on a spreading bloodstain.

Flora fell onto her knees, ignoring the resulting throb of pain, and reached down with trembling hands. The tears that Wynne had halted with her stern instruction now rolled freely down her cheeks as she began to fumble with the elf's torn leathers.

"I always knew you'd be taking my clothes off one day,  _sirenita_ ," murmured Zevran weakly and she shot him a baleful stare, in no mood for his lechery.

"Though Rinna might be jealous," he continued, his voice soft and resigned. "I have a feeling that I'll be seeing her soon. She always… had a fierce temper."

"Sorry," sniffled Flora, tears dripping off her nose as she lowered her mouth to the wound. "But I won't let her have you yet."

She felt Zevran's fingers reaching down, groping her head and winding themselves in her dishevelled hair; as though anchoring himself to her and to the world.

Around her the men collected whatever useable weapons they had scavenged from the Darkspawn, and began to make their way in clusters back to South Reach. The sun slid inexorably below the horizon, lighting the overgrown fields in shades of scarlet and ochre. The refugees continued on the road towards Denerim, their leader promising to add his voice to the chorus of those denouncing Loghain.

Finally Flora sat upright, her throat sore from the constant flow of raw energy. She had sealed the punctured muscle, stitched the torn flesh, and knitted the skin together; leaving behind only a faint white line the width of her palm across the elf's tightly muscled abdomen. She had just about managed to compose herself, halting the tears by envisioning Wynne's disapproving glare.

Zevran lay back exhausted in the grass, too weary to make any smart comment about the proximity of her head to his groin. Teagan, who had stayed along with Fergus to accompany them back to South Reach, approached with a slight clearing of the throat.

"I found this in the Darkspawn commander's body- or what's left of it," he murmured, holding out a bloodied silverite dagger. "It belongs to you, doesn't it?"

It was indeed the twin of the blade hanging from the left side of Zevran's belt. Flora stared first at the knife, then over at the Darkspawn emissary; recalling how the same blade had plunged into the creature's shoulder, granting her a few precious seconds of distraction to regain her breath.

"That was  _you_ ," Flora breathed, her eyes searching the elf's fine-hewn face. The corner of Zevran's mouth twisted upwards, as though a full smile was too much exertion.

"Of course,  _nena._ Someone has to watch your back while brother-warden is taking tea with the smiths, hm?"

Flora lunged forward onto the elf's chest in a clumsy embrace, the tears flowing afresh. Zevran patted her on the back, feeling the narrowness of her shoulder-blades through the borrowed shirt.

"Ah, no, don't cry - it's bad for my reputation," he murmured weakly, exhaustion seeping through each word. "As is lying on the ground like a babe, but I don't seem to have the energy to move at the current moment."

Flora sat upright once again, wiping both eyes and nose on her shirt sleeve. Impulsively, she leaned forward and planted her mouth firmly on his. Her purpose was to breathe rejuvenative energy into her weakened companion, but she was also kind enough to grant the elf the gift of ambiguity. His fingers reached up to stroke the back of her cheek, very lightly.

When she withdrew, she was gratified to see the old humour sparkling in Zevran's eyes, the elf sitting upright with ease.

"Thank you for your services,  _carina._ Although, I admit I had been quite looking forward to riding back draped between Bann Teagan's strong arms."

Flora gave a wet, sniffling laugh while Teagan himself looked rather disconcerted. Now it was Zevran's turn to spring lightly to his feet while she remained kneeling, her mind scraped raw with exhaustion. The elf cast a final derisive glance at the smouldering pile of Darkspawn remains, wiping the second silverite blade clean on the grass before sheathing it; his irises seemed almost black against the clouded night sky.

Fergus slid down from the saddle and put a hand on his sister's shoulder.

"Come on, Warden-Commander," he said, kindly. "Time to go back."

" _Acting._ I think I'm going to be sick," she told him solemnly, covering a yawn with her fingers. "Sorry."

Flora was sick three times on the way back to South Reach, nudging Fergus to stop before sliding out of the saddle and disgorging the contents of her belly by the side of the road. Her mouth and throat, already raw from the expenditure of energy, burned with each expulsion of stomach acid. Thoroughly miserable and feeling her brother-warden's absence like a physical ache in her chest; Flora barely paid any attention to the gleaming constellations that Teagan was pointing out overhead.

"Look, there's the  _Bellitanus,"_ he pointed out as they entered the town and started the meandering climb up to the fortress. He lifted a finger, and both Fergus and Zevran raised their heads to look at the gleaming pinpricks. They hung suspended in the night sky like lamps, framed by luminous ether.

"It means the 'Maiden'," added the Bann, glancing across at Flora. "See the outline of her body?"

"Why does she have four arms?" muttered Flora belligerently, not in the mood for stargazing. Even after the others had poured the contents of their water-pouches over her, she still felt splattered by the contents of the Darkspawn commander's skull.

South Reach fortress blazed like a beacon at the top of the rise, with every brazier and torch burning in defiance of the darkness. As they approached, a shout went up from the ramparts; the drawbridge was lowered and the portcullis hastily lifted.

They rode beneath the gatehouse into a busy courtyard, the servants in the process of dividing spoils and sorting armour that needed to be repaired. Flora hung her head, wanting nothing more than a bath and to go to bed.

As the stable lads came running to take their mounts, she felt a sudden flaring in the corner of her mind. A small crowd had been waiting by the steps, and as she raised her head, a familiar figure rose to its feet.

The sight of her brother-warden, tall and broad-shouldered, was enough to make Flora feel better, despite the raw anxiety contorting his handsome features. Alistair strode across the flagstones, scattering servants before him, and went immediately to her side.

He reached up his arms wordlessly and Flora half-fell out of the saddle into them, landing against the solid muscle of her brother-warden's chest. Alistair held her tight to him, heedless of her damp and dishevelled state, and buried his face against her head. Flora wondered whether to warn him about the Darkspawn brains that had so recently decorated her hair; but then he began to speak, voice taut as an over-pulled lute string and the words coming out in a rush.

"Thank the Maker you're alright, Flo. I've been  _so_  worried. I'm so sorry. I should have been there."

Flora patted Alistair's head, worried about the state that his fine clothes were getting in due to their proximity to her battle-stained body.

"You didn't know," she said reasonably, the words muffled against his shoulder. "How could you? When you left, it was just a normal day."

Alistair let out a groan and pressed his mouth impulsively against her neck; abandoning the self-imposed restraint of the previous evening.

"You're not hurt?" he asked, wanting to confirm what his own eyes had already established in their desperate first sweep over her. Flora shook her head as he kissed her mouth three times in rapid succession, quick and thankful.

"No-oo," she mumbled, glancing over to where Zevran was casting flirtatious glances towards the older stable lads. "Zevran saved my life, though. I fell over and he stuck his knife into the commander's back to distract him. He got hurt bad for it."

Alistair stared down at Flora, his expression unreadable. The next instant, he had released her and crossed the flagstones, kneeling down in front of Zevran and bowing his head.

The elf, for once in his life, looked startled enough that he could make no smart comment.

"My prince, I am speechless," he said after a moment, eyebrows shooting towards the gleaming  _Bellitanus._ "I don't know what to say."

"How about:  _I knew you would be kneeling before me one day, Alistair?_ " supplied Flora helpfully, smirking despite her tiredness.

The elf shot her a wicked little grin, but there was a seriousness in his eyes as he gazed down at Alistair's rumpled, golden head.

"Thank you for helping Flo," the young Warden said, fervent and earnest. "I should have been there, but I wasn't. Thank you for – looking out for her."

Alistair looked up and the two men gazed at one another, a quick, shared understanding passing between them. Zevran inclined his head a fraction, and then the customary lightness was back in his tone.

"Back on your feet, Alistair," he murmured, ruffling the dishevelled blond hair with slender fingers. "Lest people start querying why a prince of the realm is on his knees before a humble elf."

Alistair rose to his feet, instinctively turning back to his sister-warden and putting an arm around her shoulders. For a moment, he rested his face against her head, lips moving in a silent prayer of gratitude.

"I'm covered in brains," said Flora after a moment, impatiently. "Can I have a bath now?"

" _Brains?!"_

Some time later, in the arlina's washroom, Flora finally got her wish. The journey up to the bedchamber had been arduous and filled with interruptions; she had allowed Alistair to make her excuses while she concentrated fiercely on not smelling too repulsive.

Inordinately grateful that the servants had already prepared a bath, she flung off her clothes and submerged herself in the clean water. It was almost uncomfortably hot; but Flora was grateful for the heat, feeling it scourge the fragments of Blighted flesh clinging to her hair and skin.

Hooking her legs over the edge of the tub, Flora took a deep breath and submerged her head until she felt the metal bottom against her skull. It still felt odd to bathe in water that was not cold and salty; and she was wholly unused to the flowery scent. Privately, she thought that adding perfume to bathwater was a bit too  _Orlesian_ for her taste.

Opening her eyes in the scented water, Flora could see the blurred wooden ceiling above her, the small washroom illuminated by several fixed candelabras. She could also see her brother-warden's head and broad shoulders as he knelt beside the bathtub, his hair cast in molten gold by the flickering candlelight. He was peering down at her with an expression that she could only interpret as quizzical.

As his features began the transition from confusion to anxiety, Flora broke the surface with a little gasp; water streaming from her hair. Alistair smiled at her with hazel eyes still shadowed with guilt.

"Brains all gone?" he enquired, and she nodded solemnly.

"I think so."

He lifted her foot from the edge of the bath and kissed her wet toes, sliding his palm down the length of her slick calf. Just then, the door opened inside the main bedchamber and they heard muffled, male conversation; before Eamon's voice rose tentatively above the rest.

"Sorry for the interruption, Alistair. A moment of our Warden-Commander's time is all we need."

Alistair glanced down at her, raising an eyebrow.

"Want me to send them away?"

Flora shook her head, hauling herself out of the bath and reaching for one of the arlina's nightgowns.

"Duncan would see them," she said reasonably, pulling the primrose-coloured material over her head and wringing her hair into the tub. "I'll be there in a moment."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note:- I was thinking about why Zevran and Flora get on so well – without taking into account his attraction to her, they're still very good friends. I think it's because they actually have quite a lot in common; they're both from disadvantaged backgrounds, people treat both of them with prejudice and suspicion, they both have experience with poverty. Even though they are the anti-thesis of each other – he takes away life, and she preserves it – they get on very well. Lol, it's so weird how these relationships evolve out of the writing completely unintentionally!
> 
> Random trivia – the constellation Bellitanus actually refers to Urthemial, the old god of beauty… which is also the old god causing the current Blight!
> 
> It's also been interesting to look at the parallels between the unseen presence of the arlina – Arl Bryland's daughter – and Flora, by birth a Cousland, but shaped by the village of Herring. The arlina likes Orlesian finery – the Orlesian rug and décor in the militaristic bedchamber, the scented oils and the ridiculously fancy nightgowns. It's interesting to think about how Flora might have turned out if she had remained in Highever….I think she actually would have been a bit of a spoilt brat, as the youngest of three siblings and the only daughter. More to come on that when we uncover the Highever memories!


	174. You've Done Your Duty

 

Flora emerged from the arlina's washchamber, leaving damp footprints across the flagstones in her wake. Despite the fact that it was she who was dressed only in her nightgown and a dressing robe, it was the two arls and the bann who looked more self-conscious. Arl Bryland coughed and averted his eyes, uncomfortably aware that the young Warden-Commander was clad in the garments of his own adolescent daughter.

"Sorry, child," said Teagan, who had known Flora the longest and was the most familiar with her. "We're more used to our military leaders being middle aged men."

Flora smiled at them benevolently, far more cheerful after noticing the tray of cold-cut meats that an accompanying servant had just delivered. The sight of the food distracted her from the realisation that they had just referred to her as a  _leader_.

"It's fine," she said, sitting down on the bed; the nobles took this as a cue to sit on whatever surface was available to them.

"Your strategy today was exemplary," stated Leonas bluntly, dispensing with polite formalities. "We were outnumbered and ill-prepared, and lost only a small number of our men. The casualties would have been far higher without your instruction, or breaking of their ranks."

Flora, who did not know what the word  _exemplary_ meant, nodded solemnly and decided that it must relate somewhat to  _experienced._

"Well, we have fought them a lot," she said, feeling Alistair's proud gaze heating the back of her neck. "Everyone did really well. Did you see Wynne incinerating about a dozen of them at once? She's my role model."

"From the larger number of Genlocks – which, from your description, are scouts – it suggests that this was an advance guard, and that the Darkspawn's main forces are not yet ready to make their final push," continued Leonas, with a sideways glance at Eamon.

The Arl of Redcliffe stepped forward with a grave nod.

"It means we'll have to bring forward our schedule, though. They can't be allowed to reach Denerim. We'll need to leave for the city within the week."

Behind her, Flora heard Alistair let out a long, low exhalation.

"Challenge Loghain," she said out loud, wanting to ensure that she had got it clear in her head. "Get the Royal Army. Summon the mages, dwarves, elves. Kill Archdemon, end Blight."

_Then have a feast,_ she added silently to herself.

Teagan inclined his chin, half-smiling at her. "That's the plan."

Flora could feel Alistair shifting from foot to foot impatiently behind her as the nobles bade them goodnight and took their leave.

"Perhaps the senior enchanter was wrong about the girl's condition." Eamon's voice faded away as he proceeded down the passage. "Would she have gone into battle if she  _were_ …?"

Alistair did not hear the remainder of the conversation, impatiently closing the door behind them. The moment that the latch had dropped into place, he turned to look down at Flora, stroking damp strands of hair away from her face.

"Duncan would be so proud of you," he murmured, tracing a thumb over her cheekbone. "Come to bed, sweetheart."

It was clear from the way that Alistair was gazing hungrily down at Flora that he had overcome his inhibitions from the previous night. Lowering his mouth to her neck he gently bit at her shoulder, one hand rising to cup her breast.

Flora shot a longing glance towards the cushions and blankets, her knee now giving rhythmic pulses of pain.

"I will soon," she said reluctantly, crossing to her battered leather pack to retrieve a woollen sweater. "There's something I have to go to first."

Alistair did not protest, but helped her pull on the leather boots; his jaw stiffening as she flinched in pain. Kneeling down, he loosened the strapping around her sore knee and retied it more tightly.

"Better?"

"Yes, thanks," she lied, knowing that it would not feel better until after a night of rest.

Knowing that she was lying, Alistair offered her his arm and she accepted it gratefully. Stuffing as much of the cold-cut meat into her mouth as possible, Flora turned her face towards the door.

Together the Wardens made their way down the passage and the west tower stairs; across the ramparts and down to the main courtyard. The men had returned to the barracks; the only signs of life within the fortress were patrolling guards and the occasional dozing Mabari. The moon had emerged from behind its shroud of cloud, bathing the flagstones in a translucent milky glow.

"The kitchens are over there," Alistair pointed out as Flora turned instead towards the lesser courtyard.

She shot him a faintly incredulous look, eyebrows rising.

"I know where the  _kitchens_ are! We're not going there."

The sound of singing, low and mournful, drifted out from the lesser courtyard. Flora followed the echo of voices towards the small Chantry hewn into the stone base of the fortress, suddenly grateful for Alistair's arm beneath hers. He cast her a curious glance but said nothing, fingers tightening on her elbow.

The last time that Flora had visited the South Reach Chantry, it had been near deserted. Now every wooden stall was filled with men and women in commoner's garb, their faces turned towards the cold stone visage of Andraste. A Chantry sister was leading them in a ragged hymn, their voices filling the hollowed cavern. At the front of the chapel, eight bodies were laid out beneath sheets, only their still faces visible.

Gripping Alistair's hand tightly, Flora made for an empty pew near the back, not wanting to draw any attention. The hymn drew to an end as the door shut behind them, and several heads began to turn curiously to see who had entered. Immediately, whispers began to prickle between the stalls, spreading like a rash.

_Alistair Theirin…. Cousland... Warden!_

A hush settled over the small chapel. Dane, Arl Bryland's man, rose to his feet and made a small gesture. Flora glanced at Alistair; who gave her a small nudge.

It was only a handful of strides between the rear of the Chantry and the altar, yet in the short time that it took for them to reach the front pew; every person present had risen from their seat and bowed their head respectfully. Flora assumed that their reverence was directed towards her brother-warden, but when she glanced around quickly beneath her eyelashes, the townsfolk were looking at her and Alistair in equal measure. She stared back at them, suddenly grateful for her face's natural solemnity.

"Lady Cousland," Dane said quietly, and after a moment Flora looked round at him, not accustomed to the title. "Thank you for coming to the service for our fallen brothers. Could you – could you say a few words?"

It was not the first time that Flora had been asked to speak spontaneously before others; it had happened with the  _deshyr_ in Orzammar, and in front of the southern nobles in Redcliffe.

Yet when she looked over the tear stained faces of the bereaved, then down at the sad, shrouded corpses of their loved ones, Flora knew that this was somehow more important than either  _deshyr_ or nobles. She took a deep breath, feeling the solid bulk of her brother-warden beside her.

"Every night, I dream and I see the spirits of the dead in the Fade," she said quietly, her commoner's voice soft and familiar. For a moment, it was as though the shades of the eight dead men were clustered in the empty row at the back, staring at her with bone white eyes.

"But I could sleep for the next thousand years- " Flora picked a random number, not really sure how many a  _thousand_  was, "and not see the spirits of any of  _these_  men. Because the Maker loves best those who give their lives in the defence of His land; and He gathers their souls straight to his side."

Flora felt tears prickling in the corners of her eyes, and fought them back fiercely. She lowered her gaze to the eight cloth-covered bodies; and when she spoke next, her words were not directed to the audience, but to the dead men themselves, as though her voice could somehow penetrate the Veil that lay between them.

"You've served your country well," she said quietly, the softness of her voice amplified by the hollowed stone ceiling. "Your duty is over. Time to rest."

When Flora looked up she saw Leonas Bryland standing at the back of the Chantry; the Arl come to pay his respects to the dead men. The last corpse bore a passing resemblance to her Herring-father, and this time Flora made no attempt to stop the tears from spilling over her eyelashes.

She put her hands to her face and Alistair guided her into the front pew, sliding his arm around her shoulders. Flora barely heard the rest of the service, concentrating instead on wiping her nose on her brother-warden's sleeve.

After the closing hymn and incantation to the Maker, Leonas spoke to each bereaved family in turn as they slowly filed out of the Chantry. The church sisters began to hang fresh vials of incense, preparing for the customary night vigil over the dead. Finally, Leonas Bryland turned to Alistair and Flora as they made their way towards the door.

"You spoke well," the arl murmured to her as they came out into a light night drizzle.

"I've heard a lot of funeral speeches," mumbled Flora, her voice small. Like any child of the northern coast, she was familiar with death; the sea was a capricious mistress that frequently swallowed fishing boats and spat out only bleached bones for the families. Alistair tightened his arm around her back, kissing the top of her head.

"Ouch, my knee," Flora then said, nearly slipping on the cobblestones.

Leonas looked at her for a moment before a wry smile curled the corner of his mouth.

"I think that you would make a very well-liked…  _king's mistress,"_  he said, watching Flora clamber onto a crouching Alistair's back.

The concept of mistresses did not exist in Herring and so Flora merely smiled vaguely back at Leonas, feeling Alistair's hands grip the undersides of her thighs.

Back in the arlina's chamber they found Zevran - and surprisingly, Morrigan -  _in situ._ The witch was jabbing irritably at the flames in the hearth with the head of her staff, muttering under her breath. Zevran was reclining on the chaise, arms behind his head,  _Probing the Deep Road_ propped against one knee. It was a testament to the elf's eyesight that he was able to discern the text in the shadowed room; Morrigan seemed to be beating the flames into submission rather than coaxing them to life.

"Here comes the pack mule and his fool driver," hissed the witch as Alistair lowered his sister-warden onto the bed.

"What a lovely surprise to have  _your_  company this evening," he retorted, crouching down to help remove Flora's boots. "What have we done to deserve such a pleasure? Oh wait, it's  _not_ a pleasure."

"Ouch," said Flora, wincing and curling her fingers tightly in the blanket. "Ow, ow,  _stop!_ My knee hurts."

Alistair grimaced, removing his fingers from Flora's leg and gazing up at her.

"You can't sleep with your boot on, my dear," he murmured, rubbing a circle over her thigh with his calloused thumb. Flora let out a little sigh, then slumped back on the bed and pulled a cushion over her face. She gave a waggle of her fingers that Alistair interpreted as  _fine, but do it quickly._

He pulled the boot down with a sudden quick movement, removing it from her foot as she let out a squeal of pain into the cushion. A scowling Zevran rose from the chaise, wandering over to the dresser to pour some wine into a small chalice.

"I'm sorry, my love," murmured Alistair, gently unwrapping the leather strap from Flora's knee as she shot him an accusatory glower from behind the cushion. He planted his lips briefly on the swollen joint before beginning to knead the skin with practised firmness.

Zevran offered the chalice of wine to Flora and she took several large gulps. The elf looked down at her in mild alarm, eyeing the rapidly diminishing level of liquid in the vessel.

"Ah, it's rather strong. I would take it slowly,  _nena."_

Flora swallowed the last dregs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"It turns to water in my throat," she explained, giving a little shrug of the shoulder. "All alcohol does. My body thinks it's a poison and neutralises it."

Her face brightened as a sudden idea occurred to her. "I should challenge Oghren to a drinking contest! I would definitely win."

The elf shot her a sympathetic look, deftly removing the chalice from her fingers.

"A dubious talent,  _carina_. I doubt that would go down well at parties."

"Well, I don't get invited to  _parties_ ," retorted Flora, and then Morrigan swept over with a derisive snort. As she nudged Alistair aside with a bare leg, he recoiled as though burnt.

" _This_  will help far more than alcohol or Alistair's clumsy fingers," she informed them superciliously, swirling her thumb around a small wooden pot and smearing a green salve over Flora's swollen joint.

The healer flinched and then stared down at her knee in perplexion.

"It's cold," she said, and the witch rolled her eyes in disbelief.

"Yes, fool, the purpose is to create  _numbness._ Stop prodding at it. You – or your idiot lover – can put the strapping back on now."

Alistair dutifully wound the leather bandage around Flora's knee, as Morrigan strode across the chamber towards the arrow-slit.

"Thank you!" Flora called after her, watching as the witch folded herself into a dark, winged shape and quit the room through the narrow window. She turned to the others, eyes bright. "Morrigan is my  _other_  mage role model. She's so clever."

Her brother-warden shot her a dubious look as he unbuttoned his tunic, to much appreciative noise from Zevran. Flora pulled the jumper over her head, scrambling beneath the blankets and settling back against the cushions. Alistair removed each of his boots in turn, yawning and rumpling a hand idly over his hair before blowing out the candle.

"Fancy some bedtime reading,  _mi sirenita?"_ asked Zevran, leering up at Flora from the chaise while brandishing  _Deep Road_. She smiled at the elf, holding up gleaming fingers to guide her brother-warden underneath the blankets.

"Hm, maybe tomorrow."

The room settled into darkness around them, the shadows cast long and uneven across the floorboards. The last embers burnt quietly away in the hearth, sending the occasional hissing spark up the chimney. A voyeuristic moon peered in through the arrow-slit window, throwing a beam of milky light over the bed.

Alistair, recalling the elf's duplicitous trick from the previous night, did nothing more than draw his sister-warden into his arms and kiss her softly in the centre of her forehead. Flora began to smile up at him, her face breaking into a yawn partway through.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, very quietly, brushing the back of his hand over her collarbone. "I should have been with you today, at your side. I swear, Flo; it'll never happen again."

Flora did not respond for a moment, absentmindedly chewing on the end of her thumbnail. The thought rose to the forefront of her mind that she was  _glad_ that Alistair had not been there; since his survival was far more important to Ferelden's future than her own. She recalled the promise that she had made at Cailan's pyre at Ostagar, the ashes of the dead king caught in her hair and clothes.

_I promise I won't let anything happen to him, my King._

"It's alright," she whispered, clutching his hand and holding it to her chest. "Don't be sorry."

He kissed her again with a little more intent, fingers snaking beneath the gauzy material of the nightgown.

"My lily, how long does this rejuvenative effect of yours last?" A perturbed Antivan voice filtered out of the shadows near the chaise. "I am still wide awake."

Alistair withdrew his hand from Flora's nightgown with a little grunt as she snorted, peering over the edge of the bed to gaze down at Zevran.

"I'm not sure," she breathed, stifling another yawn. "I don't really know how my magic works at all. Don't say that to any Templars, please."

The elf threw back the blanket and retrieved his boots from beneath the chaise.

"Seems a pity to waste so much excess energy alone in bed," he purred. " _Mi límonita_ , do you think your brother would welcome a secretive nocturnal visitor?"

"Which one?"

The elf narrowed his eyes at her and Flora relented, smiling over at him within the circle of Alistair's arms.

"There are so many guards patrolling the Cousland quarters now, I'm not sure if you could get into Finian's room quietly."

Zevran rose to his feet, tapping his fingers idly on the hilt of his dagger as he considered his options.

"Well, then. There's a lovely pair of serving girls who tell me that they're sisters - though they look more like cousins – or, a very accommodating guard stationed above the gatehouse. Alistair, I'll let you decide."

The elf grinned down at Alistair, who was grateful that the shadows adequately disguised his flush. Flora yawned again and turned her face against her brother-warden's chest. Zevran glanced down at her for a split second; then flashed an even more brilliant smile at Alistair.

"Well?"

"The sister-cousins," said Alistair eventually, with a slight cough. "If you really do have excess energy to use up."

Zevran gave a slight nod, passing a hand over his pristine hair. "A most  _logical_  choice."

Just as the elf was about to leave, Alistair called out to him, his voice low across the shadowed room.

"Thank you again, for today. For watching out for her."

The elf made a little bow but gave no reply, his face hidden by the darkness.

As the door shut in Zevran's wake, Alistair counted to ten and then nudged his sister-warden expectantly; already reaching down for his breeches.

"Flo, it's a miracle, we finally have some  _privacy!"_

The only response that Flora gave was a soft snore, her mouth partially open. Alistair gazed down at his sleeping sister-warden for a moment, and then gathered her more tightly into his arms. He brought her hand to his mouth, kissing the cool gold of the Cousland ring on her left hand.

"Goodnight, my dear."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I love the contrast in this chapter - Flora has a real commoner's northern accent – she sounds like a peasant girl when she speaks – but when the situation calls, she can also deliver these very solemn and noble speeches. This is one of the times where flashes of Bryce Cousland – the man who held the north for Maric – shine through in his daughter; who has inherited his ability to speak well in public.


	175. A Variety Of Music

 

Flora woke abruptly in the middle of the night, and spent several moments going through the possible causes behind her interrupted sleep.

_Is it the Archdemon?_

_Are we under attack?_

_Am I going to be sick?_

When the answer to all three questions was  _no,_ Flora lay curled on her side with her face pressed into the pillow, yawning. She could feel her brother-warden's body nestled against her back, one thigh casually flung over her own and his arm snaking around her waist. The arlina's chamber was chilly and dark; although Flora was thirsty, she had no inclination to venture from the warm comfort of the bed. She could see Zevran- returned from his own nocturnal activities – sound asleep on the chaise beside the bed. A northerly wind was chasing it's tail around the west tower, howling like a disconsolate Mabari.

Alistair grunted softly against her ear, his breath ruffling her hair. Flora could feel the hard muscle of his bare chest through the fabric of her nightgown. Shivering slightly and wishing that the arlina had favoured thick wool pyjamas; she adjusted herself closer to her brother-warden, only to find him pressing hard against the small of her back. Flora glanced over her shoulder to ascertain that he was still asleep; and sure enough, his face was still and his eyes tightly closed.

It was not unusual for Alistair to stiffen against her as he slept; it had begun to happen as soon as the Wardens first started to share a bedroll after the Kinloch Hold incident. Flora, who knew enough to know that it was normal, had never minded; clutching her best friend's fingers tightly and waiting for morning.

Now, feeling a familiar pull deep in her gut, Flora squirmed her rear experimentally against Alistair's pelvis; coaxing a soft, sleep-blurred groan from between his lips. A moment later she felt him grind more purposefully against her, one hand fumbling blindly at the front of her nightgown. Flora stifled a giggle as he inadvertently tickled her stomach, then abruptly stopped laughing as his fingers found purchase in the flimsy material. With a clumsy, unconscious motion, the front of her nightgown was pulled apart. Another earthy moan crept into her ear, and she wondered what he was dreaming about.

_We're going to need to replace a lot of the arlina's wardrobe_ thought Flora, wriggling as Alistair's hands began to grope her exposed breasts.

"Flo," her lover mumbled drowsily, thrusting with intent against her rear. "You're so beautiful."

Flora glanced quickly across to Zevran's still form on the chaise, unsure how genuine the elf's apparent slumber was. She rolled over onto her belly, and then slithered down beneath the blanket to straddle her brother-warden's knees. Relying on touch, rather than sight, in the darkness beneath the heavy woollen covers, she began to pull at the laces of his breeches.

At the first touch of her mouth, Alistair groaned and arched his hips towards the ceiling, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He reached beneath the blanket, fingers tangling in his sister-warden's hair to guide the steady bobbing motion of her head.

"Maker's Breath-  _don't stop-_ "

When fingers augmented the delicate coaxing of her tongue, Alistair was unable to stop a blasphemy from escaping his throat, pressing Flora's head down with a little more force.

Such strangled profanity was sufficient to rouse Zevran from his doze. Opening an eye, he surmised the situation on the bed in an instant; the shape of the blankets and the sounds coming from beneath them were immediately recognisable. Sliding his own hand into his breeches, the elf wondered idly whether to leave them in peace; but Zevran could never resist an opportunity to tease the shy young prince.

"I do like to see you let loose and enjoy yourself, Alistair."

Alistair groaned, opening an eye and glowering across at the elf. The blankets let out a rather juvenile snicker, but continued diligently in their endeavours.

"Go back to sleep," hissed Alistair through his teeth. "You're  _incorrigible._  Turn the other way."

"I love it when you order me around," breathed Zevran, but obligingly turned over to face the doorway.

Taking charge, Alistair retrieved a still-giggling Flora and rolled her over onto her back, arranging the blankets strategically over them. Yet when Zevran silently twisted his head back a few minutes later, it was blatantly obvious what was going on. Alistair's pelvis was rocking rhythmically beneath the covering, his sister-warden's small feet were protruding above his shoulders and both were breathing hard and erratic. Zevran tightened his grip on himself as the blanket moved by small increments, revealing breasts that shuddered with each slow, deep thrust.

"Ow, my  _knee,"_  squawked Flora, suddenly. "Ouch."

Pausing in his efforts, a slightly incredulous, sweating Alistair looked down at her; she eyed him back apologetically.

"Sorry, you just squeezed it too hard."

Alistair sat back on the bed, inspecting his hand in dismay.

"I've got Morrigan's blasted salve all over my fingers! They're going  _numb_."

Flora started to laugh, watching her brother-warden's face flash through a variety of expressions.

"May I suggest that you  _don't_  take your manhood in hand," suggested Zevran, abandoning the pretence that he had gone back to sleep. Then, on seeing Alistair's face twist in horror, he let out a sigh. "Ah, too late, it seems."

Flora rolled onto her stomach and buried her laughter in a cushion, while her fellow junior warden gaped down at himself in alarm.

"You won't be happy if it  _falls off,"_ Alistair hissed down at her, clambering from the bed and stalking towards the washchamber. "I can't even  _feel_ it anymore."

As Leliana had done several days prior, Zevran admired the prince's olive buttocks as he crossed the room.

"You heartless creature," the elf murmured to Flora, who was cackling away to herself with the blanket now wrapped around her shoulders. "Why don't you help him to wash it off?"

Flora stuck her tongue out at him and he responded with a leer so crude that it made her blush, and prudishly pull the sagging blankets up to her chin.

"'Night, Zevran."

"Sweet dreams,  _mi florita."_

The next morning, the two Wardens and the elf made their way down to the great hall to break their fast. Zevran had spent the entirety of the journey complaining about stodgy Fereldan cuisine; bemoaning the fact that he had needed to let out his leather belt by a notch during his time at South Reach.

"And I'm not the only one," he added, flickering a look at Flora beneath his eyelashes. "I noticed last night that your bosom looked a touch  _larger_  than it had done previously."

Alistair glowered at the elf as they approached the doorway leading to the great hall.

"Shut up about her… chest," he hissed, while Flora peered curiously down the front of her shirt.

"Hm, I think you're right. Must be all the porridge," she replied cheerfully, and the elf gave a groan.

"Don't, I can feel my gut swelling in protest. What's wrong with a bowl of fresh fruit?"

The guards inclined their heads, swinging open the doors to the great hall. Alistair, always courteous, gestured for Flora to enter first. When she stepped inside, there came a roar that echoed to the vaulted ceiling and set the Mabari hounds off in a cacophony of barking. Aghast, Flora stopped abruptly in the doorway and Alistair promptly collided with her, treading on the back of her heels.

"What's wrong?"

"Why are they  _shouting!?"_  she hissed, appalled eyes sweeping over the men sitting at the long tables as they drummed their feet against the flagstones. On the raised platform at the end of the hall, the resident nobility were smiling benevolently; Finian reaching up a hand to beckon them forward. Arl Leonas, however, did not appear to be present.

"They're clapping," explained Zevran, stepping up beside her. "For you,  _sirenita."_

"What did I do?" Flora moaned, deeply uncomfortable with the several dozen pairs of eyes now resting on her. "Alistair, can we eat in the bedchamber?"

Alistair gave her a soft nudge forward.

"Probably because of yesterday's battle. Come on, Flo. You've faced down demons and Darkspawn; this is nothing."

At that moment Flora would have rather faced the Darkspawn commander from the previous day than walked further into the great hall. Still, the smell of porridge was alluring and Finian was still waving her forward; she lifted her chin and strode down between the tables, hoping that the natural solemnity of her features overrode her urge to grimace.

As they headed towards the end table, several of the men struck up a ragged chant, keeping time with tankards thudding against the wooden tables.

" _Grey Warden Flora_

_We all adore her_

_Pretty and pleasant_

_But talks like a peasant_

_And knocks down her foes to the floor-a!"_

A wide-eyed Flora sat down beside Fergus and Finian, the latter grinning at her.

"Do you like it? I heard the men rehearsing this morning."

"No one's ever written a song about me before," Flora breathed, as Alistair squeezed her thigh affectionately under the table. "Oh, wait. There was one at the Circle, but it wasn't very nice."

Teagan snorted, glancing sideways at his elder brother. Eamon poured another flagon of ale, hiding his own grin with a deep gulp.

"It's a hearty gesture," admitted Fergus, with an indulgent smile.

"You should hear the second verse, it's all about you and Alistair. Though I doubt they'd sing it within your earshot," continued Finian with a wicked gleam in his eye. "It's  _much_ more explicit."

Fergus's smile quickly crashed into a scowl, while both Teagan and Alistair spluttered into their ale; a flush creeping up the young Warden's neck from the collar of his shirt. Despite herself Flora laughed, and Zevran leaned in towards her.

"I'll tell you both later," he murmured, winking. "I helped to come up with the lyrics."

By unspoken consensus, discussion was kept light-hearted and informal after the trials of the previous day. The conversation soon turned to Arl Eamon's forty-seventh birthday celebrations, which would take place the following night. Leliana dominated the table with talk of what music she was arranging; having taken to the position of unofficial arlessa with great enthusiasm.

"I've included lots of Orlesian dances," she informed Eamon, with a nod to Arl Bryland's part-Orlesian heritage. "There's an excellent flautist who spent two years in Val Royeaux living in the town below."

"What about some Fereldan songs?" interrupted Alistair, who hated the slow and over-fanciful Orlesian school of music. "My favourite is  _Two Ten Ton Kegs."_

Leliana shot him a pretty little scowl beneath her eyelashes, nudging his knee pointedly with her toe.

"Can people dance to  _Two Ten Ton Kegs?_ " she enquired sweetly, venom running through her tone. "It sounds more like something that Oghren would request."

"I don't know about  _dance_ , but it's a great song to drink to," replied Alistair cheerfully, planting an absentminded kiss on his sister-warden's cheek as he reached for the ale.

Leliana furrowed her brow at him in disapproval before turning a bright smile on Fergus Cousland.

"I've also planned for several northern melodies," she informed him, pale blue eyes alight with enthusiasm. "Florence, do you know many of the dances local to the coast?"

"Um," replied Flora, scratching her head. "I know  _Gathering the Harvest."_

"Any others?"

"I know  _Fish Spit In My Eye,_ " Flora continued in a small voice, and Leliana dropped her spoon into her bowl with a clatter.

"What?" the bard breathed faintly, shooting Flora an incredulous look down the table. "Did I hear that correctly?"

Flora glanced over at her brother-warden, who was trying not to laugh as he studied his porridge intently.

"You clap three times and then pretend to spit at each other," she explained, shrinking slightly in her seat as Leliana's nostrils flared. "Maybe it's just… local to Herring."

"Wouldn't surprise me," murmured Finian archly in his eldest brother's ear. Leliana gave a little shiver, as though physically shaking off the suggestion.

"Well, no one is going to be  _spitting_ at anyone during Arl Eamon's celebration," she informed Flora sternly.

"You don't actually spit at each other," muttered a red-faced Flora mutinously, scraping up the last lumps of porridge with her spoon.

Alistair saw that his sister-warden was embarrassed and leaned towards her, sliding an arm surreptitiously around her waist.

"After we defeat the Archdemon, we'll have whatever music we want playing at the following feast," he murmured softly in her ear. "Whether it's  _Two Ten Ton Kegs_ or your…. spitting fish song."

Flora beamed, pleased to hear her fellow warden sounding so positive. Leliana ignored both of them, clearing her throat delicately and turning to regale the Arl and Bann with further debate on musical possibilities.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Leliana is really the Hermione in this story – the one who does EVERYTHING behind the scenes. She's already demonstrating her capacity for organisation here.
> 
> Also, Fish Spit In My Eye… is actually a colloquial name for a traditional Welsh dance. It's a very local name – I don't think it's even on the internet, it's a nickname restricted to the valleys. And you DO pretend to spit at each other, we always loved doing it when we did Welsh dancing in phys ed, lol. SO WEIRD.
> 
> Next chapter… A PROPOSAL!


	176. The Marriage Proposal

After breakfast, Eamon cajoled Alistair once more into the study, reminding him that they would be leaving for Denerim in just a few days. Both men knew that opportunities for them to meet in such private circumstances would be limited once they reached Ferelden's capital. Flora, who had woken hearty and hale but was now feeling distinctly queasy, decided to go for a walk in the castle grounds instead. A look of fleeting distress had crossed Alistair's face at the prospect of his fellow Warden wandering alone, until Leliana had volunteered to accompany her. It was a fine spring day, warm and balmy with the scent of cut grass in the air.

As they left the great hall, Leliana – feeling slightly guilty about the  _Fish Spit In My Eye_ debacle – linked her arm through Flora's and planted a kiss on her cheek.

"Now,  _ma crevette._ I want you to show me this secret flower garden you grew for our Arl Leonas. Just let me quickly perform my ablutions at the Chantry first."

Flora sat dutifully outside the small rock-hewn chapel, waiting for the lay sister to finish her morning prayers. Both main and lesser courtyards were bustling with activity; carts and wagons were being packed up, and she realised that this must be in preparation for their own upcoming journey to Denerim.

_Our travelling is almost at an end,_ Flora thought to herself with a small shiver of surprise.  _After all these months._

Then her stomach gave a roll of protest and she swallowed, wondering if she needed to find a bucket. The moment of nausea passed just as Leliana emerged from the Chantry.

"Alright,  _ma petite,_ lead on."

Flora took Leliana's arm and the two wandered around the formidable wall of the fortress, making their way through the kitchen gardens. Leliana was bemoaning the fact that she had missed the previous day's battle with the Darkspawn; Flora, who did not want to dwell on how scared she had been without the presence of her brother-warden, artfully changed the subject.

"Wynne was praising you the other day," she said, plucking a ripe tomato from the vine and biting into it.

"You've just broken your fast," chided Leliana, and then relented slightly. "What did she say?"

Flora wiped away the juice from her chin as they passed several elven servants rooting up turnips from the allotment.

"How invaluable you've been here at South Reach," she continued, licking her fingers before surreptitiously wiping them clean on her breeches. "With all the organising of…  _everything_. She says you've got a natural talent for being in charge."

Leliana flushed, pleased at the compliment.

"Wynne is such a charming woman," she enthused as they approached the crumbling stone wall bordering the arlessa's flower arbour. "I hope I have half the measure of grace that she has by the time that I'm her age. Oh, is this it?"

Flora nodded, and then stopped abruptly in an entranceway for the second time that morning. Arl Leonas Bryland was using a thumb pot to water the wild cluster of chrysanthemums nestled beneath the peach tree. The arl was so thoroughly absorbed in his task that he had not heard them enter the walled garden.

"Maybe we should come back later," whispered Leliana, but her Orlesian-accented voice was not suited to speaking softly, and Leonas looked up. He put down the thumb pot, dusting earth from his hands.

"They probably don't need the water after yesterday's rain," he said, glancing around at the flourishing, haphazard tangle of flowers. "I just wanted to… be certain."

Flora smiled at him, while Leliana crossed to a rose bush and immersed her face in the fragrant orange blooms, inhaling deeply.

"What lovely flowers.  _Ma chérie,_ your magic may be very limited; but it brings simple pleasures."

Privately, Flora thought that she wouldn't have minded swapping her plant-growing skill for the ability to launch fireballs at the face of the previous day's Darkspawn emissary. She continued to smile, and then followed Leonas Bryland's beckoning hand.

He showed her over to a small shrub that appeared to have been newly planted, located in a prime spot beneath the eastern wall of the garden.

"Do you know what this is?"

Flora crouched down to finger the glossy, pale leaves and inhale its fragrant scent. The shape of the foliage was familiar; she had seen it emblazoned on both Fergus and Finian's doublets, and on the badges of their retainers.

"Is it a laurel?" she asked tentatively, and the Arl nodded.

"A symbol of the lasting friendship between South Reach and Highever," he said roughly, his gaze directed towards the peach tree rather than her face.

"Thank you," mumbled Flora, stepping to one side to allow Leliana to inspect the newly-planted laurel. "That's a nice idea."

Leonas Bryland gave another stiff nod, and for a moment there was a slightly awkward pause. Leliana, socially trained to dispel silences, cleared her throat and prepared to launch into a story about the blooms native to Val Royeaux.

"I have a… proposition for you," said the arl suddenly, his stare swivelling back towards Flora. "A proposal, if you will."

Flora, who had been daydreaming about lunch, gazed back at him curiously. Leliana fell silent, her ears almost visibly pricking.

"Once all this is over – the Blight ended and Loghain dealt with- " he started, and Flora immediately beamed. She had recalled Alistair's own mention of the future over breakfast, and was pleased at two bouts of such optimism in one morning. The arl shot her a slightly odd look, before continuing.

"Alistair will be King, if the Landsmeet approves it; and once Loghain is gone, there will be no obstacle to his ascension to the throne. And they wouldn't put you back into a Circle, now that you have been formally released to the Wardens."

Flora nodded, ignoring Leliana's sudden flare of the nostrils and intake of breath. The Arl carried on determinedly, voice rough-edged but firm.

"But there's not much for a Warden to do once a Blight is finished. Although the court at Denerim isn't as ruthless as Celene's at Val Royeaux; it might be a precarious place for a mage who is only a King's  _mistress_ , Cousland or no. Fergus would have to spend most of his time at Highever, and would not always be there to look after you."

Flora, who had not thought beyond ending the Blight, gazed at the Arl anxiously, while Leliana gave a little nod of agreement.

"Leonas is not wrong, Flora," she murmured, adjusting the lacy collar of her gown. "Politically, you would be in a vulnerable position, since you would  _hold_ no position. You've already said that you would relinquish being Warden-Commander after the Blight is ended, Maker willing."

" _So."_  Leonas Bryland ploughed on, his eyes moving over her face before darting off towards the cluster of chrysanthemums. "If you would be willing, I'd be willing to – enter into marriage with you. It would offer an additional layer of protection at court."

The militaristic arl coughed, clearly uncomfortable with the line of conversation.

Flora, who had been half-wondering whether to relieve the tree of one of its peaches, nearly fell over in shock. She gaped at the arl, her eyes widening almost comically.

"Ma-  _marriage?_ With me?"

Next to her, Leliana let out a little sigh. As usual, the bard's clever mind was working a step ahead of Flora's.

"You already have a daughter, so you don't need to get any more legitimate heirs on a wife," the lay sister said out loud, and the arl gave a slight nod. Flora's mind leapt to the logical conclusion of that thought, her eyes bulging.

"I know that you would be Alistair's mistress, and that I would be publicly made a cuckold," Leonas said quietly, seeing Flora's stunned expression. "I'm proposing this to help keep you safe; you are the daughter of one of my closest friends, Maker rest his soul."

Flora swallowed, her throat suddenly very dry. She looked at the militaristic arl, standing proud and stiff-lipped within the memorial to his dead wife, then blinked anxiously up at him.

"Can I think about it?" she asked, tentatively. The arl nodded, finally meeting her eyes.

"Of course, child. Regardless of your answer, know that I will always do my utmost to protect you and your brothers."

"Thank you," Flora replied in a small voice, grateful for Leliana's steadying arm sliding through hers. "I'll let you know before we leave for Denerim."

The arl inclined his head in a stiff bow, picking up his thumb pot and striding hastily out of the walled garden. Leliana turned to Flora, her pale blue eyes sparkling.

"Don't look like that, Flora. Marrying a mage is a huge social taboo, and the fact that he's willing to even  _consider_  it is a boon."

Flora scratched her head, allowing the lay sister to guide her back through the kitchen allotments.

"I- I  _do_  appreciate it," she mumbled, plucking another ripe tomato from the vine as they passed. "I was just taken by surprise. I've never been proposed to before."

They stood to one side to allow a pair of servants to pass them, wielding secateurs and shovels. Flora was still in a state of minor shock, her eyebrows having taken up permanent residence within her hairline.

"Really?" threw Leliana over her shoulder, tiring of Flora's slower pace and striding on ahead. "I'd turned down three proposals by the time that I was nineteen. Stop  _gawping_ , you look like a fish."

"That's a compliment," mumbled a distracted Flora, though obediently closing her mouth. "I… I suppose I never thought beyond ending the Blight."

The sound of metal striking wood in rhythmic intervals echoed from the lesser courtyard. They passed beneath the ramparts, avoiding a pair of giggling stable boys chasing a Mabari; and Leliana pointed out to where their companions were stationed in one corner.

The Guerrin brothers were seated beside Wynne, deep in conversation while the senior enchanter worked on yet another missive to Irving. Alistair, having peeled off his velvet tunic and undershirt, was striking away viciously at a heavily victimised training dummy. The muscles in his broad shoulders shone with sweat as he swung the blade with gritted teeth; perhaps envisioning the Darkspawn commander that he had left his sister-wardon to face alone in yesterday's battle.

Flora stopped several yards away, gazing at her brother-warden's torso in blatant admiration. Leliana gave her an impatient nudge in the ribcage, as Eamon raised his head and nodded in greeting.

"Isolde has written," he said, an amused smile curling the corner of his mouth. "She wishes us all well, and passes on  _especial_  greetings to the Couslands, including 'Lady Florence'."

Flora grimaced, her prevailing memory of the arlessa being when Isolde had hit her over the head with a piece of decorative silverware. Alistair flashed her a smile, continuing with a routine that Flora recognised as a Templar drill. The courteous Teagan moved aside on the wooden bench to allow her and Leliana to sit. The bard graciously declined, preferring to remain in the sun; Flora sat down beside the bann and continued to watch her brother-warden surreptitiously below her eyelashes.

Wynne, who was also sneaking the occasional little glance at the bare-chested Alistair between paragraphs, cleared her throat.

"Did Leonas find you?" she asked, dipping her quill into an inkwell balanced precariously on her knee. "The arl mentioned earlier that he wished to ask you something."

Leliana turned her face away from the sun and shot Flora a pointed stare. Flora coughed, feeling a bead of sweat trickling down her forehead.

"He... asked me to marry him," she muttered, the words sounding faintly ridiculous as they came out of her mouth.

"Not unexpected," replied Eamon calmly, glancing towards his brother.

There was a clatter of metal against stone as Alistair dropped his sword onto the cobbles; he could not have turned quicker if the Archdemon itself had settled on the ramparts. He let out a bark of incredulous laughter, eyes moving from Flora to Eamon.

"What? Maker's Breath, is that supposed to be a  _joke?!"_ His tone was light but there was a dangerous, steely thread running through the words. "Flo can't marry  _him_."

"Well, she can't marry  _you,"_ pointed out Leliana, as Flora shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"This would be a matter for when the Blight is ended," explained Eamon calmly, seeing the anger flaring in Alistair's suddenly-darkened gaze. "The position of a mistress is a precarious one, especially if said mistress is also a mage. Being in alliance with a prominent arl would bring a measure of security."

Alistair faltered, the anger quickly evaporating into confusion and dismay. He strode over to Flora and put his sweaty arm about her shoulders; and there were elements of both protectiveness and possessiveness in the gesture. He kissed the top of her head fiercely, fingers clutching her sleeve.

"Leonas said that it would be a marriage in public only, and not in private," Leliana said quietly, her pale eyes catching Alistair's conflicted stare. "He knows that she would be with you. It is a kind and generous offer."

Alistair, for whom reason was fighting emotion, gave a little grimace. He pressed his lips against the top of Flora's head once more, reluctant to release his grip on her shoulders.

"I never wanted to be King," he said, with a bitterness that she had not heard for many months. "I never wanted this. I want to be with you, Flo. I can't bear the thought of you as another man's wife."

Eamon glanced at Flora, a lightning-quick meeting of eyes.

_He's our best hope of challenging Loghain._

Flora reached up and cradled her brother-warden's face between her hands, his head nearly a foot above her own. He gazed down at her, still handsome despite the sweat and the unhappiness, his hazel eyes bruised.

"You  _will_  be with me," she whispered, tracing the brow that was so clearly noble. "Even if you're King. I promise, Alistair."

She was gratified to see the harsh edges in his face soften as he stared at her, his fingers coming up to caress the back of her neck.

"What are you going to say?" Alistair asked quietly, rubbing his thumb over the skin beneath her hairline. "I'm sorry for overreacting. Leonas is a good man, and Leliana is right, it's a... considerate offer."

It quite clearly pained him to say it. Flora gave a little shrug, tilting her head as he slid his thumb around the outside of her ear.

"I don't know," she replied honestly, aware that the others were listening. "I hadn't even thought beyond killing the Archdemon and ending the Blight. I said I would answer before we left for Denerim."

Alistair nodded, his thumb dropping to caress the hollow of her throat. Flora recognised the familiar darkening of his irises as his gaze raked openly over her body; taking in the small swells of her breasts pushing gently against the cotton, the pale curves of her bare calves, the mouth that had taken him so eagerly the previous night. He exhaled unsteadily, reaching out to grasp her hand, hard.

Without a word to the others, he strode across the flagstones with Flora hurrying in his wake, abandoning his sword where it had fallen. Leliana rolled her eyes, letting out a pretty little snort.

"There the prince goes to stake his claim," she murmured, as Eamon cleared his throat diplomatically, hiding a smile. "Young men are so  _transparent_."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol I originally had Arl Bryland holding a watering can, then the historian in me was like WAIT A MINUTE; I went to research it and it's from the 1600s! I know that DA's technology isn't set in stone, but Ferelden always feels so late Medieval-y, early Modern – around 1400s, 1500s.. lol, anyway. So a THUMB POT is apparently an archaic watering can – a cylindrical metal container with a small hole in the bottom. You would fill it up with water and keep your thumb over the hole, releasing it when necessary. THIS HAS BEEN YOUR GARDENING UTENSILS HISTORY LESSON FOR TODAY!
> 
> Bryland's proposal is a topic super dear to my heart, I wrote an article on it ages that was my first published work! If a king – say, Henry VIII – wanted to have an affair with a woman, he didn't really give a shit whether she was married or not. The poor cuckolded husband had limited options – if he caused a fuss or removed his wife from court, it was career suicide. However, if he allowed his wife to continue being the king's mistress, his own position would often be vastly rewarded. See the Boleyns, Seymours, etc..! So there is an element of selfishness to Leonas' proposal – but overall, he is doing it to lend Flora some political protection at court.


	177. Alistair Stakes His Claim

His face set with determination, Alistair hauled Flora across the main courtyard, flatly ignoring Oghren's attempt to hail him. The moment that the buttery door swung shut in their wake, the Wardens were immersed in a blend of torchlight and shadow. Without a word, Alistair gripped his sister-warden by the hips and steered her towards a low, flat vat of mead. As he guided her down onto the polished wooden surface, Flora saw that he was already erect, straining impatiently against his breeches. Reaching out, Alistair removed her trousers and smallclothes in a single sudden tug, leaving her boots on.

"Part your legs," he instructed at last, Theirin dominance breaking through the surface of his voice. Flora obeyed dutifully and he let out a ragged exhalation, groping himself roughly through the material of his trousers. The next moment he had dropped to his knees on the buttery floor and buried his mouth in her.

Flora lost count of the number of times he brought her to shuddering climax; each peak of pleasure blurring into the next in a delirious spiral. Her entire body ached with lust, muscles wearied from convulsing; her skin soon sweat-slick and salty to the taste. At some point he had removed the rest of her clothing but Flora had no idea when; her field of awareness limited to only the prince's mouth, his tongue and his calloused fingers. She was vaguely conscious of her own throaty moans, echoing around the cobwebbed ceiling and between the tall, silent vats.

Only when she slumped back for what seemed like the thousandth time, dazed and sated, did Alistair thrust down his own breeches. His pupils were blown wide and dark, an uncharacteristic possessiveness mingling with his desire. He rolled her onto her stomach; then gave her buttock a firm slap with the flat of his palm. When she let out a whimper he did it again, feeling a secret, guilty throb of arousal. Before he lost all control, he took his aching length in hand and guided himself into her from behind. He rutted her slow and deep, a small part of his mind fleetingly aware that he wouldn't last long. Several strokes later he climaxed, gripping her hips and uttering a blasphemy through gritted teeth.

Flora felt him withdraw, then lean back against the vat beside her. Not quite able to move yet, she flailed limply for her brother-warden's hand. Alistair took her fingers and kissed them hard; his eyes warm with affection as he gazed down at her.

"Flo, you can marry whoever you need to, if it'll keep you safe," he murmured, kneading her palm with his thumb. "Marry the Empress Celene if need be. I love you."

She smiled up at him lazily, every part of her body stiff and deliciously sore.

"I love you too," she replied with a yawn, squirming against the wood. "Ooh, I don't think I can  _move_."

"Florence? Are you in there?"

Fergus's voice echoed through the buttery door and Flora found that she could actually move very rapidly, if the situation called for it.

Alistair yanked his breeches up so quickly that she worried he might have actually done himself an injury, before fleeing to hide behind a tall vat of ale. Flora retrieved her own trousers and scrambled into them, simultaneously thrusting her arms through her shirtsleeves.

The door swung open and Fergus strode in, followed closely by a grinning Finian.

"Hello," said Flora with deliberate vagueness, casting her eyes around her surroundings. "I was just… drinking alone in the dark. It's  _tough_  being a Warden."

Finian rolled his eyes from behind Fergus's back, while the teyrn shot her a slightly odd look.

"Leonas told me about his proposal," he said eventually, refined voice echoing between the freestanding barrels. "I think it's a very sensible idea, especially since I'll be in Highever for much of the time, after the Blight is ended. Assuming we ever manage to take it back, of course," he added with a wry note.

"Political marriages of convenience are very common" added Finian, airily. "I expect to make one of my own sometime soon, hopefully to a wealthy and bedridden old dowager. Also, Alistair, I can see your feet beneath the vat."

Alistair shuffled out sheepishly, with his shirt partially unbuttoned. Fergus shot him an open glare, nostrils flaring.

"The senior enchanter wants to attempt the ritual again after dinner, Florence," he muttered, pointedly averting his eyes from his sister's dishevelled hair. "She's hopeful that we're close to retrieving your Highever memories. I'll see you there."

With a small sniff of disapproval, the deposed teyrn turned on his booted heel and stalked out of the buttery. Finian shot them both a wicked grin, one eyebrow rising upwards.

"Don't mind Ferg," he murmured, reaching out to fasten Alistair's top two buttons correctly. "He's been in a bad mood ever since he accidentally overhead the explicit version of  _Warden Flora_ earlier."

The two Wardens spent the rest of the afternoon beside the hearth in the great hall; sitting at one of the long tables with a loose scattering of parchment before them. Alistair tested his sister-warden on her spelling of their companions' names; she managed to recall all accurately save for Leliana's.

The two arls and Bann Teagan entered as Oghren was teaching Flora how to spell the names of various weaponry, the dwarf demonstrating surprising patience. Alistair looked straight at Leonas Bryland; and to the man's credit, he faced the hard Theirin stare face on, his own gaze steady and open.

After the initial surge of indignation had passed, Alistair remembered that Bryland's offer was actually an extremely generous one. Slightly stiffly, he inclined his head towards the Arl of South Reach. Leonas bowed his own head back, relief briefly flickering over his features before the usual stern expression returned. The opportunistic dwarf, on seeing the Arl disappear into the meeting room, made a beeline for the door; waging that now the buttery would be free for the pilfering.

"Ah, Alistair. Cast your eye over this; the latest correspondence from Bann Reginalda. It appears as though Howe has a number of important prisoners held captive…"

Eamon sat down further along the table, canting his head expectantly. With slight reluctance, Alistair clambered to his feet and took a seat next to the eldest Guerrin, reaching for the letter.

Teagan sat down next to Flora, deftly lowering himself onto the bench. She smiled at him as he leaned forward; peering down at the words she was copying in her looping, childish hand.

" _Siege engine, ballista, trebuchet,"_  he read, eyebrows rising. "Are you planning to usurp South Reach from Leonas?"

Flora, taking the bann's comment literally as usual, shot him a slightly stern look.

"No-o," she replied, with a frown. "It's what the dwarves are going to bring when we summon them.  _Machines_ to use against the Darkspawn."

Teagan raised his eyebrows, hiding a smile at her solemnity.

"Flora, we've known each other a while now," he murmured, recalling their first meeting in the beleaguered Redcliffe Chantry. The bann had barely paid any attention to the yawning girl in the shapeless man's coat, so focused was he on the unexpected return of Alistair Theirin.

"Mm," replied Flora, remembering that she had been too nervous to look the noble directly in the eye.

"I was wondering… " Teagan started, and she shot him an apprehensive look, wary after Leonas' earlier proposition.

"Do you know how to spell  _my_  name?"

Flora thought for a moment, biting the end of the quill before dipping it in the ink. Without much confidence, she wrote  _TEGGIN GWERN_ across the top of the parchment.

"Is that close?" she asked hopefully, watching a muscle in Teagan's cheek convulse. The bann took the pen from her and made a few swift corrections. Flora gazed down at his family name, frowning.

"Really? G- _U_ in  _Guerrin?"_  she asked, shooting him a dubious look. "Are you  _sure_  it isn't G-W?"

Teagan laughed, loud enough to distract Alistair and Eamon from the contents of the letter.

"Reasonably sure," he replied, mildly. "Here, do you know the names of the different regions in Thedas?"

Teagan and Flora spent the next hour going over the bordering countries while Eamon discussed arrangements for the upcoming journey to Denerim with Alistair. Flora was proud of the fact that her brain seemed physically incapable of absorbing the spelling of  _Orlais._ However, she concentrated especially diligently on the spelling of Rivain, Duncan's face hovering in the forefront of her mind.

Finally the Guerrin brothers took their leave, Eamon mindful that his son was travelling to the Jainen Circle early the next morning. Alistair returned to Flora's side, then pulled her onto his knee and kissed her cheek.

"Teagan didn't propose to marry you as well, did he?" he asked mildly, stroking her earlobe with a roughened thumb. "I might have to challenge him to a duel if he was."

"No-oo," chirped Flora, nudging him in the ribs. "Bann Teagan taught me to spell all the countries in Thedas. Ask me one!"

"Orlais."

Flora scowled, nudging him slightly harder. "Not  _that_  one."

After dinner, the Wardens and their companions gathered in the arlina's chamber to pillage Flora's mind for the final time. There was a sense of heavy expectation in the air as Alistair and Fergus manhandled the large mirror into place; and Wynne's face was suffused with academic excitement as she lowered the head of her staff into the copper tub. Finian and Leliana were chattering about Highever, posed at either end of the hearth like well-dressed bookends.

Flora, who had changed into pyjamas for want of anything better to wear, was very quiet; letting the bustle and activity flow around her as she sat on the end of the bed. She could feel the pressure of the Cousland brothers' hope resting heavily on her shoulders. Desiring some air, she slid off the mattress and wandered over to the arrow-slit window. The main courtyard was still busy despite the late hour, preparations for their upcoming journey to Denerim running alongside those for Arl Eamon's birthday celebrations. Above South Reach the night sky was dark and starless, a matt expanse of black punctuated only by a single, globular moon.

"I hear congratulations are in order,  _nena,_ " murmured a familiar Antivan voice in her ear, the elf's tone light and amused. "Where shall I send my wedding gift?"

Flora made an indescribable little noise, half-shrugging. Arl Leonas' offer had been weighing on her mind all afternoon; despite her best attempts not to think about it.

"I admit, the thought is an amusing one," continued Zevran, a soft cackle escaping his throat. "What would happen on the wedding night? The flower of Fereldan nobility proceed into your marital chamber, only to watch Alistair disappear behind the bed-curtain as Leonas is ceremonially booted out?"

Flora stared even harder out of the window, feeling her eyes blur. Zevran seemed to realise that he had pressed too far and slung his arm around her shoulder, companionably.

"Ah, don't fret about it,  _mi corazon,"_ he said, patting fingers gently against her cheek. "Once rumours get around that the king's mistress has an Antivan assassin looking after her interest; nobody will interfere with you, married or no."

Flora smiled in spite of herself, wiping the back of her hand over her eyes.

"Alright, child, we're ready for you," called Wynne, removing her staff from the now-full bathtub. Flora nodded, stomach giving a sudden lurch.

_What if it actually works?_ she thought, anxiously.  _Will I be different when I wake up? What happens to Flora of Herring if I remember who I was before I became her?_

Before she could lose her nerve, Flora strode across the flagstones and clambered into the bathtub still dressed in her pyjamas. Without giving herself a chance to change her mind, she put a hand to her forehead and administered a single pulse of anaesthetising energy. The next moment her head dropped back against the rim of the bath, hair floating up like fronds of scarlet seaweed on the surface of the water.

Alistair, who had been inadvertently splattered with lyrium-infused water when his sister-warden had vaulted into the bathtub, mopped his face with his sleeve. He reached down to remove a thick strand of hair from Flora's slightly open mouth, feeling an inappropriate throb of desire as his thumb slid over her damp lower lip. Feeling a flush rise from the neck of his collar and the heat of Zevran's amused gaze, Alistair hastily removed his hand.

"Alright," Wynne murmured, her eyes alight with scholarly curiosity. "Let's see if we can find Florence Cousland."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Niceeeee, opening a chapter with a shag, I'm such a classy bird lol. Also, I'm pretty sure that a buttery counts as a food preparation area – UNHYGIENIC!
> 
> The wedding night process that Zevran is talking about is a Medieval English noble tradition (not sure if it happened elsewhere in Europe). Essentially, the wedding guests would hand-deliver the newly married bride and groom into the bedroom – and actually into bed – at the end of the festivities, to encourage consummation of the marriage. In some circumstances, they would actually stay and WITNESS consummation (albeit behind the drawn bed-curtains), to make sure that the deal was sealed; since the majority of noble marriages were for political gain.


	178. The Highever Memories: Part One

The silver cup dipped into the water, before spilling its contents over the mirror. The image that formed was masked by swirling cloud; an opalescent silver veil behind which voices murmured, the words blurring together. Half-lost conversations from fifteen years prior echoed around them, their contents tantalisingly obscure.

Wynne frowned, tipping several more refined lyrium crystals into the bathtub. They dissolved slowly around Flora's limp body, the young healer's head sagging back against the metal rim.

"This must be the result of the memory charm," the senior enchanter breathed, glancing over at the Cousland brothers. "We need to amplify the strength of the foci."

Finian was the first to glean her meaning. He removed his gold ring and dropped it to the depths of the bathtub, between his sister's wet, pyjama-clad knees. Fergus followed suit with his own heavier signet ring, anxious eyes belying his carefully neutral expression. At Wynne's prompting, the deposed teyrn began to speak about their home; hesitant at first but then with growing confidence.

_Highever was the second largest town in Ferelden; with a population of twenty thousand that numbered twice that of its south-coast rival, Gwaren. A sprawling maze of slate-roofed dwellings huddled atop the rugged northern coast; its affluence evident from the multitude of magnificent stone buildings constructed at its centre. A three-storey guild hall dominated the market square, facing a grand limestone Chantry that had famously once been praised by the Divine Beatrix III. The town's wealth came from a variety of sources: it profited hugely from the shipping trade and a honeycomb of copper mines lay nestled beneath its cliffs; but most importantly, it was the seat of the ancient Cousland family. The teyrn controlled the majority of the Storm Coast and was responsible for its defence from Free Marcher pirates and roaming Qunari warships. For the past two decades, Bryce Cousland had held the north for Maric Theirin._

_Castle Cousland sat at the highest point on the coastline, overlooking Highever like a lord in its own right. Massive, imposing defensive walls sprawled out across the rock; vast circular towers were stationed every hundred yards like immovable sentries. It was larger than both the fortresses at Redcliffe and South Reach combined; stark and ugly by necessity, but theoretically impenetrable by force. It contained two fully stocked garrisons, an armoury that was the envy of Denerim, a kennels that bred the fiercest Mabari in Ferelden, and two stables positioned at either side of the main keep. The interior grounds were large enough to contain a full-length jousting field; the Couslands had traditionally hosted the yearly tournament in which the King himself often competed. From every wall and parapet the pale green laurel hung; splendid and regal against a navy blue background._

_In the summer of 9:15, Maric himself was on his annual progress around Ferelden, accompanied by his young son and heir Cailan. He had spent nearly three weeks residing at Highever, hosted by his close friend Bryce Cousland. Every evening they would eat a formal dinner in the great hall accompanied by the court and dignitaries of the town; before retiring to the teyrn's own personal quarters._

_One evening, Maric and Bryce had been discussing recent events in Orlais; the conversation growing increasingly boisterous with the addition of Antivan brandy. Eleanor Cousland had retired to her chambers complaining of a headache, but the teyrn's own young heir was present. The fourteen year old Fergus had flattened himself against the wall, secretly delighted at being permitted to stay up. He was determined to remember every detail of the conversation in order to gloat about it to his brother, who had been sent back to the nursery with Nan after dinner._

" _Florian is railing at Kirkwall over trade disputes," Maric continued, downing the last dregs of the brandy. Immediately, a silent Cousland retainer stepped forward to refill the king's flagon in a seamless and efficient gesture. "He's determined to pick a fight with the Viscount one way or the other."_

" _Determined to prove himself a man, more like," snorted Bryce; the two men shared a chuckle. "Still, there could be an opportunity in the future there."_

" _Hm," Maric replied, his attention diverted to childish raised voices in the passageway outside. "Speaking of futures, how do you think they're getting on?"_

_Bryce smiled on hearing the distant indignation in his young daughter's voice._

" _As well as a boy of ten and a girl of four can. I expect she's driving him to distraction."_

_Maric shot him a shrewd look, his voice deliberately casual. "You know that Loghain has a daughter also, older than my boy."_

_Bryce gave an easy laugh, flickering an eye at a nearby retainer. Immediately the man came forward with a bowl of Navarran grapes. Maric made an appreciative sound, leaning forward to pry a cluster from the stalk._

" _Well, if the Theirin doesn't want a Cousland girl, there are many other royal houses in Thedas who would," murmured Bryce, ears pricking at the escalation of sound in the passage. "The Pentaghasts, for example."_

_The two men eyed each other for a moment, before breaking into easy laughter._

" _Eight years isn't such a long time to wait," murmured Maric, inserting several more of the Nevarran grapes into his mouth. "My mother was married at twelve and it did her no harm."_

_Just then a slender boy with white-blonde hair rushed in, wide eyed and shocked._

" _Father, she bit me!" yelped Cailan, his face suffused with indignation as he held up his hand. A small circle of teethmarks was emblazoned on the pink flesh. Maric had to hide a laugh, inspecting his son's injury._

" _Well, what did you do to provoke such ire?"_

" _Nothing!"_

_Beside them, Bryce raised his voice._

" _Florence! Come here, pup."_

_She entered, four years old and the picture of outrage in her wool nightgown. Her dark red Cousland hair stuck out erratically around her face; and her grey eyes were vast with injustice. Bryce summoned his daughter to his feet and shot her a stern look. Fergus glowered at his young sister in disapproval, nostrils flaring._

" _Florence Cousland," murmured Bryce, smoothing a hand affectionately over his youngest child's head. "Did you bite Prince Cailan?"_

" _No," said the child vaguely, then let out a malevolent cackle. "YES, I DID!"_

_Cailan waved his hand, the picture of injured innocence. Florence bared her teeth at him, and the boy stuck his tongue back out at her._

" _Come here, little one," said Maric, lifting her up onto his knee and casting an appraising eye over her features. "She'll be a beauty when she's older, Bryce. Looks like a prettier version of you."_

_Bryce laughed, tossing a grape into his mouth. "That's what everyone says."_

_Maric chucked the youngest Cousland beneath her chin, affectionately._

" _How would you like to be Queen of Ferelden when you grow up, sweetheart?"_

_Florence shot him a dubious look, her grey eyes solemn. Cailan mouthed silently at his father, shaking his head frantically._

" _I don't want to be Queen when I grow up," she said at last, gazing intently into Maric's hazel eyes. The King laughed, ruffling her unruly curls before letting her slither down from his knee._

" _What do you want to be then, child?"_

_Florence thought for a moment, and then her eyes lit up._

" _I want to be…a MABARI!"_

_She tore off a handful of grapes from the bunch and hurled them towards an outraged Cailan's head, before shooting off out of reach beneath the table. Cailan immediately gave chase, abandoning his princely manners._

_Both King and teyrn broke into laughter, watching the gangly Fergus stand stiffly as the two children taunted each other from either side of his legs._

" _Anyway, we'll be off in the morrow," said Maric eventually, draining the last of his brandy. "Off to Redcliffe."_

_The two men shared a brief glance, something unspoken passing between them._

" _Give my regards to Eamon," murmured Bryce, watching Fergus hiss furious reprimands down at his younger sister._

There was a heavy silence in the arlina's chamber as the memory faded away.

"I had almost forgotten about that," said Fergus at last, glancing down at his unconscious sister as she lay slumped in the water. "The biting phase lasted a long time. I'm sure I still have the scars on my ankles."

Finian remained silent, struck into a sober mood after seeing the ghostly echo of his father reflected in the mirror.

Alistair, stunned from seeing his half-brother in such close proximity to the young Flora, reached out and touched her damp, dishevelled head. Zevran shot him a sly, sideways look.

"How strange life is," mused the elf, raising his eyebrows. "With a different twist of fate,  _mi sirenita_  could be our current Queen. Wed to your brother, Alistair. Widowed now, I suppose."

Alistair scowled down possessively at his sister-warden, and then narrowed his eyes. Usually she bore a vacant expression during the probing of her mind; but now her face was twisted into a definite frown.

"Wynne, she's upset," he pointed out, interrupting the senior enchanter as she scribbled notes down on a scrap of parchment. "Look at her face. Could she be… under attack? Demons?"

Wynne glanced over at the fire, which remained an innocuous shade of orange.

"It's not demons," she said briskly, reaching for the silver vessel once again. "I assume that in the Fade, she is conscious and remembering everything. I wish Irving was here, he'd be  _fascinated_. I hope that my notes will suffice in his absence."

Alistair grimaced, picturing his younger counterpart huddled in the alien landscape of the Fade; clutching her head as her mind flooded with sudden unwanted memory. He leaned down and pressed his lips against Flora's sweaty forehead, hoping that she could somehow feel it through the Veil that separated them.

_The knights came charging through the main courtyard as soon as the portcullis had been raised; far too fast for a castle interior but it was their custom to be reckless. They were filled with excitement at the prospect of the upcoming lists, an ideal opportunity for them to win favour and possibly promotion from the teyrn._

_Florence was preoccupied hiding from Nan. The ornery old woman had raised two generations of Couslands; but she had never before had the misfortune of looking after a child so wilful and stubborn as Bryce and Eleanor's youngest. She had expressed this on many occasions, reminiscing on how Fergus had been so dignified and Finian so charming when they were younger. On the other hand, in Nan's opinion, Florence was a spoilt little madam. She was not particularly bright, nor especially brave; her only redeeming feature being a pretty face._

_Now the five year old was driving Nan to distraction by avoiding her wrinkled grasp. Florence had been crouched in the stables all afternoon, watching the knights ride in and out. She had her own imaginary friend – two, actually – and one was a silver-clad knight._

_These men were solid, loud and brash, their horses snorting and clattering their hooves on the flagstones. They rode around too quickly, making the elven servants scatter before them. A light drizzle had started and the courtyard began to clear, the knights hurrying to get their steeds stabled so they could get indoors._

_Suddenly, there came a horrible canine yelp from the courtyard._

" _Blast it!"_

" _Maker's Breath, you stupid sod. That's no stray dog, it's one of the hunting Mabari."_

" _I think it's Florian. Well done Guthrie, you've trampled the teyrn's favourite bitch."_

_There was a groan, the sound of metallic boots landing on the flagstones._

" _I think her back's broken. Kinder to kill her, now."_

" _Hang on, Gilmore. Let's tell the teyrn first. He might want to do it himself."_

_The sound of footsteps faded away, accompanied by horses' hooves. Florence, her stomach twisting, crept out from behind the hay bales. She was old enough to know that something was very wrong, and an overwhelming urge to run back indoors was rising in her throat._

_**Just go and look,** _ _whispered a small voice in her inner ear._

_Against her better instincts, Florence gazed out into the courtyard. One of her father's Mabari was lying on its side in the flagstones, panting. Blood was emerging from its nostrils, mixing with the rain and staining the damp brown fur._

_The child hesitated; she had always been afraid of her father's Mabari. This one had snapped at her in the past, with teeth bigger than her own small fingers._

_Now, though, it did not look scary. It looked scared, it's eye rolling in confusion as it tried to focus on her. She approached tentatively, brushing her wet hair away from her face. The Mabari let out a whimper, whole body shuddering._

" _Don't move, doggie," crooned Florence, kneeling down impulsively. "I'll get Nan, she has bandages. I cut my knee once and she made it better."_

_The dog whined, and made a futile attempt to get up._

" _No! Stay there," commanded the child imperiously, reaching out to put both of her hands on the bitch's trembling abdomen. "Keep still. I'll get Nan."_

_Her fingers suddenly began to prickle, and to grow warm despite the cool autumn drizzle. As she blinked down at them, her fingertips started to glow as if illuminated from within; just like when Finian put his thumb close to a candle flame. Yet there was no fire nearby, it was a sullen grey afternoon, and the only source of light was her. Quite suddenly white energy surged from beneath her fingernails, so thick it was almost viscous. Florence recoiled in surprise, more confused than frightened._

_**Don't be scared,** _ _whispered her other imaginary friend, the faceless golden lady._ _**Touch it again.** _

_Obediently Florence returned her hands to the panting Mabari's fur. The dog lay very still as the energy began to absorb through its bloodied skin, too weak even to whimper. The white-gold energy spread through it's dark fur, sinking deep into the injured creature's muscle; and Florence could feel the strange, rolling motion of flesh and bone melding beneath the skin._

_Suddenly, the Mabari let out a whine and twitched, it's hind legs quivering. Slowly, as though in disbelief, it clambered to its feet. After taking a few tentative steps, it capered around Florence in a circle and let out a joyful bark, licking her cheek. She beamed at it despite still being a little frightened, sitting in the bloodied pool of rainwater._

_When she looked up Fergus was staring at her, his face as white as a sheet. Elder brother looked at younger sister for a moment, accusation kindling in his eyes._

_Then there were louder voices, the sound of men coming out of the castle and the teyrn's leather boots against the stone. The Mabari ran to greet her master, yapping and whining, bouncing up onto her hind legs; Bryce laughed in easy relief and ruffled the fur on the dog's matted head._

" _Have you been raiding my buttery, boys? Florian is clearly uninjured. Here, pup, what are you doing out in the rain? Nan has been looking everywhere for you."_

_The knights were confused but relieved that they were not in trouble, one saying to the other that the Mabari must have just have been stunned._

_Bryce went to his daughter, shrugging off his jacket and wrapping it around her._

" _Why are you out here on your own anyway, little one? Let's get you back inside."_

" _She used magic!"_

_Fergus' voice was high and accusatory, his grey-blue eyes wide with shock as he pointed at Florence. She gazed up at her elder brother, perplexed, as the teyrn's stare narrowed._

" _Fergus, don't you dare make up lies like that about your sister," he said softly, his voice razor-edged with steel. "Come inside, I don't want you catching Frost-cough in this rain."_

" _No, Father, I saw it. Florian was dying, and then Flossie touched her, and yellow light came from her hands. And then Florian was fine."_

_Slowly, a smile of disbelief creasing his features, the teyrn reached out to stroke the dog's matted brown fur. Both of his palms came away dark-red with coagulating blood. As though in a dream, Bryce Cousland reached out and touched the puddle of what he had assumed was rainwater. His finger came away dripping with thick scarlet. Finally, he looked down at his daughter's small hands, her palms also stained red. The remnants of golden energy clung to her fingertips._

" _Oh, Maker," breathed Bryce Cousland, a dreadful expression contorting his features. "Maker, no."_

" _I told you," whispered Fergus in a small voice, as a future with Theirin and Cousland intertwined came crashing down around them. "She's a mage, Father. What are you going to do?"_

_Florence looked from her father to her brother, confusion rapidly turning to alarm. Am I in trouble? she thought to herself, her small brow furrowing. She had thought that her papa would be pleased that his scary dog had been healed._

_Bryce let out a groan, reaching down to pick up his sniffling small daughter. He turned to his son and heir, pointing a thick, sword-calloused finger._

" _You don't say a thing," he hissed, eyes flashing grey and stern. "Not a word to anyone about this, Fergus. You understand?"_

_Fergus nodded, watching the teyrn carry his youngest child hurriedly back inside the bowels of the castle._

The silence that followed this memory was even longer and more drawn out than the first. Zevran, without a humorous comment to make, gazed down at his lap.

Finian was the first to speak, staring across at his brother with the same accusatory eyes that the younger Fergus had used on Florence.

"It was  _you_ , Ferg?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: This chapter was so much fun to write! Somewhat randomly, I have a bit of headcanon about what the various castles could look like (I am Welsh, which is basically the land of castles!) I envision Castle Cousland to look like Caernarfon Castle, which is this massive sprawling pile in North Wales. It was built in the late 13th century by Edward I, to subjugate the unruly Welsh (ho ho ho)
> 
> A few definitions that might not be immediately obvious – a progress is basically King on Tour, and the lists is basically jousting.
> 
> I liked including a bit of Fergus' perspective in the first memory! I find this kind of thing so interesting- Maric, after expelling the Orlesians, would most likely want to make a marriage alliance for his son within Ferelden to further stabilise his reign. Since the teyrns are basically dukes, the natural alliance for Maric would be with either Loghain or Bryce – and (in my canon) both of them have daughters. BRIDE WARS! Anora had the advantage, being older than Cailan and thus ready for marriage earlier.
> 
> I loved writing this scene given the different dynamic between Cailan and Flora when they met at Ostagar, fifteen years after meeting in Bryce's study. Of course, neither has any idea that they had met once before – and Flora is naturally massively deferent, flinging her sandwich to oblivion before falling to her knees.
> 
> Bryce deffo knows about bastard child Alistair at Redcliffe, given the significant look!
> 
> ALSO, OOOHHHHH, IT WAS FERGUS THAT GRASSED HIS SISTER UP ABOUT BEING A MAGE! BUSTED, FERG!


	179. The Highever Memories: Part Two

" _You're_  the one that told Father about Florence using magic on the dog?" continued Finian in disbelief, gazing across the bathtub towards his elder brother. "I always thought it had been one of the knights! How could you, Ferg?"

The others present in the arlina's chamber refrained from commenting, sensing the atmosphere taut and tense between the two Cousland brothers.

Fergus was tight-lipped, looking down as a flash of long-hidden guilt echoed across his bluish grey eyes.

"I was only a child myself," he replied stiffly, touching the shrivelled skin on his finger where the signet ring had sat. "I was scared. You know the stories they tell about mages."

"If we had kept it a secret and Florence had stayed with us, perhaps Howe would never have been able to take the castle!" retorted Finian, his paler eyes flashing dangerously. "She could have protected our parents. She could've protected Oriana and Oren."

"Or she could have burnt Highever to the ground," hissed Fergus, defiantly. "None of us knew that she would turn out to be a healer."

Wynne raised a hand, the senior enchanter effectively dampening the gathering storm in the chamber.

"I must ask you two to resolve your differences later," she said smoothly, reaching for the silver vessel once more. "I believe we're very close."

Alistair gazed down at his sister-warden's pale, unhappy face as she slumped in the lyrium-laced water. He clutched her wet fingers tightly, hoping that she could somehow feel the pressure even through the Veil.

_Teyrn Bryce Cousland paced around the perimeter of his study, furious with himself at being nervous in the apostate's presence. The anonymous elven mage sat serenely on the chaise, hood worn low over his face and still clad in his travelling cloak. Eleanor Cousland sat beside him, clutching her sleeping daughter tightly on her lap. Florence had been bundled up in several layers of clothing as protection against the elements; it was winter, and it was raining, and she caught cold easily._

" _I trust that you've an idea where you're going to take her?" the teyrn said abruptly, his voice ragged. "It must be within the teyrnir, but it can't be… too close to Highever. We can't risk anyone recognising her."_

" _One of the fishing villages, somewhere isolated," murmured the elven mage, folding elegant fingers around the twin sacks of coins. "Out of the way of the Chantry and the Templars."_

_Eleanor Cousland shuddered, stroking one of her daughter's neatly restrained braids._

" _See that she goes to someone kind," the teyrn's wife pleaded, close to tears. "A nice, discreet couple. I can't bear to think of what they'll say at court if they discover that a Cousland was a mage. The Mac Tirs will gain even more influence."_

" _This sum will certainly buy discretion," murmured the elf, placing the sacks of coin to one side before rising smoothly to his feet. "And you're certain that you want her memory obscured?"_

_The teyrn nodded, lips folded tightly._

" _It'll be easier for her if she remembers nothing," Bryce Cousland replied, his grey eyes settling with terrible sadness on his youngest child. The elven mage inclined his head, drifting across the room and lowering himself to his knees beside the yawning girl._

_Florence eyed the mage curiously, more used to seeing elves as servants than as guests in her father's study. For some reason her mother looked very sad, staring determinedly off towards a portrait of Highever hanging on the far wall. The elf gazed steadily back at her with eyes that seemed partway between brown and green._

" _Florence," said Bryce Cousland suddenly, crossing the room and putting his hand on his youngest child's head. "Wherever the Maker's hand guides you, you'll always be… our beloved daughter."_

_The teyrn tucked a small gold ring into the child's pocket, clutching her small hand tightly in his own lined one. Then the elf murmured something in his own tongue, reaching out to place slender fingers across Florence's forehead. There was a flicker of violet light and-_

Suddenly a burst of arcane discharge erupted in the arlina's bedchamber; loud enough to set the Mabari in the passageway into a cacophony of barking. The great mirror had cracked, fragmenting into several jagged pieces, each one with its glassy surface clouded over.

Flora, shocked at how much the sudden influx of memories hurt, awoke from the Fade by parting the Veil forcibly and thrusting herself back into the waking world. She clambered out of the bathtub with a speed that defied her weak knee, head throbbing with the painful weight of her childhood memories. Alistair felt her wet fingers slip from his as she slithered barefoot across the flagstones.

"Flo!  _Flora!"_ he exclaimed in alarm, catching a glimpse of her tear-stained, distraught face. Both Finian and Zevran started towards the doorway to intercept her, but Flora got there a fraction of a second before them. The door slammed back against the wall; she darted through it and fluttered a hand behind her. A gleaming golden barrier sprung up in her wake, pulsing with deceptive frailty across the doorway.

Finian struck the shield with his fist, then let out a yelp of pain and recoiled. Zevran pried at the shifting light experimentally with the edge of his knife, but succeeded only in blunting the blade.

"It'll disappear once she's a certain distance away," murmured Wynne, gathering up the empty lyrium vials and sweeping them into a hessian bag. "She won't get far. At least there are no lakes for her to jump into this time."

Alistair let out a frustrated snarl, feeling a white-hot surge of bitterness rising up from his gut.

"I  _knew_  this was a bad idea," he hissed, the words gathering angry momentum as he spoke. "It's achieved  _nothing_  but bringing Flo pain. Now she remembers that she had parents who loved her- who have both incidentally been brutally  _murdered_  - and that she was smuggled out like a thief to avoid bringing shame on her family. That'll be a  _great_  help against Loghain!"

The bastard prince stormed across the room like a caged lion, his eyes flashing angrily from Wynne to Fergus.

"She only agreed to this stupid ritual to please your academic curiosity, and  _your_ desire to reclaim the sister that  _you_ sent away in the first place! Flora was perfectly happy as she was, tampered memory or no, and you've- you've done nothing but  _hurt_  her! Isn't being a Warden hard enough as it is?"

Alistair broke off, panting and outraged; a small part of him gratified to see that both Wynne and Fergus seemed somewhat abased.

"You've both been selfish," he finished, glancing in frustration through the gleaming barrier that separated him from his sister-warden. "To the most selfless girl in Ferelden."

Zevran shot the prince a half-smile of approval, idly testing his blade against the shimmering energy once again. It hummed, but held firm.

One of the patrolling guards in the passageway peered through the golden shield, scratching his head in confusion. The next moment he had stepped through with ease; unfortunately, he was then unable to pass back out.

"Seems we might be in here for a little while," murmured Zevran, while both Cousland brothers glared at one another. "Anyone want to play a game of Wicked Grace?"

Flora had descended the west tower's spiral staircase, nearly stumbling as the individual steps seemed to blur together. Wiping her eyes with the wet sleeve of the arlina's silk pyjamas, she emerged onto the ramparts and made her way down to the lesser courtyard. It was dark and still, the training dummies casting elongated shadows over the flagstones.

For the second evening in a row, Flora made her way into the small Chantry; the hollowed space hewn from the solid rock base that the fortress sat on. Unlike the previous night, when the stalls had been filled with townspeople mourning their dead, the only other person in the chapel was an elderly Chantry sister. The old woman hummed quietly as one trembling hand filled the incense burners with perfumed oil, much of it splashing onto the mosaic tiles.

Sniffing, Flora retrieved two slender votive candles from the box beside the altar; clutching them both in a fist while she lit one of the wooden sticks on the ever-burning flame. Carefully, she manoeuvred herself down before the pale, stern statue of Andraste, placing her two small candles on the floor. Removing the burning wooden stick from between her teeth, she lit first one candle and then the other; licking her thumb and smothering the wooden stick before it could burn down.

She knelt down before the statue, head bowed and hands clasped together, and mumbled a rambling and incoherent prayer for both her mother and father; whom she had loved, a long time ago, and who had claimed to still love her despite sending her away. To Flora's vast relief, she did not feel much different after Wynne's successful ritual – she vaguely remembered a large castle, an old woman who nagged her incessantly and two brothers who mostly ignored her. The main revelation that she had experienced was a strange sadness when she thought of the late teyrn and his wife – not dissimilar to the odd melancholy that one might feel on hearing of the death of an old lover.

After she had said prayers for the parents who had sent her away in shame, Flora felt a nagging twinge of guilt deep in her belly. Clambering awkwardly to her feet, she went to retrieve another fistful of votive candles, placing them carefully beside the two candles for her parents.

_Daveth, Jory,_ she thought to herself, lighting each one from the first.  _Poor Enchanter Niall from the Circle. Jowan and Caridin._

Her heart gave a peculiar throb when she lit Cailan's candle, recalling that her father had once planned for them to marry. Then it was Duncan's turn; Flora selected the tallest votive and put it in pride of place in the centre.

_Did you know?_ she wondered suddenly, her commander's dark Rivaini eyes hovering in the darkness before her.  _You tried to recruit at Highever before coming to the Circle. Did you see the resemblance between the teyrn and me?_

_Zathrian._ Flora added another candle for the leader of the Dalish, who had been driven to atrocity by the murder of his children.  _The Lady. Symon, from Skingle._

Worried that she had forgotten someone, Flora knelt amidst a semi-circle of candles and surveyed her work. Closing her eyes, she muttered a basic prayer that she hoped would serve for all; then opened her eyes and gazed up at the resolute face of Andraste. The Maker's bride was clad in carved armour, her fingers curled around the hilt of a large sword. It was a fitting effigy for the fortress of South Reach, and its militaristic arl.

Sensing a disapproving pair of eyes at her back, Flora turned around to see the old Chantry sister glowering.

"Careful you don't start a fire," the elderly priestess reprimanded, her rheumy eyes moving over the dozen burning votive candles. "Do you have a lot of people to commemorate?"

"Yes," replied Flora, feeling tears prickling at the back of her eyes. "Sorry, shall I blow them out?"

"No, girl, leave them. Just don't catch yourself alight."

Flora stayed kneeling amidst her candles for some time, the wet silk of the pyjamas clinging uncomfortably to her body. Eventually, a hard lump of melancholy wedged in her throat, she clambered to her feet and made her way back out into the lesser courtyard. As she wandered past the stables, Flora felt a sudden blush as she recalled what she and Alistair had been up to in the stalls – on more than one occasion.

_I should go back to the arlina's chamber,_ she thought, suddenly.  _He's probably worried._

Then, unexpectedly from the darkness, came the unmistakeable sound of a young child's sob. Flora blinked, wiping her nose on her sleeve, and then looked around the shadowed courtyard for the source of the noise.

She found Connor Guerrin sitting on the bottom step leading up to the west tower ramparts, dressed in his nightclothes with his small, pointed face buried in his hands. The ubiquitous Templar presence, Lieutenant Rutherford, hovered on the step behind the little boy, stiff-backed and straight-faced as always. Flora sat down next to Eamon's son and he peered across at her, curiosity temporarily overcoming misery.

"Why are you all wet? Did you take a bath with your nightclothes on?"

"Yes," said Flora, rolling up the damp silk sleeves to her elbows. "Something like that."

Connor fell quiet once again, fists bunched into small, sad knots on his lap. For several moments they sat in silence; Flora peering out at the shadowed courtyard, the Templar staring ahead stiff-jawed, and the child sniffing quietly to himself.

"I'm going to the Jainen Circle tomorrow," Connor said eventually, his voice small and hollow. Flora nodded; she had heard Arl Eamon mention it earlier.

"Father says that I will be brought back to Kinloch Hold soon, but… something happened there. Something bad? I heard the Templars talking about it. Was it like… what happened to me?"

Cullen looked rather shame-faced as Flora glanced over her shoulder at him. For a moment they both recalled their meeting on the upper floor of the Circle Tower; him trapped in the arcane cage and taunted with demonic visions of her. He had never elaborated on what these visions had been, and Flora had never asked.

"There was an accident there, but… " Flora trailed off for a moment, knowing that her choice of words was important. "You know what happens after an accident, don't you?"

Connor squinted at her. "People cry and get hurt?"

"Yes" Flora admitted, but then reached over and patted his knee. "But then they make things safer. That's what they're doing at Kinloch now, making everything safer."

The little boy thought about this for several moments. Flora surreptitiously pulled her ankle over her knee and inspected the bottom of her bare foot. It was grubby and covered with flecks of straw.

"I don't even know where Jainen Circle is," said Connor at last, bitterness tingeing the words.

Flora brightened, letting her foot slip back onto the damp flagstones.

"It's on a small island, just off the north coast," she replied, pleased that she could provide an answer. "You'll be able to see the sea from the windows. And all the tall ships sailing down the straits!"

Connor peered at her with the sceptical eyes of his father. "Tall ships?"

Flora nodded, waving her hand in a vague gesture to illustrate. "Trade ships from the Free Marches, Antivan galleons. One time I even saw a  _pirate ship!_ At least, I think it was a pirate ship."

"Are tall ships much different from fishing boats?" Connor asked, thinking about the boats he saw sailing the placid waters of Lake Calenhad.

"Much different! Bigger,  _taller_ …" Flora trailed off vaguely, trying to think of an example that would fall within both their contrasting spheres of experience.

"You know, like the  _Peraquialus._ The constellation," she continued, seeing only blankness on Connor's face. "The ship?"

"I don't know what it looks like," the child said, doubt in his tone. "I know  _Judex."_

All three of them turned their heads instinctually upwards to the night sky. It was a rich, uninterrupted swathe of dark velvet, with a globular moon hanging like a lamp over the distant Brecilian Forest. The only stars visible were faint pinpricks unfathomable distances away, and their light was dim and clouded. Connor's shoulders slumped, and he looked back down at his feet.

"There's no  _Peraquialus_ ," he muttered, fiddling with a loose thread on his own nightclothes. "No stars at all _."_

Flora scrambled to her feet, feeling her knee give a twinge of protest and flatly ignoring it.

"That's fine," she said impulsively, feeling her fingernails prickling. "Let's make our own."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ooh, so we're almost at the end of our Connor arc, the one where he is slowly growing to accept who he is – remember, all he had experienced of magic previously was horror and demons. The next chapter was so much fun to write!
> 
> I know that the Couslands seem rather unsympathetic here – it's been so interesting for me to puzzle over how a noble in Bryce Cousland's position would react over his child being a mage, bearing in mind the low position they hold in society. Something that Flora can't work out – and even I'm not sure – is how much of the Couslands' decision to send her away was for her own benefit (to keep her hidden from the Templars, hopefully to keep her free), and how much was to preserve their own social standing within Ferelden. I think the true answer lies somewhere between the two motivations.
> 
> Incidentally, in the future, when Flora refers to her 'father' – this is referring to Bryce Cousland, and when she thinks about her 'dad' – this is the fisherman, Pel, who raised her in Herring.


	180. Raising The Peraquialus

The drizzle had just about abated, leaving water pooling between the uneven flagstones. The moon hung low overhead, as though watching the odd scene in South Reach castle's lesser courtyard below. Flora, bare-foot and in damp pyjamas, was inhaling as though about to swim a length underwater; Connor Guerrin was watching her open-mouthed, and the young Templar lieutenant was standing stiffly several steps above.

"Alright," mumbled Flora, feeling the golden mist surging obediently at the back of her throat.  _"_ Let's try and make our own  _Peraquialus."_

She exhaled a breath of white-gold energy, the magic coming as naturally as the act of respiration itself. It coalesced into a hovering lantern, bobbing gently in the night breeze several feet above the flagstones. Flora tapped carefully at it with her fingers, sending it sailing gently off towards the Chantry. Advancing to the middle of the shadowed space, she breathed forth several more globes of light, directing them into the dark recesses of the courtyard.

_Eight stars in total,_ Flora thought to herself, coaxing an errant lantern back into place to form the tip of the mast. She knew the pattern intimately; both from the sky above Herring and the constellation being marked out in freckles on her back. Although she could not see them herself, she could feel the ghost of Alistair's mouth as he marked the ship's pattern out between her shoulder blades with his tongue.

Willing herself not to blush, she returned to the steps. Connor was standing on the fourth step, his eyes wide and fascinated as he gazed down at the gleaming spheres of white-gold light. One hovered beside the stables, marking the prow, another hung beside the Chantry to finish the mast. They burned brighter than any human-made fire, yet gave off no heat.

"They look like stars!" Connor yelped, reaching out to grab at the Templar's wrist. "Look, Lieutenant! Stars in the courtyard!"

Cullen Rutherford was trying to maintain his disapproving expression; but he was young, and it was difficult.

Flora, slightly out of breath, smiled up at the little boy.

"Let's join it up and then you'll be able to see the ship," she said, feeling energy prickling beneath her fingernails. Connor nodded enthusiastically, shifting from foot to foot with excitement.

She leaned out and gently nudged her fingers into the nearest hanging globule of energy. A ribbon of light shot out, connecting the simulated star to its neighbour with a faint hiss. The ribbon continued to wind its way around the eight stars until they were woven into the shape of the celestial ship; hanging vast and horizontal, illuminating the lesser courtyard.

"Did you learn…  _this_  in a classroom?" Cullen leaned forward and whispered in her ear. Flora shook her head, giving a vague shrug.

"No," she replied blithely, narrowing her eyes at her own creation. "I don't  _really_  know what I'm doing, actually."

The Templar's face twitched slightly, but then he saw Connor's enraptured expression as the boy gazed down at the glowing courtyard.

"Can you put it in the sky?" the young Guerrin asked, tugging at Flora's sleeve.

"What?" She peered down at him, confused. The child gesticulated to the dark sky, excitedly.

"Can you make it go  _up?_ "

Flora didn't know, but she gave a little shrug.

"Maybe?"

She had not been lying to the nervous young Templar, she did not know what she was doing. Nobody had formally taught Flora her peculiar style of magic; it came to her like breathing, thoughtless and without conscious effort. Without much hope and feeling a little ridiculous, she lifted her hands.

The entire gleaming structure began to rise, each burning globe still connected to its neighbour. Light was thrown in dizzying patterns onto the faces of the three equally startled observers as they stood on the steps below.

Connor was the first to react, letting out a squeal of delight. Magical energy ruffled through his hair like an arcane-tinged breeze as the artificial constellation rose slowly above their heads.

"Come on!  _Come on!_ " he bleated, grabbing Flora's hand and yanking her behind him. "Let's follow it!"

The little boy led the way, face suffused with excitement as he scuttled along the ramparts. He barrelled his way into the west tower, knocking several servants aside, and began to charge up the spiral staircase.

"It's still going! It's still going!" he squealed periodically over his shoulder, peering out of each floor's window to track the gleaming, intangible structure's progress as it rose inexorably upwards.

Flora, half-falling up the steps, gulped air into her straining lungs as she stumbled in the child's wake. Her knee had already exacted revenge for such strenuous exertion; she had tripped on the third floor and split her lip on the step. The young Templar had helped her up, removing his hand afterwards as though contact with her arm had burnt him.

"Hurry up! It's almost at the roof!" yowled the youngest Guerrin from a floor above them, his footsteps echoing down the spiral staircase.

Flora gritted her teeth against the pain, and determinedly continued upwards. She could feel the leather strap slowly and inexorably unravelling around her knee.

Finally, after what seemed like a Fade nightmare of unending steps, Flora emerged onto the west tower roof with the Templar at her heels. Connor was leaning over the waist-high battlements, his face bathed in golden light, trembling with excitement.

"Look! It's  _here_ , it's at the top of the tower!"

Putting weight on her good leg, Flora shuffled across to the boy and peered over the ramparts. A rush of arcane energy blew the hair away from her face and she had to turn her eyes away from the brightness, squinting. Her artificial  _Peraquialus_ hovered flat in the air just below the tower roof. It must have elongated as it had risen, for the length from bow to stern now outstretched the courtyard below.

Forgetting the pain from her knee and the metallic taste of blood under her tongue, Flora beamed. Using the metallic flagpole as a support, she clambered up onto the ramparts and stared down at her creation, eyes adjusting to the brightness.

"Don't fall!" Flora heard the Templar's voice rising in alarm.

"I'm used to climbing onto tower roofs," she called back, and then grinned down at Connor. "Shall we set sail?"

The boy let out a squeal which Flora interpreted as assent. She lifted her hands, not really knowing what she was doing; trusting in the odd way that her magic manifested itself.

There was a sudden great rush of wind that sent her pyjama shirt flapping. The constellation surged upwards, lifting itself until it stood upright. Flora caught her breath, dazzled by its brightness, feeling the energy thrumming along her nerves. It was vast, and beautiful; and the brief shame that Flora had felt on witnessing her parents' aversion to her magic dissolved to nothingness.

"On your orders, captain!" She had to shout over the rushing of arcane energy, feeling her hair loose itself gleefully from its leather tie.

" _Raise anchor!"_  shrieked the little boy, caught up in paroxysms of excitement.

Flora thrust her arm into the air, wet pyjama sleeve falling to her elbow.

The  _Peraquialus_ surged forward into the sky, burning bright as the funeral ships used by the ancient  _Almarri._ It left curlicues of light drifting in its wake like feathers, each one fading away before it could touch the earthly stone. It ploughed through the darkness towards the Brecilian Forest, climbing higher and higher, until Flora felt a faint sigh in the back of her mind. Gradually the ethereal ship began to fade away, lost in the night mist.

_If you meet the real Peraquialus, say hello to Duncan for me,_ she thought, feeling the arcane energy drain from her veins and her hair settling back around her shoulders. The world suddenly seemed very still and shadowed, a soft night drizzle resuming in the absence of magic. Flora looked down at her reddened palms, suddenly tasting the metallic tang of blood from her split lip.

"Son, you should be in bed."

Arl Eamon's voice drifted from the doorway, his tone concerned. "You'll get Frost-cough if you stay out here in the rain."

"I'll learn how to heal it at the Circle," replied Connor, scampering over to his father. "I want to learn how to draw in the sky too, Father!"

Arl Eamon reached down and drew his son close to him, ruffling the boy's auburn hair affectionately.

"You'll be senior enchanter by the time your mother and I visit you," he murmured, casting a curious look over at Flora before steering his son indoors. "Don't linger in the rain, child. You can't afford to get sick."

Flora smiled back at the departing father and son, feeling an inexplicable lump rise in her throat. The rain was falling with more vehemence now, thick cloud drawing a veil across the well of the night sky.

"Flora, are you coming in?" It was the young Templar, shifting from foot to booted foot, clearly not wanting to leave her alone on the roof.

"Yes," said Flora, obedience ingrained when it came to the Templars. Then she felt a sudden, bright flare in her mind; a familiar warmth at the base of her skull.

"Flo?  _Flo!"_

Alistair's voice, high and scared, echoed across the flagstones. Her brother-warden was in the doorway, barely acknowledging the Templar's presence as he strode past. "What are you doing up there?  _Get down_!"

Flora realised that, from his perspective, her standing on the ramparts was not the most reassuring sight. His face was white and frightened in the torchlight, arms reaching up to help her down.

"I wasn't about to  _jump_  or anything," she mumbled against his shoulder as he embraced her, clutching the back of her head tightly. Alistair let out a groan of wearied relief, pressing his mouth to her damp collarbone.

"We couldn't find you for ages," he muttered against her skin, then caught sight of splattered blood on the pyjama jacket. He drew back, inhaling sharply. "Wait, are you  _hurt?!_ "

On seeing her split lip Alistair's eyes slit reflexively across to the hovering Templar; the corners of his mouth beginning to curl in anger.

"No, it's nothing," Flora said hastily, bringing her fingers to her lower lip. "I fell over and hit my face on the step."

She nodded at the torn knees of her pyjama trousers, and Alistair relaxed a fraction. He glanced back at the ramparts as she rubbed her thumb over her lip, absentmindedly sealing the split. The rain increased in force, drumming against the slate tiles with militaristic vigour.

"Come inside, darling," he murmured, sliding his arm through hers. "You don't want to catch cold."

"Ooh, I can't heal a cold," Flora replied, recalling the one that had afflicted her after returning from the Deep Roads.

"I know, my love."

Alistair led her inside to the top floor landing, guiding her down into a chair and kneeling to attend to the leather strap. He rolled up the leg of her pyjama trousers over her thigh, pressing his mouth to her swollen knee. As his fingers worked at the strapping, his worried hazel eyes rose to settle on her face. Flora knew what he was going to ask her and pre-empted it, reaching out to touch the untidy tuft of hair at the top of his forehead.

"I'm alright," she said quietly, feeling his fingers pause. "I mean – there was always a  _small_  part of me that thought Finian was just making all the Cousland stuff up, and that our resemblance was a coincidence."

Alistair pulled the strapping taut around her knee, gazing up at her with clear hazel eyes.

"When Eamon told me who my father was, I didn't want to believe it," he said, rolling the pyjama leg back down over her knee. "I had hoped it was some passing knight who'd lain with my mother and left before she found out that she was with child."

Flora reflexively put her fingers to her chest, feeling the silver Chantry locket resting in the hollow of her throat.

"The teyrn and teyrna were ashamed of me," she replied slowly, her brow furrowed. "I remember feeling as though I had… disappointed them somehow."

Alistair knelt at her feet with a solemn countenance, suddenly seeming older than his two decades.

"But it doesn't matter," Flora continued, fiddling with the button on her pyjama jacket. "Because I'm not disappointed about who I am. I'm a good person, and I- I help people. I do good things."

He leaned up to kiss her, fierce and proud; she clung to his chest like a sailor might clutch at a mast in a storm, yielding her mouth to him with reckless abandon. When they parted, dazed and with hair dishevelled, Flora looked somewhat abashed.

"Sorry for putting the barrier across the doorway," she said, vaguely recalling flicking her fingers behind her as she sought to put distance between herself and her memories. "How long were you trapped for?

Alistair laughed, mingled relief and humour suffusing his handsome features.

"A while," he said cheerily, offering her arm as they descended the steps. "Servants and guards kept coming in and being unable to get out again. There must have been thirty people in the arlina's chamber."

Flora shot him a horrified look and he grinned at her, squeezing her elbow between his fingers.

"I think Wynne was impressed by the strength of your magic, despite her complaints that she had a lot of work to be getting on with. Zevran felt so claustrophobic that he tried to climb out of the window. Naturally, he didn't fit. It took Fergus and me fifteen minutes to get the blasted elf out."

Flora grimaced, resolving to apologise to her companions in the morning. Alistair saw her face and nudged her, smiling.

"Don't worry, Zevran was fine. He said that he'd request compensation from you at Eamon's celebration tomorrow evening, so be on your guard. Oh, and your brothers aren't speaking to each another."

Flora blinked at him as they emerged into the upper passageway, avoiding a pair of patrolling guards.

"What? Why not?"

Alistair gave an eloquent shrug, steering her into the arlina's shadowed bedchamber. The empty frame of the mirror stood propped against the far wall, the large fragments of glass cleared away. The bathtub had been removed to the adjacent bathing chamber, and the room seemed very quiet and still. Leliana was lying on the chaise, murmuring inaudibly to herself under her breath.

When the Wardens entered, hand-in-hand and dripping over the flagstones, the lay sister sat up and shot them a beady stare. As usual the bard was perfectly groomed, clad in a flimsy pink nightgown with her hair falling becomingly around her ears.

"I'm surprised that you're content to go charging around South Reach in such a state after learning about your true heritage," Leliana chided with a little sniff, eyeing Flora's wet and dishevelled appearance while pouring herself a chalice of Antivan wine.

Flora gave a cheerful shrug, pulling the leather band out of what remained of her braid.

"I don't think I was very well-behaved when I was a teyrn's daughter," she countered, shaking out her wet hair like a Mabari. "I was a naughty child."

She flashed the bard a smile, swiftly divesting herself of the grubby pyjama shirt and trousers. "Better?"

Flora gave a little bow towards the bard, who promptly spilled the wine down the front of her nightgown; staring after the youngest Cousland as she strolled Maker-naked towards the bathchamber.

"I'm just going… to see… if she needs any  _help_ ," Alistair muttered in a slightly strangulated tone, striding rapidly in his sister-warden's wake.

"Help with  _what_ exactly _,_  Alistair?" called Leliana snidely. "I think the girl can wash herself."

"With her... knee?" he tossed gamely over his shoulder, unbuttoning the top of his shirt as he went.

Flora peered back around the doorway, managing to look solemn even while quirking her eyebrow.

"I have to warn you," she breathed, eyeing her brother-warden as he approached. "I have a history of  _biting_ princes."

"Is that a promise?" Alistair murmured back at her and she laughed, clutching a fistful of his tunic and pulling his mouth down to hers.

Back in the bedchamber, Leliana groaned and pulled a cushion over her face.

"For the love of Andraste,  _close the door!"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So this is the ending of my little Connor Guerrin sub-plot! I didn't want to leave him in Redcliffe, with his only experience of magic being all horror and demons and death. I thought that this would be a nice way for him to see that magic could be beautiful as well. Haha I actually thought this chapter's concept in a dream (I always have freaky dreams when I eat cheese late at night, and I'd definitely been midnight snacking on some Brie) - I just had this vision of Flora chasing Connor up the tower steps while this vast, gleaming simulated constellation rose slowly up in the air outside.
> 
> It was also interesting to write the different reactions of noble parents to their mage children- Eamon being more accepting than the Couslands were. Perhaps because of the difference in rank?
> 
> Being sent away to Herring was actually what 'made' Flora – it was the best thing that could have happened to her. The villagers embraced her magic and she grew up feeling useful and needed; as opposed to feeling ashamed of who she was.


	181. Lieutenant Rutherford's Goodbye

Chapter 182: Lieutenant Rutherford's Goodbye

On the morning of Arl Eamon's forty-seventh birthday, the Templars and Connor Guerrin departed South Reach. It was a clear spring morning, the sun rising bright and hopeful over the Brecilian Forest to the east. The journey to the Jainen Circle would take three full days, and Leonas Bryland had provided them with plentiful provisions.

The Wardens, their companions and the nobles gathered to see the Arl's son off. Fergus and Finian stood at either end of the small crowd, studiously ignoring one another. Eamon was crouching down to talk earnestly to his son, gripping his elbows as they conversed. Alistair, who had spent a summer apprenticing at the Jainen Circle during his Templar training, was recognised and beckoned over by one of the resident officers.

Flora spotted the nervous young lieutenant standing beside a patient horse, checking the contents of its saddlebag. She sidled over to him, not wanting to draw too much attention from the Templar's superior.

"Lieutenant Rutherford," she whispered, glancing surreptitiously over at the commander. Fortunately, the older man was deep in what appeared to be a one-sided conversation with Alistair, who was nodding away diligently with a blank look on his face.

The young Templar looked down at her, and for the first time a hint of a smile flickered across his stern features.

"I know you know my name," he said quietly, mimicking how she had berated him when he had first stumblingly addressed her as  _Lady-Warden Cousland._

"Cullen," she replied, and then smiled back up at him. "I wanted to say thank you for helping me with the... _you know."_

Here she trailed off, not wanting his commanding officers to accidentally overhear what he had assisted her  _with_. Cullen gave a slight nod; he understood what she was referring to.

"It saved my life the other day," Flora continued, recalling how the Darkspawn emissary had failed to dispel her barrier. "And I'm sure it will again. Thank you."

Impulsively, using the solid bulk of the horse as a more temporal shield from the commander's eyes, she put her arms around the young Templar and embraced him. He was stiff at first, eventually relaxing enough to pat her awkwardly on the back.

"Thank you," Flora repeated, staring up at him earnestly as she withdrew. "Please don't stop being kind to- to people like me, even when you become important and high-ranking."

She smiled at a flushing Cullen, and then ducked back around the front of the horse to re-join her companions.

As soon as Connor saw her, he gave an imperious little beckon; just as he had done back in Redcliffe when he was the son of the arl, and she a mere fisherman's daughter. Flora went dutifully to his side, and the boy gazed up at her with the green, thoughtful eyes of his father.

"Will you come and visit me in the Tower?" he asked, face solemn and purposeful.

"Yes," said Flora, then amended it. "Once we've ended the Blight."

"I want to be a healer, too," the child continued, giving her a little nudge. "I want to be as good of a mage as you."

Flora snorted, remembering her own disastrous experience in the Circle.

"You'll be a much better mage than me," she replied, honestly. "Remember to look out for the tall ships."

Connor nodded, glancing over his shoulder as his father helped him into the carriage. Flora watched the arl check his son over one last time, wanting to ensure that the journey would be comfortable. Finally, Eamon gave Connor a kiss on the top of his head, ruffling his boyish hair before stepping back down onto the flagstones.

Flora watched the arl's face curiously as the carriage prepared to depart with its Templar escort; the parallels with her own situation not lost on her.

_Except that Arl Eamon hasn't sent his child away secretly, under cover of darkness, and he hasn't tried to erase Connor's identity as his son. He's not ashamed that his child is a mage, even though Connor did far worse under his roof than I did at Highever. All I did was heal a Mabari._

From the tight-lipped expression on his face, Flora could tell that Fergus was thinking the same thing. Her elder brother's eyes were focused on the rear of the carriage as it rumbled away over the drawbridge.

Then she felt a hand entwining with hers, and looked around to see Finian standing beside her. Her sensitive, academic brother had clearly also recognised the similarities in the situation. Flora smiled sideways at him, grateful for his slender fingers wrapped around her own. In pairs, the Templars rode off alongside the carriage; their armour polished until the silverite shone like flame in the morning sunlight. Chaim, the Templar who had all but admitted to breaking Flora's shield with a rogue dispel, was not accompanying them; and nobody asked where he was.

The last pair of Templars rode out from beneath the portcullis, the hooves of their horses echoing on the wood. Teagan put a hand on his elder brother's arm as the arl let out a quiet sigh.

"It's the best place for him, Eamon. He'll be safe there."

The arl nodded; he knew. Suddenly, the sound of hooves began to grow louder again as one horse turned back, riding fast beneath the hanging banners back into the courtyard.

"Someone's forgotten something," announced Alistair, squinting against the rising sun to see who the figure was. "Oh, it's the nervy young one."

The horse came to a clattering halt and Cullen Rutherford slid down from the saddle. A strange, determined expression was emblazoned across his face as he strode half a dozen paces across the flagstones. Flora, about to bite into a bread roll that she had smuggled from the kitchens, had just enough time to look up before the young Templar took her face in his hands and kissed her.

The bread roll fell into a puddle as her squeak of surprise was rapidly muffled. Arl Eamon let out a cough behind his hand, while Alistair looked slightly nonplussed. The bastard prince glanced over at Finian, who raised his eyebrows and gave a little shrug.

"Sorry," muttered the nervous young officer, recoiling back as though burnt. "I've wanted to do that for years. I just thought – since – anyway. Sorry."

"It's fine," replied Flora amiably, blinking up at him. "Have a safe journey."

Flustered, Cullen Rutherford clambered back up onto the saddle, sword tangling in his legs. Even more stiff-backed than before, he nudged his horse forward and rode out of the courtyard at a greater speed than was perhaps necessary.

Alistair scratched his head, bemused, glancing over at Finian as the others began to disperse back to their usual morning routine.

"Should I have done something?" he asked, confused. "Like… hit him?"

"Of course you shouldn't have  _hit_  him," retorted Finian briskly, watching his sister retrieve the bread roll and surreptitiously wipe it on the hem of her shirt. "That was clearly the culmination of several years' worth of unrequited desire, poor sod. Florence, do  _not_ put that in your mouth."

"That's right,  _mi sirenita,_ let's wait until later," purred Zevran on cue, wriggling his eyebrows wickedly behind Finian as Alistair groaned and mouthed  _Really?_ to himself.

Flora reluctantly allowed Finian to prise the bread roll from her fingers, watching him toss it to a passing Mabari. She felt warm air exhaled over her ear and turned around, her eyes level with Alistair's breastbone. As she tilted her head back, he smiled down at her; his body instinctively leaning in towards hers.

"It would be futile to even try and hide the fact that they're lovers in Denerim," murmured Leliana to Wynne, in continuation of an earlier conversation. "A man only looks at a girl like that once he's seen her naked beneath him."

Eamon gave a small cough to announce his impending approach; Alistair reluctantly peeled his eyes from his sister-warden's face.

"Alistair, we leave for Denerim tomorrow. There remain a few items left to discuss."

Alistair groaned but acquiesced with a nod, feeling a faint ripple of anticipation in his stomach at the thought of finally confronting Loghain – and Howe. To Alistair's slight unease, the former's face was receding in his nightly dreams of vengeance; replaced more frequently with the man who was so determined to obliterate the last trace of his sister-warden's family.

_I still want Loghain dead,_ he thought firmly to himself, pressing his mouth to Flora's fingers.  _Of course I do. The moment that I see the treacherous bastard's face, I'll draw my sword and execute him where he stands._

Suddenly, the sound of running footsteps came hammering over the drawbridge. Leonas, standing beside the great hall doors, looked across the courtyard and several of the guards stepped forward with weapons readied. A man in his middle years appeared beneath the portcullis, breathing hard and red in the face. He spotted Dane, the arl's right-hand man, and headed straight over to him.

Immediately Leonas headed over towards the two men, grimly preparing to hear the news that more Darkspawn had been sighted.

"My sister's husband," Dane explained gruffly as Leonas approached. "What's the matter, Ben? You can't just run in 'ere."

The man doubled over, having clearly overexerted himself on the way up to the fortress.

"Bess is in labour, but the baby's takin' too long and she's exhausted," he said, the words slipping out between great gulps of air. "I remember you said there was a mage who were a good healer stayin' with the arl…"

The man trailed off, suddenly abashed at being in the presence of so many noble faces. He shot an agonised glance at Dane, his eyes raw and scared.

"Please - she's in a lot of pain, and she's bleedin'… ."

Dane met the dark, concerned eyes of Arl Bryland over his shoulder.

"The Lady Cousland can't be expected to assist with  _birthing-_ " began the manservant, then Flora had inserted herself deftly between them.

"Yes I can," she replied cheerfully. "I helped the midwife a few times in Herring."

Dane's brother-in-law stared at the girl for a moment, eyebrows rising; not expecting such a lowborn accent to come from such highborn features.

"Let's  _go,"_ Flora repeated bluntly, tapping her boot on the flagstones. "I can't make more blood."

Leonas gave a stiff nod, gesturing to the two guards stationed outside the great hall. The threat of assassins still loomed large in his mind; and the half-empty town would prove the perfect location for an assailant to strike.

"Accompany her," he instructed, eyes returning to Flora as she scuttled after the grateful man.

Alistair, not wholly comfortable with his sister-warden venturing beyond the thick defensive walls of Arl Bryland's fortress, cast an imploring look towards Zevran. The elf smiled slightly, strolling over the flagstones towards Flora and the pair of guards.

"You don't have any other sisters, do you?" he purred towards Dane, who shot the elf a glower in return. "Ideally ones who aren't in the middle of labour."

Not quite running, the desperate man led them back over the drawbridge and down into the town of South Reach. Despite many residents having already fled to Denerim, the winding alleyways between the houses could almost be described as bustling. Market stalls lined the streets with vendors calling out their wares; smiths were striking the night-damp from their forges and bakers were loading the first batch of the day into large open ovens.

Their progress was impeded somewhat by the townspeople going about their daily business. Eventually, the two guards began to yell for people to make way, which gave them a slight advantage above the crowd.

"Ouch," said Flora as they were jostled to one side by a passing wagon. "Something trod on my heel."

"Sorry,  _carina,"_ murmured Zevran, irritation flaring in his voice. "This oaf of a guard barged into me."

The desperate man led them down a side street, away from the sweaty bustle of the main road. Here, the buildings were ramshackle and crowded together in such close proximity that a single fire would spell disaster for a dozen houses. He led them up a crooked staircase tucked between a smithy and a tiny tavern, shoving his way through a rotting wooden door.

The dwelling was little more than a handful of sordid rooms, small and filthy; the furniture skeletal and much-repaired. There were conspicuous absences along the wall where various pieces had been sold to raise funds. The smell of mildew and unwashed flesh was so pungent that even Zevran, who had been raised downwind of a tannery, put slender fingers to his nose. The two guards did not deign to venture inside, stationing themselves instead at the base of the rickety steps.

A woman was moaning from somewhere within the bowels of the filthy hovel, her sobs primal and raw. The near-frantic man led them into a sweltering, shadowed room, in the centre of which stood a narrow bed. Dane's sister was trembling, tangled in bloodied and sweat-stained threadbare sheets, her teeth bared and her head tilted back. An old herbalist appeared to be in attendance between the labouring woman's thighs.

"Jan, I've brought the healer from the castle," gasped the man, out of breath. The old woman turned her head, beckoning with shrivelled fingers towards Flora.

"Come!"

"I might stay out here," murmured Zevran, who had gone a shade paler beneath his tan skin. Flora went to the old woman and knelt down, rolling up her sleeves dutifully.

Six hours later and the situation was still dire. Flora's rejuvenating breath had loaned the woman some strength; but for all her screaming and frantic spasming of muscle, the baby had still not yet arrived. Jan, who had been delivering the infants of South Reach since the Blessed Age, privately was not holding much hope for the survival of the child. Although the bleeding had been staunched by a combination of Flora's magic and Jan's herbal poultices, the old midwife was beginning to despair.

Flora was also starting to feel badly scared. She had indeed assisted with several births when she was younger; but the women of Herring tended to be wide-hipped and sturdy, their birthing relatively uncomplicated. This ordeal seemed more painful than the worst injuries that Flora had healed on the field; despite her best attempts to numb the pain, the woman continued to howl like a banshee. She dripped some water into the woman's open mouth, thinking that the mother resembled a fish dropped onto a dock, gasping and bewildered.

"Alrigh'," muttered Jan, her face resigned. "The babe is lost, but we might still save the mother. Could you fetch me the pennyroyal tincture?"

A frightened Flora stared down at the midwife in alarm, feeling almost as sweaty and bloodied as the unfortunate woman in the bed. Dane's sister let out a low, primal moan, collapsing back against the sheets, too exhausted to protest.

"It's  _lost?_ " Flora repeated stupidly, her eyes widening into saucers. Jan shook her head, reaching down with arthritic fingers to fumble in her leather pouch.

"The babe's clinging on in there," the old woman answered bluntly, her eyes dark and sad. "It'll poison her if it's allowed to stay."

Flora stared at the veined mass of flesh rising from the woman's stomach, her navel swollen and distended. She could see ripples of movement across the taut skin, and a sudden idea occurred to her.

"Can't you just cut it out? It's  _right there_ ," she volunteered, pointing, and the old midwife scowled.

"They do that in Tevinter, where they value child over mother. The wound'll be the death of the poor woman, she'll bleed out, or get the childbed sickness."

Flora shook her head impatiently, raising her hand and feeling the yellow mist surge obediently beneath her nails.

"I can heal it afterwards, tighter than any stitches," she breathed, excitedly. "I can cleanse it to stop the rot. Do you know how to do it?"

Jan nodded, a small flicker of hope passing over her wearied face. "Aye, but we'd need a sharper blade and a steadier hand than mine."

Flora's head turned towards the door and she raised her voice, bellowing in a manner far more Herring than Highever.

" _Zevran!"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol, Zevran is about to get more than he bargained for when he agreed to accompany Flora into the town! Nothing like a Medieval childbirth scene to put you off having kids for life, arghhhh.
> 
> The 'cutting child out of the womb' is obviously a Caesarian – which, as popular legend goes, was first performed in Ancient Rome to extract Julius Caesar from his mother's womb (hence the name!) Since Tevinter borrows heavily from Roman culture and history, I thought it would be fitting to attribute this practise to them!
> 
> Also, goodbye to Cullen and our mini Templar subplot! Don't worry, Cull, you'll have literally millions of straight lady Inquisitors throwing themselves at you in ten years time!
> 
> Nice try Eamon with this "47" bs, we all know you're actually 74 lol


	182. From Flora to Florence

 

Some time later, a slightly stunned elf and an equally wide-eyed Warden sat side by side on the floorboards, leaning back against the bed. Both were bloodied and sweaty, their hair dishevelled and clothing irredeemable. Jan, the elderly midwife, was packing up what remained of her herbs and poultices into her leather bag, humming softly to herself. Beside the window, Dane's sister stood holding a squalling baby; looking in far better physical condition than her trembling husband.

Flora dropped her forehead onto Zevran's shoulder with a grunt, exhausted from the day's dramatic shifts in emotion. He put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze, though his own face was noticeably pale.

"I've skinned men alive before," he whispered hoarsely, his dark eyes staring fixedly ahead. "Yet this has left me far more disquieted."

Flora snorted, although she also was somewhat traumatised. The birth had scared her to a degree that even the worst Blight-wounds or battlefield injuries had never managed to achieve. She had always taken pride in her strong stomach when faced with the raw parts of the human body; yet now she felt distinctly ill.

"I don't know how to thank yeh all," came the woman's grateful voice, and both Flora and Zevran clambered to their feet to face the new mother. She was smiling at them, her face clean and careworn, cradling the suckling baby to her chest.

"We only helped," replied Flora immediately, pointing to the old herbalist as she tied her bag closed. "Jan is the one to thank."

The old woman snorted, dismissing this with a wave of the hand. "You know that's nonsense, Bessie, pay it no credence."

Dane's sister handed the yawning infant to her husband, and then went briskly to a battered chest. Rummaging through it, she retrieved two soft felt tunics and held them out.

"Here, yeh can't go back up to the Arl lookin' in that condition, he'll have you thrown into his fancy fish ponds. How long've yeh both worked for him?"

Zevran, who never missed an opportunity to display his lean, toned torso, whipped off his tunic in the blink of an eye and reached for the garment with a dazzling smile.

"Neither of us work for him," he murmured, running a hand over his hair in a vain attempt to flatten it. "I am my lovely  _carina's_ humble servant."

Flora, who was in the middle of wrestling her own bloodied shirt over her head, shot him a scowl through the neck-hole. She was crouched back on the floorboards behind the bed, avoiding the suddenly interested eye of the new father as she changed.

Zevran winked down at her before continuing, so caught up in the introductions that he forgot to leer.

"And this is  _Lady Florence Cousland_ , daughter of the teyrn of Highever."

There was a heavy, shocked silence in the room as Flora shot Zevran a malevolent glare, mouthing a silent insult. The elf was too busy enjoying the stunned expressions of those present to notice.

"She's also a prince's mistress," he continued, gleefully. "Those of you who frequent the tavern might have heard a certain  _explicit_  verse- "

Flora, who was inexplicably struggling with the buttons on the tunic, smacked the elf on the ankle. The midwife let out another snort, placing a hand on the aching small of her back as she squinted down at the young healer.

"I assume the prince is the father, then? Congratulations, that's you set up for life."

Flora, shirt still in her lap as she sat on the uneven floorboards, peered up at the woman in some confusion.

"What?"

The midwife continued, doing some rapid calculations as she cast a practised eye over Flora's abdomen.

"My niece is due around Kingsway too. A baby at that time is always a good omen."

The grin dropped rapidly from Zevran's face, as though some traitor's dagger had been plunged between his ribs. His dark eyes went immediately to Flora, and for once he did not focus on her breasts, but on the gentle curve of her stomach. With an agility of mind comparable to the lean swiftness of his body; he combined this new revelation with the handful of times he had been with her as she puked her guts out inelegantly over the flagstones.

Flora looked at him, then up at the old midwife, her eyebrows rising. She let out an incredulous cackle, gazing down at the slight distension of her stomach.

"Yes, I'm going to name the baby  _Porridge,_ because that's what it is," she retorted defensively, struggling to pull the clean tunic over her head. "It's just a… big breakfast."

The midwife offered no verbal reply, but gave a little snort of derision. Zevran retrieved his bloodied knife, sliding it wordlessly into its sheath before reaching out a slender hand to help Flora clamber to her feet.

The guards could not hide their relief on seeing their charge emerge from the ramshackle dwelling. They had spent an extremely tedious eight hours leaning against the wall, too frightened of Leonas' wrath to venture into the nearby tavern.

Flora looked around, surprised at the length of her shadow on the cobblestones. The sun was beginning to lower itself over the highest ramparts of South Reach; the fortress perched squat and foreboding above them at the top of the rise.

"It's late," she said inanely as Zevran descended the steps behind her.

"We need to get back to prepare for Eamon's celebration," the elf replied, flashing her a distracted little smile. "I believe Leliana has big plans for you."

Flora grimaced at him as the guards cleared their throats, pointedly.

Fortunately, the streets were nearly empty on their way back up to the fortress and they made good time, passing beneath the portcullis just as the sun began to dip below the western hills of the Bannorn.

The guards made a hasty departure to the barracks, grateful that Flora had not proven as difficult as the young arlina to keep track of in the town. Leonas' own adolescent daughter had resented the supervision of an escort, and had frequently made concerted efforts to lose them. Flora, more than used to being supervised, had barely registered their presence.

Zevran followed Flora back towards the arlina's chamber, climbing the western tower staircase until they reached the third floor. Just as she was about to step out into the passage, Zevran reached forward and grabbed her arm.

"A moment of your time,  _mi florita,"_ he murmured, drawing her back into the shadows of the staircase as it wound overhead.

Flora gazed at him and almost giggled; she had never seen the elf in such a dishevelled state. Then she realised that she probably looked even more horrendous, and rapidly stopped laughing.

"You  _are_  certain that you are not…?"

He made a euphemistic gesture with his hand over his stomach, and she frowned.

"Fat?"

The elf laughed despite himself, reaching out to nudge her cheek affectionately with his thumb.

"Don't be ridiculous,  _carina,_ a stiff breeze could blow you away. I mean, you are certain that you are not… with child? You and Alistair have been very  _active."_

Flora gave a big, certain, definitive nod.

"I'm  _sure_ ," she said, smiling back at him. "It's just from too much eating and not enough exercise."

"Good, so your monthly courses have not stopped, then," the elf confirmed, relief warming his sharp Antivan features.

"Oh, they stopped  _ages_  ago," Flora replied cheerfully over her shoulder as she headed into the passageway. "I haven't had one since Orzammar!"

The elf stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widening in sudden, stunned revelation.

As soon as Flora stepped into the arlina's chamber, she heard a little shriek. Leliana, clad in a flimsy fuchsia dressing robe, flew across the flagstones and gripped her tightly by the elbows.

"I was expecting you back  _hours_ ago," she hissed, the Orlesian emerging strongly in her words. "Maker help us, and you're  _filthy."_

Wynne flashed Leliana an indulgent smile from where she was reclining on the chaise. The senior enchanter was busy transferring notes from her personal records onto another missive to Irving; this time, she was updating him on the successful uncovering of Flora's dormant memory. The mage was also curious about the hooded elf who had been responsible for the charm – his face had remained a blur even in Flora's recalled memory.

The room appeared to have been hit by the same calibre of storm that drove ships to pieces on the Hag's Teeth; colourful garments were strewn over every surface and an assortment of shoes lay scattered before the hearth. The top of the dressing table had been transformed into a dragon's treasure horde, laden with gleaming hairpieces and jewellery.

"Sorry," muttered Flora, casting a dubious look over her shoulder as Leliana manoeuvred her impatiently through the chamber. "Where did you find all of these things?"

"They belong to Leonas' daughter, the arlina," murmured Wynne over the top of her letters. "He certainly spoils her."

As soon as they had entered the washroom, Leliana began to fuss around the copper bathtub, retrieving a number of glass vials from a cabinet beside the door.

"Take off your clothes," the Chantry sister instructed in a tone that brokered no argument, her nostrils flaring. "Ugh, what are you _covered_  in?"

"Everything" replied Flora, pulling the tunic over her head and wriggling out of her breeches. Leliana began to tip a number of unguent liquids into the bathtub, tutting impatiently as she felt the temperature of the water.

"This would have been  _hot_ if you'd arrived earlier."

Flora kept one ear on Leliana's irritated muttering, her eyes turning to the mirror to meet her own solemn reflection. Pale grey eyes lowered to her own belly, the faint ghost of a curve visible to what had formerly been flat. Flora put a hand on the slight roundedness experimentally, squinting at herself in the mirror.

_I_ can't _be,_ she thought to herself, trying her best to rationalise the situation.  _It's impossible. I remember the other Wardens talking about it._

_It was sometime in the strange days between her Joining and before Loghain's fatal betrayal. The men and women at Ostagar were living on a knife-edge of apprehension; each dawn bringing the possibility that this could be the day of the Darkspawn's final assault. Cailan was on edge because one of his scouting parties – the one headed by Fergus Cousland - had not returned from the Korcari Wilds._

_However, there was little tension in the camp of the Grey Wardens, who were used to waiting. They sat huddled around campfires, drinking and talking quietly amongst themselves; sharing fragments of the dark humour that characterised their company._

_To the chagrin of certain individuals, two Warden-recruits were sharing a campfire with the Warden-Commander himself, Duncan of Rivain. The other senior wardens were used to Alistair's presence – they had all guessed that he must have been the bastard of somebody important – but now Alistair was joined by an even newer recruit. Rumours were that this girl could barely cast a spell; and the more malicious rumours suggested that the Rivaini had a fancy for young redheaded mages._

_Flora, still feeling out of place in such a masculine, militaristic setting, was sitting beside Alistair and trying to make herself as unobtrusive as possible. Alistair was unconsciously leaning towards the other Wardens, unsuccessfully trying to insinuate himself into their conversation. Duncan was sitting back, contemplating his flagon, lost in thought._

" _So this Chantry sister has been giving me the eye for weeks now. I think tonight might be the night!" declared one piratical-looking Warden as he downed his bottle, gold tooth flashing. Another man let out a bark of laughter, lip curling._

" _You're Blight-touched, Ewan. They swear vows of chastity, you great idiot!"_

_The man named both Ewan and idiot gave a little shrug, smiling superciliously._

" _Hasn't stopped me in the past, has it?"_

" _Aye, it's a good thing Wardens can't father children or your brats'd be popping up all over Ferelden in nine months time!"_

_The conversation continued along similar lines, before veering off into teasing Alistair about his virginal status and watching him go red. When their gaze turned towards Flora and one man opened his mouth to make a crude suggestion, Duncan's eyes opened with a flare of anger colder than an Anderfels wind._

" _You will cease," he said flatly; and neither Flora nor Alistair were ever teased along such lines again for the remainder of their time at Ostagar._

Back in the arlina's bathchamber at South Reach, Flora was reassured.

_Wardens can't father children,_ she thought to herself, firmly.  _It's just too much porridge in the mornings. Or too much snacking._

"When you've  _stopped_ gawking at yourself in the mirror!" Leliana hissed, her nostrils flaring.

Flora obediently returned to the bard and clambered into the bathtub, pleasantly surprised that her knee appeared to be co-operating this evening. Immediately, she wrinkled her nose and stared up at the Chantry sister.

"This water stinks," she said with Herring bluntness, clapping her wet knees together. Leliana let out a little sound of exasperation, wielding a comb like a weapon.

"It does not  _stink,_ it's scented with pomegranate oil from Antiva."

" _Oil?"_ replied Flora, grimacing slightly as Leliana took a deep breath and grabbed a wet tangled mass of hair. "We press fish oil in Herring. It's greasy."

"Well- " snarled Leliana, slowly growing redder in the face as she wrestled the comb through Flora's hair. "It's not  _fish_ oil, and this isn't Herring. Maker help me, I'm going to  _make_  you into a Cousland this evening, whether you like it or not."

The pungent scent rose into Flora's nostrils and she sneezed, pulling a face as Leliana yanked at her hair with ungentle hands.

"Ouch!"

"Do you ever  _brush_ your hair? What's this?!"

Flora parted the wet strands hanging over her eyes and peered at the small clump of foliage held between Leliana's disdainful fingers.

"That's from the Brecilian Forest," she offered, recognising the dark purple leaves. Leliana let out a little shriek, her eyes widening.

"For the love of Andraste, that was  _weeks_ ago!"

Leliana continued to wax lyrical about the state of Flora's hair, wrestling the brush through the tangles with gritted teeth as beads of sweat erupted on her brow. Flora was only half-listening, continuing to rationalise away the peculiarities of her own body.

_My courses have stopped and I feel sick because of contact with the Darkspawn,_ she thought to herself as Leliana bemoaned the state of her nails.  _And I've been lounging around a castle rather than walking across Ferelden, so that explains the belly._

Thus reassured, Flora rose dripping to her feet and clambered out of the bath, turning around to let Leliana wind a silk dressing robe around her.

"Go and sit by the fire," instructed a red-faced bard, wiping the beads of sweat from her forehead. "Andraste, that was a trial."

Back in the main chamber Flora lowered herself to the rug before the flames, clutching the silk robe closed. She manoeuvred the heavy mass of wet hair over her face, bowing her head to position it as close to the hearth as she dared. Leliana emerged with her own hair wet, seating herself down before the Orlesian dressing table and patting her face dry.

"Wynne, I wish you'd allow me to assist you," the bard mused wistfully, combing out her own short, vibrant locks. "I could turn you into the most elegant dowager."

Wynne smiled, putting a lined hand to her own tightly restrained bun.

"My dear, this old lady's days of glamour are long past," she murmured, her eyes distant. "I'm quite content to see you girls peacocking around."

Leliana smiled benevolently back at the senior enchanter, while Flora peered nonplussed through her mass of hair from the floor.

"Peacocking? What's a  _peacock?_ " she asked plaintively, having never seen or heard of the exotic Orlesian bird before. "I don't want- I don't want to be  _peacocking_  around."

A glowering Leliana's head spun on her shoulders, lips pursing.

"This won't be a repeat of Satinalia," she hissed, recalling how Flora had worn a haphazard combination of leather boots and a servant's plain grey dress. "You're a  _Cousland_ now and will appear as such!"

Flora was about to open her mouth in a retort when the door swung back, thudding against the wall. It was rapidly followed by the sound of boots against flagstones. She squinted blindly through her mass of wet hair, only to see Alistair crouching before her, still in his rumpled day wear. He peeled back the damp red strands until he could see his sister-warden's face, and then took her cheeks in his calloused palms.

"I missed you," he breathed, eyes moving over her features. "The elf told me where you'd both been all day. Well, at first he told me you'd both been  _'getting intimate'_ in a South Reach tavern for hours, but he eventually told the truth."

Flora eyed her brother-warden but he said nothing else and she breathed a small sigh of relief, realising that Zevran had not also passed on his suspicions. When she smiled back at him, Alistair let out a muffled groan under his breath.

"Maker, you're so beautiful," he murmured, leaning forward to kiss her through the wet hair.

"Don't you maul her around now that she's clean!" hissed Leliana in alarm. "Well, now, that's  _very_ inappropriate, Alistair."

Alistair withdrew reluctantly, grinning down at his sister-warden.

"I'll see you later. I assume Eamon has something for me to wear, or else I'll be going in this."

Flora watched him leave mournfully, and then tilted her head back towards the flames, holding out clumps of damp hair to the cedar-scented heat.

Leliana began to rub at her own hair with a square of linen, shaking wet droplets out over her shoulders. Flora watched the bard curiously from between her knees as she crouched over before the hearth.

"I look like I'm worshipping the fire," she said, her voice muffled by the hair. "Don't they worship fire in Tevinter?"

"Don't be blasphemous," chided Leliana, dropping the linen square and inspecting an array of fine Orlesian smallclothes that had been laid out on the bed. "Keep your head in front of the hearth."

"No, Florence, they worship the Maker in Tevinter, as does most of Thedas," replied Wynne, more patiently. "Where did you pick up this erroneous information? Certainly not from a Circle classroom."

Flora didn't have the heart to tell Wynne that she had spent more time washing tiles and sweeping corridors than inside a classroom during her time at Kinloch Hold. Instead, she watched Leliana select a silk camisole in a delicate shade of rose blush, feeling the texture of the fabric between her fingers.

"The arl spends well on his women," murmured the bard, slipping the garment on over her head and smoothing it over her taut stomach. "You could do worse for a husband, Florence."

Flora gave a nondescript grunt, head still hanging before the fire. Feeling beads of sweat prickle on her forehead; she crossed the chamber and wedged herself in the window. Tilting her head back, she allowed her hair to hang out of the open arrow-slit, feeling it catch the evening breeze.

Wynne looked up from her letters, eyebrows rising as she saw Flora with her feet apart, bracing herself against the stone.

"An interesting pose, child. I wonder what Leonas Bryland would think if he walked in now."

"He'd think,  _what an acrobatic and agile person_ ," retorted Flora, watching dubiously as Leliana smoothed a green paste over her skin. "He'd think: she's so  _bendy."_

The sound of voices drifted up from the courtyard below and she peered over her shoulder to see servants carrying platters of food across from the kitchens, ignoring the pleading whines of the begging Mabari. The sun had lowered itself fully beneath the horizon, and the lamp boys were just starting their rounds. One by one, the torches on the ramparts flared into life, casting pools of warmth over the impassive stone.

Wynne finished her letter to Irving, signing her name with a flourish and touching a nearby candle to the parchment roll to seal it. Leliana had darkened her eyes with a mixture of elderberry juice and ash, and was in the process of painting her mouth red with ochre. Flora, after returning to the fireplace, sat down cross-legged before the flames and watched Leliana in open fascination.

Leliana dabbed her mouth dry, then caught sight of Flora's astonished face in the mirror.

"Did you never watch your  _mama_  putting on cosmetics?" she asked, dusting rouge over her cheeks. "I used to watch my old mistress in Orlais put her face-paint on every morning. She would transform from an ordinary lady into a dazzling vision, like a butterfly. It was amazing to see."

Flora envisioned her mother, who had salt-blasted skin and hands red-raw from decades of life on Ferelden's harshest coast.

"No. We didn't even have a mirror," she replied honestly, combing her fingers through her hair. Leliana shot her a little glance, pinning glass chandeliers to her ears.

"No, I meant the  _teyrna,_ Eleanor Cousland. Do you remember watching her?"

"Oh," replied Flora, wrinkling her nose as she tentatively probed the freshly uncovered part of her mind. "No, I don't think I ever watched her in the morning. I… I was with an older woman most of the time – Nan?"

Leliana gave a little shrug, tossing her hair and gazing at her reflection in the mirror. Wynne glanced over the top of her book and smiled at the bard, nodding.

"I assume that is from your  _own_  wardrobe, and not the young arlina."

Leliana was clothed from head to toe in rich raspberry silk, the fabric drawn into swags and ruffles with cunningly hidden laces; plunging at the front to reveal a magnificent cleavage. Rubies gleamed at her throat and on her wrists, and a scarlet enamelled comb had been wedged into her elaborately braided hair. She wore little boots decorated with pink silk flowers and fastened with tiny buttons.

"You look fresh from the Empress' court at Val Royeaux," murmured the senior enchanter, affectionately. "A fragment of Orlesian glamour in the heart of Ferelden."

Leliana beamed, secure in the knowledge that she would be the most glamorous attendee at Arl Eamon's celebration.

"I'm taking no chances with assassins on the prowl," she informed them, lifting the gauzy skirt to show a glittering blade strapped to her thigh.

The bard looked over at Flora, extending a lean, muscled forearm. "Come here,  _petite,_ your hair is dry now."

Flora obediently went to sit at the dressing table, as Leliana wielded the comb for a second time that evening.

"What do you think, Lady Cousland? Good enough for an arl's birthday?" the bard asked playfully, working the comb through the mass of dark red hair.

"You look like a Rivaini rainbow shark," replied Flora, beaming. "All shiny, – and dangerous."

Leliana arched a freshly plucked eyebrow, moving onto a new section of hair. "Is that a good thing,  _ma crevette?"_

"Yes," replied Flora, earnestly. "You look good enough to eat."

She turned her head and bit the back of Leliana's hand, light enough to leave no lasting mark. Leliana laughed, ruffling Flora's hair before compulsively smoothing the dishevelled strands back down.

"Now it's your turn," the bard announced, flexing her arms as though about to venture into battle. Flora gazed warily down at the variety of pots and palettes spread over the dresser, then back up at Leliana's masterfully painted face.

"Don't look so alarmed," the lay-sister chided, reaching instead for the hairbrush. "Your eyes stand out clear enough that any further attempt to accentuate them would look clownish; and I'd not make that wide mouth look any larger with paint."

Flora, wondering if she was being subtly insulted, slumped down on the chair and stared at her lap. Wynne, who had prepared herself as much as she was willing, let out a soft snort from the chaise.

"Flora, there's no need to sulk," the senior enchanter proceeded to admonish. "The inference to be made is that your face has no need of cosmetic enhancement, and that such would only  _cheapen_  it. It was a compliment, child, so accept it graciously."

"Oh," said Flora, slightly bemused. "Thank you."

Leliana snorted, running her fingers through the thick, heavy mass of hair.

"This, however, we  _are_  going to do something with," she announced, wielding metal pins between experienced fingers.

After a concerted effort with much gritting of teeth from both parties, Leliana had succeeded in taming Flora's hair into a thick braid, winding it around her head and pinning the excess in a bun at the back.

Flora eyed herself in the mirror dubiously, watching Leliana pull down several strategic tendrils.

"Do my ears stick out?" she asked, turning her head from side to side tentatively.

Leliana ignored her, tripping neatly over to the bed in her heels and rummaging through the pile of clothing. Eventually she held up an armful of navy blue silk, canting her head towards Flora.

"Find some smalls and come here. Hurry up, we don't have much time left!"

Flora, failing to see the emergency, rather dejectedly retrieved a pair of pale blue silk bloomers and trudged over towards Leliana. She wished heartily that she could attend Arl Eamon's celebration in her pyjamas and depart after fifteen minutes with a plate from the banquet; whereupon she would return to the arlina's chamber and eat the food while struggling gamely through another chapter of  _Exotic Fish of Thedas._ It did not occur to Flora for a moment that – as a Grey Warden, and a teyrn's daughter,  _and_  the mistress of a prince – she could have done exactly this.

It was both duty and a lifelong habit of obedience that prompted Flora to stand still and allow Leliana to fasten the dress at the back. It was cut in a style clearly meant for a girl on the cusp of adulthood; demurely hiding cleavage while leaving shoulders bare, the silken neckline dropping lower in the back than in the front. The skirt fell to the knee, and to Leliana's irritation, it was not quite low enough to hide the leather strapping around Flora's knee.

"You see the colour? Cousland blue," whispered Leliana, stroking a hand over the shot-silk fabric. "It goes well with your hair, no?"

Flora followed Leliana's finger and gazed at herself in the mirror. The dress was a rich navy, bordering on royal blue; the memory of similar-shaded banners adorning Highever rose unwanted to the surface of her mind. Despite the beauty of the dress, it was strange to see her bare shoulders exposed and even stranger to think that the material on her body most likely held more value than the collective wealth of Herring.

She began to feel distinctly miserable, even more so when Leliana presented her with a pair of shot-silk slippers in a matching hue. While the bard praised the Maker that Flora and the fifteen year old arlina were so similar in build and stature; Flora slid her feet into the slippers and thought that she had never worn anything so uncomfortable in her life. She thought longingly of her leather boots, which she had owned since Ostagar and which had transported her across Ferelden without a single blister.

"One more thing," whispered Leliana, crossing to the dresser and lifting out a flat, polished wood box. Flora gazed at it and felt a lurch of trepidation in her stomach; she had seen this container before, the lid raised by a cautious, hopeful Fergus.

Sure enough, Leliana opened the box and lifted out the gold laurel headpiece that had been in the Cousland dynasty for generations, last worn by the late teyrna herself.

"Fergus gave me this for you to wear," murmured Leliana, reaching out to nestle it gently on Flora's head. "There.  _C'est parfait_."

Leliana began to fuss around with various bottles of perfume, chattering away excitedly to the senior enchanter. Wynne reluctantly rose from the chaise and smoothed down the wrinkles in her dress, responding with measured calmness.

Flora ignored them both, staring at the teyrn's daughter reflected in the mirror. Her own face gazed back at her, solemn and strange, hair piled up on her head and crowned with the gleaming headpiece. The dress rustled as she moved, the silk fabric whispering of an abundance of wealth; the bare shoulders and neckline defiantly impractical. Despite the fact that she was geographically closer to the northern coast than she had been in months, Flora had never felt further from Herring in her life.

"Alright," said Leliana finally, scenting her wrists with orange and bergamot. "I think we're ready."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OOOOH I love a good getting ready for a party chapter! Poor Leliana – I love how determined she is in this chapter. Fergus has clearly given her the unenviable task of transforming the reluctant Flora into a Cousland, and Leliana has risen to the challenge. Leliana is a bit like the Hermione of this series – she does everything behind the scenes.
> 
> So the experienced midwife has correctly surmised that Flora is two months pregnant (the current time being the beginning of Cloudreach). This brings the total to as follows:-
> 
> People who know that Flora is up the duff: Wynne, Zevran, Leonas, Teagan, Eamon, Morrigan
> 
> People in major denial: Flora
> 
> People who are oblivious: Alistair
> 
> lol


	183. Arl Eamon's Birthday Celebrations

As if on cue, there came a decisive rap on the door.

"Ladies, are you going to grace us with your presence anytime soon, or do we have to wait for the Arl's forty- _eighth_  birthday?" enquired Finian lightly, his voice muffled through the wood.

Leliana hurried over to the door, moving deftly despite her raised heels, and swung it open. Finian, resplendent in a velvet tunic of the same Cousland seawater-blue, made a deep bow on seeing her. His grey eyes, so similar to Flora's own, sparkled as he rose, taking her hand and kissing it.

"Why, Leliana, you're almost enough to convert me to the fairer sex," he murmured, smelling the perfume on the inside of her wrist. "Bergamot is such a bold choice; I  _adore_ it. How is our little protégée? Did she put up much resistance?"

"She was as good as gold," replied Leliana loyally, stepping to one side. "Broke  _three_ combs getting through that mass of hair, though."

Finian came forward, mouth curling in preparation to make a witty rejoinder, and then he saw Flora and stopped abruptly. Flora stared back at him, grateful that her face had settled into its usual customary solemnity; which effectively disguised her growing reservations.

"Flossie," he said after a moment, stepping forward to touch the thick, dark red braid wound around her head. His fingers drifted to the golden laurel, the cold metal resting against her ears.

"You look…  _magnificent_. A true Fereldan princess. Come on, take my arm. We're walking in together."

"I'll be down presently," murmured Wynne, turning over to a new chapter in her book.

As Flora slid her hand through Finian's arm dutifully, only half-listening to his excited babble, she focused determinedly on her stomach. The youngest Cousland willed it to turn over and churn within the tight silk confines of the dress; praying inwardly that she would be struck down with nausea and could plead the sanctuary of her bed. Unfortunately, her belly remained even and settled, without even a hint of disturbance.

The party ventured out into the passageway, the South Reach guards standing to attending as they emerged. Finian explained that Alistair and Fergus had already accompanied Arl Eamon down to the great hall, where the celebrations were just beginning.

Zevran was waiting in the corridor, absentmindedly fiddling with a suit of armour standing guard outside the Guerrin quarters. He was dressed in an inky purple tunic so dark it appeared black and liquidous, his platinum hair standing out stark against the velvet. Letting the visor drop with a rusted clank, he turned around and pretended to faint on seeing Leliana; resting slender tan fingers against his forehead.

"It's the Empress Celene herself," he announced, kissing the flushing bard on both cheeks. "How daring of you to venture so far outside of Orlesian borders!"

Then Zevran turned to Flora, and the only sign of surprise on his face was a slight lifting of a single brow. The elf came forward and kissed her hand, his eyes moving admiringly along the dark blue lines of Flora's body, the golden laurel leaves tangled in hair as dark and red as seaweed.

" _Carina,_ you look like a mermaid granted legs for a single night," he murmured, eyeing her bitten nails as he released her fingers. "Straight from the depths of the Waking Sea."

If the elf had hoped that his marine-influenced compliment would raise a smile from its recipient, he was mistaken. Flora gazed at him as though looking straight through to the suit of armour beyond, grey eyes distant and dreaming.

Finian took her arm proudly and Zevran took Leliana's; the two pairs making their way down the west tower staircase and across the ramparts. The sound of music was already drifting from the doors of the great hall, a crack of light spilling out onto the flagstones.

The dark blue slippers were quickly becoming the most hated item in Flora's existence, followed closely by the golden wreath. Each seemed to be determined to inflict as much discomfort as possible on their respective parts of her anatomy. The headpiece and hair combined pressed down on her ears, and she was certain that several more tendrils were snaking their way defiantly free of the pins.

" _Mi sirenita,_ " murmured Zevran from behind her as they crossed the main courtyard. "You would look even lovelier if you accessorised that dress with a smile. You look as though you are in mourning."

_I am in mourning,_ she felt like retorting,  _for Flora of Herring._

Glancing across at her brother's proud face, Flora felt the invisible weight of the Cousland mantle resting heavily on her shoulders, and instead said nothing.

Then the guards had opened the doors to the great hall and they were enveloped within a cauldron of light, and people; a miasma of cedar-scented smoke and laughter, the sound of fiddles ploughing merrily away in the background. Both hearths were blazing, illuminating the high wooden eaves of the hall and casting flickering patterns of light on the faces of those standing nearby. The long tables had been pushed back to create a floor for dancing; their surfaces laden with platters, tureens and spit-roasted meats. Mabari wove their way between the retainers of those nobles that had not made their way to Denerim, the Bann of Calon's soldiers among them. Several of Eamon's men were dancing with Leonas' servants in the centre of the room; still more were laughing and gesticulating around the perimeter with flagons of ale. Teagan was trapped in what appeared to be a one-sided conversation with Oghren, as the dwarf leaned against one of the vast free-standing kegs brought up from the buttery.

Eamon himself was at the far wall, talking to a stern-faced Leonas. Despite the merriment and revelry going on around him, the Arl of South Reach maintained his usual militaristic  _mien._ Beside him, two well-bred nobles leaned against the table; their lofty stature evident by the quality of the fur trimming their doublets and the thin golden bands resting atop their highborn brows.

"Let's go and greet them," whispered Finian in Flora's ear, steering her deftly around the edge of the milling crowd. "Alistair looks very handsome, doesn't he? I could definitely see myself becoming  _his_ subject."

Flora looked again and recognised Alistair as the second of the two nobles, her mouth opening slightly in shock as she stared at him. He stood slightly apart from those around him with chin raised; Flora, now having access to the memories of her childhood, could see quite how strongly he resembled the old king, Maric. She stopped quite suddenly, feeling a wash of loneliness flood over her; the gulf widening between her and her brother-warden even as the miles elongated between herself and Herring.

Just then there came a small ripple of recognition in the hall as the newcomers' presence was noted. The men broke into a ragged recantation of  _Warden Flora_ – to Fergus' relief, they did not continue to the second verse.

Alistair's eyes focused on hers through the crowd, and Flora could see transparent delight flooding his face. Leaving the two arls behind, he strode across the room towards her, men and servants parting dutifully before the bastard prince. Finian loosed her hand just in time as Alistair took her in his arms; kissing her in a way that he would never have dared to do in public several months prior.

"Flo, you're late," he complained after finally letting her go, leaving her breathless and with several more strands of hair hanging loose from the pins. "I was about to come and get you."

Flora smiled up at him, relieved in a way that she couldn't quite articulate. Alistair grinned at Finian, deftly taking Flora's arm himself.

"Sorry," she said, as he led her across the flagstones towards Eamon. "It takes longer to put on fancy clothes than it does normal clothes, I don't know why."

"Doesn't she look beautiful?" interjected Finian from behind. Alistair glanced at Flora; eyes moving from the golden laurel leaves tangled in her hair, to the navy shot-silk slippers.

"Flo always looks beautiful," he said after a moment, with a little half-shrug. "She could have come in her shirt and breeches, and still be the loveliest here. Are you  _comfortable_  in that stuff, my dear?"

It was the kindest thing that anybody had said to Flora all evening. She squeezed Alistair's hand tightly, and then they were in front of Eamon. The Arl smiled down at her kindly through his grey beard, inclining his head in greeting.

"Happy birthday," Flora said, forgetting that she did not need to show deference and dropping in humble obeisance. Eamon swiftly and gently brought her up again, nodding.

"Thank you, child. I understand that you and Alistair both have a birthday in the next few months."

Flora nodded, glancing up at her brother-warden.

"First of Solace," she replied, feeling Alistair rub his thumb fondly over the centre of her palm.

"For a single day, I'll be twenty one and you'll still be nineteen," he murmured, referring to his own birthday a day prior. "I'll be accused of cradle-snatching."

They moved on to Leonas, whose eyes darted quickly over Flora before returning assiduously to somewhere above her left shoulder.

"Thank you for the loan of your daughter's dress," she said, not quite able to bring herself to show gratitude for the hated shoes. "I'll… try not to spill anything on it."

The Arl of South Reach nodded, dark eyes returning to hers.

"Keep it," he said abruptly, voice gruff as always. "Suits you better than Habren."

"Thank you," repeated Flora, remembering with a start that she had promised to either accept or reject his proposal by the following morning. In truth, the day had been so fraught and frenetic that she had barely spared a thought to becoming Leonas' nominal wife. Alistair gripped her hand and bestowed a tight smile on the arl, nudging her towards Fergus.

Leliana had already taken up position amongst the fiddle-players, determined to steer the music towards a more Orlesian theme. Lifting her lute with a pretty little smile, aware that many eyes were settling on her, she joined in contrapuntal harmony with the fiddles.

Fergus was standing stiff and unhappy at the end of the table, and Flora remembered Alistair mentioning that her brothers were not speaking to one another. Not quite feeling ready to facilitate any familial reconciliation; Flora approached him with her customary solemn expression.

"Thank you for lending me the hat," she said after a moment, awkwardly.

Fergus glanced down at his little sister, taking in the golden laurel on her head and the Cousland colours on her body.

"It's not a  _ha-_... It should be yours anyway, Florence. It belongs to a Lady Cousland."

For a moment a shadow passed across his features, and he looked away at nothing in particular on the far wall.

"It would have belonged to Oriana," he said after a moment, voice distant. "But- she's not-… Anyway, it belongs to you, now."

Flora stared at him, unsure of what to say. Before she could speak, Fergus had given a stiff nod and turned away towards Leonas.

"I'm sorry, my boy. You're too young to be a widower- " she faintly heard Arl Bryland murmur, before Alistair steered her tactfully away.

"Want to get some food?" her brother-warden asked Flora and she nodded, gratefully.

Finian let out a small yelp of protest. He had pointedly ignored his elder brother for the duration of the interaction; still fuming about the revelation that it had been Fergus who had first identified Flora as a mage.

"You're not going to dance?" he asked incredulously, eyebrows rising as she shook her head. Flora's attention was now fully focused on the banquet table, drawn to it as if by some supernatural force.

"My Rialto lily only dances with men who remind her of her Herring-papa," murmured Zevran from behind them, sipping delicately from a chalice of wine. "No-one here is old enough, or hairy enough, or has the correct fishy aroma."

Some time later, the celebrations were gathering momentum. The first three kegs had been drained to the last drop and Arl Leonas had sent for further stock to be brought up from the buttery. To Leliana's delight, she had successfully managed to insinuate some pretty little Orlesian dances into the musical repertoire; which would give her a chance to show off her excellent formal dancing skills.

To her delight, Finian had extensive experience from his years at the University in Val Royeaux; and he proved to be an excellent and fleet-footed partner. Afterwards, Leliana decided not to try her luck with Arl Leonas- who had a face like granite and did not appear to enjoy socialising - instead demanding a dance from Alistair.

Too courteous to decline, Alistair found himself sequestered into a further three dances with the delighted bard. He manoeuvred her dutifully around the floor just as he had done during the Satinalia celebrations at Redcliffe, and hoped fervently that she would not proposition him again.

Flora had found herself a prime position beside the tables loaded with food, tucked away near a tall freestanding vase. She still felt vaguely fraudulent, and very far from Herring. The silken slippers kept sliding off her feet, her bare shoulders were cold; and worst of all, her hair was defying Leliana's artistry and making a joyful bid to escape.

Using food to distract herself from how miserable she felt, she had mechanically eaten her way through several bunches of grapes, seven plums and the majority of a spit-roasted chicken. Recalling what Leliana had commented about her belly, she was studiously ignoring the end of the table laden with sweetmeats and pastries.

"Here we are at another ball, many months after Satinalia, and you're still standing beside the banquet," murmured a voice in her ear. Flora turned around and saw Teagan smiling down at her, trim in Guerrin scarlet. "How are the oysters?"

Flora looked down at the small pile of empty shells stacked neatly on the table beside her, and then gave a little grimace.

"They don't taste like the oysters from home," she replied with a scowl, washing the taste down with a gulp of mead. The golden prickle rose in her throat as her body reflexively neutralised the alcohol before it could reach her stomach.

"They're probably from the Amaranthine Ocean," replied Teagan, leaning over her shoulder and taking one.

Flora's nostrils flared at the mention of Rendon Howe's arling, and she delicately put the traitorous seafood back down on the plate.

"Bann Teagan," she said after a moment, recalling Zevran's comment back in the Brecilian Forest. "Did you know that oysters are an  _aphrodisiac?"_

To Flora's slight bemusement, Teagan almost choked on the oyster as it slid down his throat, spluttering.

"What  _is_  an aphrodisiac, anyway?" she asked, wondering why a flush was slowly rising from the collar of the bann's scarlet tunic. It looked as though the dye had leaked from the material and was gradually seeping up his neck, staining the flesh a deep crimson.

"You should, ah, ask someone your own age about that," Teagan muttered in a strangulated voice, taking a slightly too large gulp of mead. "Ask Alistair."

Flora shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, then decided to throw caution to the wind. She eased the slippers off and let her bare feet rest on the flagstones, exhaling a little sigh of relief.

"We used to eat oysters all the time in Herring," she said after a moment, a note of melancholy creeping into her tone. "There would be dozens of them caught in the Hag's Teeth during low tide. We'd eat half and then sell the rest to Highever for more than they were worth."

"There are molluscs in Calenhad that the Redcliffe fishers collect every spring," replied Teagan softly, seeing that she was forlorn. "A cook in Eamon's kitchen makes an excellent pie with them."

Flora stared down at the empty shells of the oysters for a moment, feeling the tell-tale prickling at the corners of her eyes that boded impending tears.

"I want to go home," she said suddenly, while simultaneously knowing that this was impossible. Teagan gazed down at her, grey-green eyes growing shadowed with concern. A sudden tear rolled down her fine-boned Cousland nose, and she brushed it away roughly.

"I'm sorry," Flora muttered, abandoning the shoes and scuttling purposefully off, losing herself in the crowd before the hearth. Teagan stared after her for a moment, and then set off to find the young healer's brother-warden.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: More evidence of Alistair becoming 'hardened' – or more confident as I see it – in that he's not embarrassed of kissing Flo in public now.
> 
> Lol at Alistair saying that it was cradle-snatching being 21 while Flora was still 19 in front of Arl Eamon – Isolde literally looks about two decades younger than him, ho ho ho
> 
> HAPPY 74TH BIRTHDAY ARL EAMON


	184. Comfort

The celebrations in the great hall seemed to be escalating; the men and women of South Reach delighted with some respite from the looming spectre of Mac Tir, Howe and the encroaching Blight. Flora, feeling her composure slipping, edged her way through a crowd of drunken retainers. They appeared to be cheering on a drinking contest between Oghren and a bearded man in Teagan's Rainesfere livery.

Eventually Flora managed to work her way into the main hallway, where a vast set of stairs linked the lower to the upper floor of the fortress. As she entered the cavernous space, she reflexively glanced up to where a hastily plastered-over gash in the ceiling marked where the Orlesian glass chandelier had once hung.

Lowering her gaze, Flora caught sight of Wynne having a sedate conversation with the Circle emissary Pether on the upper balcony. Not wanting to draw any attention to herself, she sidled barefoot into a rear corridor leading off the main hallway; lit only by torches and lined with nondescript wooden doors. She turned blindly off into another unremarkable stone passageway, lined with a series of marble busts standing on plinths nearly as tall as she was.

Pausing halfway down the shadowed passage, Flora came to an abrupt halt. Glancing over her shoulder to confirm that nobody had followed her, she flattened herself beside a particularly stern bust of an elderly man and put her face in her hands. Confident that no one else was in earshot, she began to sniffle, the tears rolling freely down her cheeks. She pressed her fingers into her eyes in an effort to arrest their progress; but they continued to spring forth determinedly.

As her shoulders shuddered, she felt her elaborately  _coiffed_ hair tremble, more curling strands making wild attempts at freedom. The Cousland laurel had slipped down over one eye, one cold golden leaf was jabbing her in her copiously running nose. Removing her hands from her face to readjust the wreath, Flora glanced sideways at the scowling marble bust of the man alongside her. Despite herself, she leaned forward and peered at the brass nameplate, mouthing the name carefully to herself.

Flora was so absorbed in deciphering the letters that she didn't notice the form looming towards her out of the shadows until it was almost on top of her.

"S- _shister_ - _warden_ ," breathed Alistair, closing in as she flattened herself against the wall, startled. " _What'sh_  wrong, my darling?"

Fingers a fraction clumsier than usual reached out to caress her face; Flora stared up at him and the bastard prince suppressed a hiccup.

"Brother-warden," she whispered, smiling despite her melancholy. "Your breath smells like wine."

Alistair let out a groan, his thumb edging around her hairline as he gazed somewhat hazily down at her face. His other hand went to her shoulder, touching the bare skin almost reverently.

"It's your brother's fault," he whispered back, conspiratorially. "That Antivan stuff  _ish_  lethal. What are you doing out here on your own, sweetheart?"

Flora gestured at the scowling marble head beside her.

"Spending time with Ser Louse Bryland," she informed him, rubbing her eyes unceremoniously on her sleeve. "I was homesick."

"Ser  _Louse?"_ replied Alistair in disbelief, squinting somewhat blearily down at the nameplate. It was inscribed with the label  _Ser Louis Bryland._

Flora gazed up at him, her lower eyelashes stuck together in dark clumps against her cheeks. Her brother-warden slid his arms around her waist, leaning her back against the stone wall and pressing a clumsy kiss to her bare shoulder.

"Why did you come to  _Ser Louse_ , and not to me?" Alistair mumbled into Flora's neck, breathing warm and grape-scented against her skin. " _I'm_  the one who makes you feel better when you're  _homeshick_."

"You were busy," Flora replied weakly; Alistair drew his head back and shot her a look that suggested he would not fall for such a lame excuse, even in his impaired condition.

"Flo, tell me the truth," he said in her ear, his voice so soft that she had to strain to hear it.

In response, Flora lifted a finger to her head and pointed in stiff and wordless outrage to the golden Cousland wreath, eyes welling once again.

In that trembling gesture was everything that Alistair needed to know. Leaning forward to kiss her on the forehead, he reached out to gently untangle the laurel wreath from her hair.

"Let's give this to  _Ser Louse_  to guard for the moment, eh? In fact, let's give him mine too."

Alistair placed the golden wreath carefully on the statue's head, balancing his own lordly band on top. "There we go, my darling. Better?"

Flora nodded, and Alistair grinned affectionately down at her. Knowing that his fingers were less nimble than usual, he began to unravel her elaborate hairstyle gently; letting the metal pins drop to the floor while he unwound the lopsided braid. As he combed out the dark red strands with his fingers, letting them fall loosely over her chest; Flora felt more than one type of weight lifting from her shoulders.

"There we go, my Herring mermaid," Alistair said at last, picking up a handful of her dense fall of hair and running it over his palm. "Maker, you could bury yourself in this. Or sell it to ropemakers…  _hic!"_

Finally, Flora beamed back up at him and he let out a little groan, leaning forward and cradling her cheeks between his palms.

"I would walk," he murmured, enunciating each word slow and deliberate in an effort to stop them from slurring together. "From Denerim to…  _Minrathous_  for that smile."

The heat of Alistair's stare was akin to standing too close to the hearth; Flora felt her cheeks flare despite the coolness of the shadowed corridor. She dropped her eyes to the flagstones, only for him to tilt her face back up towards his own. She could see a minuscule reflected flicker of herself lodged deep within his enlarged dark pupil.

His desiring mouth sought out hers, fierce enough to make her gasp; then his lips slid sideways and crashed against her neck, administering kisses that were wine-blurred and clumsy. He gripped her around the waist and pushed her back against the wall, pelvis driving hard and insistent against her own. She let out a little squeak as he bit at her collarbone, just hard enough to leave a slight indentation; one hand rummaging underneath the silken navy skirt.

Flora felt her legs tremble beneath her and gripped a fistful of his velvet tunic to keep herself upright. Alistair let out a low growl against her bare shoulder, rapidly following it with a hiccup.

"You  _shmell_ … nice," the bastard prince murmured blearily, continuing his clumsy fondling between her thighs as he inhaled.

"Leliana gave me an oil bath," replied Flora, feeling him stiffen against her. A helpless groan of desire escaped Alistair's throat and he began to work her more insistently with his fingers.

" _Did_  she," he breathed throatily, pressing his lips to the small swell of breast visible above the blue silk neckline. Flora nodded and he gave a strangled moan, clumsily thrusting his breeches down sufficient to expose his length. Gathering her skirts up around her thighs, he pulled the Orlesian silk smalls to one side and lifted her against the wall. Sensing that his accuracy was possibly slightly impaired, Flora reached down to help guide him inside her.

Alistair took her against the wall of the passageway, no less ardent in his desire for his drink-induced clumsiness. Despite their concealment in the shadows, the rhythmic sound of damp flesh meeting and parting, and the moans that accompanied such activity, were blatantly incriminating. Fortunately, nobody else ventured into such an isolated rear passageway; and Alistair covered the sound of her climax with his mouth, following himself a few seconds later.

The next moment, he let out a great hiccup that echoed around the walls of the passageway. Flora giggled, reaching down to adjust her skirts. Alistair grinned dazedly down at her, pressing an affectionate kiss against her mouth. The act of spending had sobered him somewhat; sufficient to fasten the laces of his breeches with only moderate difficulty.

"I think Sir Louse disapproves," Flora whispered, glancing sideways at the censorious glower of the statue. "We should get back to the hall."

Alistair nodded, and then reached out to lift the golden laurel from the marble head. Flattening her hair with his calloused palm, he gently rested the Cousland headpiece on top of her head.

"There we go," he murmured, taking in the trailing, dark-red hair falling loose around her shoulders; crowned with the golden wreath like some solemn Dalish nature goddess. "The perfect mixture of Herring and Highever."

Flora leaned over and plucked the lordly band from Ser Louis Bryland's furrowed brow, placing it gently around Alistair's rumpled golden brow. He smiled down at her, reaching out to slide his fingers between her own. The ritual of their fish-rope was both familiar and reassuring; and suddenly Flora felt as though perhaps she was not so desperate to go home after all.

"Come on, let's get back before they notice."

They sidled back into the great hall, Alistair noticing his sister-warden's bare feet as they passed beneath the stone entrance archway. The celebration was starting to diminish as retainers returned to duties and guards to their patrols; Leliana had re-joined the musicians and was regaling those remaining with her dulcet tones. Bann Teagan was gallantly steering Wynne around the centre of the floor. The senior enchanter's face was flushed and several loose strands of hair were trailing free from her bun. They drifted between the few other couples still dancing to a distinctly Orlesian musical accompaniment. Oghren was snoring behind a keg, and Zevran was nowhere to be seen.

"I think the senior enchanter is drunk…  _hic!"_  whispered Alistair, bringing his mouth close to Flora's ear. She stifled a small snicker, elbowing him in the side.

"She's not drunk,  _you're_ drunk," replied Alistair's sanctimonious sister-warden, eyeing him from beneath her eyelashes. "My dad says: a drunk fisherman is a  _drowned_  fisherman."

"I'm not drunk!" retorted Alistair, almost tripping over an uneven flagstone. "I've just had a few  _glasshes_. I'm a bit  _tipsy_."

Flora smiled at him, her eyes settling on the banquet table. Although much of its contents had been demolished by eager celebrators, there remained a small surfeit of food left on the platters. In the background the musicians segued into a slow, haunting Orlesian ballad; Leliana's voice rising in tender melancholy over the top.

"There's some traitorous oysters from Amaranthine over there," she breathed, mentally conjuring a monstrous visage of how she expected Rendon Howe to look. "Shall we go and smash them to bits against a wall?"

Alistair, emboldened by the alcohol, shook his head. He adjusted the Cousland wreath to lie straight on his sister-warden's head, and then dropped his hand to take her arm. Flora gazed up at him in mild confusion; Alistair's eyes were gleaming and determined.

"I've danced with Leliana, I've danced with Wynne. I've even accidentally danced with  _Oghren,"_ he started, fingers tightening on her elbow in case she made an attempt to escape.

"Yet I haven't danced with the only person I actually  _want_ to dance with. Please Flo," he entreated, staring down at her as she rapidly shook her head. "I  _know_  you can dance, I saw you at Satinalia."

"That wasn't  _this_ type of dancing," Flora hissed back up at him, flicking her eyes over towards Leliana as she continued the gentle ballad. "This isn't-  _Fish Spit In My Eye_ type dancing. No-one is pretending to spit at each other, and nobody's on the floor with their legs in the air."

"I know I'm not old and bearded," he continued, beseechingly. "But I really want to do this with you."

Alistair gazed at her and Flora grimaced, unable to refuse her brother-warden anything when he gazed at her so soulfully. Triumphant, he took her arm and steered her out into the middle of the floor.

"I don't know how to do it!" she pleaded, sensing curious eyes turning towards them. "Do you keep all your clothes  _on_ with this type of dancing?"

"Just follow my lead, darling. And don't pull that face, or your brothers will feel obligated to come to your rescue."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Flora is definitely an ugly crier, like a proper Kim Kardashian crier, lol. I think this is quite a nice parallel with the first chapter where they shag (GOD I AM AN ELEGANT WORDSMITH, not) when they return to Ostagar – in that instance, it was Flora who went to a distraught Alistair to offer him a more physical form of comfort.
> 
> Rendon Howe is of course the Arl of AMARANTHINE, hence the traitorous oysters from the Amaranthine Ocean!
> 
> Finally, I don't know what kind of dances Flora is used to in Herring, where they pretend to spit and lie on the floor and take their clothes off, apparently? Lol


	185. The Poisoner From Rivain

Grinning, Alistair led Flora out into the centre of the great hall. She trailed after him miserably; the flagstones cold against her bare feet while the heat of two dozen eyes rested curiously on her back. She was all too aware what a peculiar figure she must have appeared, clad in blue silk and sporting the Cousland wreath, with her hair loose and dishevelled down her back and no visible shoes.

"Just follow my lead," Alistair murmured; Flora had no idea what this meant but her brother-warden seemed to know what he was doing. He clasped her hand tightly while placing his palm on her waist, and began to guide her movement in small, simple patterns. With slight trepidation Flora followed him; tentative at first, but she  _was_ a good dancer, and soon she began to relax into the rhythm of the music. Alistair steered her in a slow circle, his face solemn and yet bursting with pride.

Whether it was from Flora's own vague memories of Highever celebrations, or from the synchrony that she and Alistair had developed as partners in battle and bedchamber; she found that she knew what steps to make and how to turn her body to match each movement of his. He took her in his arms and spun her slowly around the floor, careful not to step on her bare toes. Flora bowed her head, and lifted her arm, let him pivot her outwards and then pull her back in again.

"When's the bit when we pretend to  _spit_  at each other?" she whispered, rolling her eyes innocently. "That was always the best bit of Herring dances."

Alistair beamed down at her, flushed with a mixture of alcohol and delight. Flora smiled back up at him, pleased that she had made him so happy. When the song finished, he kissed her hand before steering her back over to the banquet table.

"Thank you," he murmured, eyes warm as he gazed at her. Flora leaned up and pecked him on the mouth, suddenly thoughtful. She had caught sight of various faces while rotating in Alistair's arms; Eamon's paternal smile, Leonas' customary frown, Teagan oddly wistful and Leliana glaring as she took in the state of Flora's hair. Yet the face that stood out most of all had been that of her elder brother, sad and separate at the end of the table. She recalled Finian's angry accusation, and Fergus's guilt over his own role in the discovery of her magic.

"Thank  _you,"_ Flora replied distractedly, squeezing his hand as an idea occurred to her. The musicians began their next ballad as she skirted around the edge of the large chamber, approaching her elder brother where he stood leaning against the wall.

"Fergus," she said, reaching out her hand towards him as his eyes settled on her, brows rising as he took in the bare feet and ransacked hair. "Will you dance with me?"

Her eldest brother stared down at her for a moment, and Flora felt a slight lurch of alarm that he might reject her. Then, the corner of his mouth curving upwards, he stretched out and took her offered palm. His hand lacked the brute strength of Alistair's, the fingers wasted after his period of long illness; yet they still closed around hers just as tightly as her brother-warden's had done.

Fergus Cousland drew her into the middle of the floor and she smiled hopefully up at him. His blue-grey eyes met hers briefly, then slid off toward the blazing hearth. Flora let her elder brother rotate her carefully, his every movement tentative and unsure. He handled her as though she were made of porcelain and might break; fingers barely touching her waist.

"I'm sorry," Flora heard at last as he pulled her back in towards him, so quiet and dejected that she almost missed it.

"Fergus," she said, not wanting him to apologise, but he was insistent. His fingers tightened on her elbows as he spun her slowly; staring down at her face as though reconciling it with the child he'd pointed that fateful finger towards, sealing Flora's expulsion from Highever and the Cousland dynasty.

"I shouldn't have exposed you," he said heavily, his eyes clouded more grey than blue with regret. "You clearly have control over your magic. You're no danger to anything."

Flora grimaced as he said this, thinking on the Archdemon that she had to somehow dispose of.

"You should have stayed at Highever with your family," Fergus continued bleakly. "Instead of being sent to some Maker-forsaken backwater to be raised by  _peasants_. We could have hidden that you were a mage, we have the influence. But I panicked my father and rushed him into sending you away."

He lifted his arm and let Flora rotate beneath it, giving her time to think.

"Fergus," she said again, coming back to face him. "I  _loved_  Herring, I was happy there. I was crying earlier because I missed it so much."

He shot her a startled look; he had not known that she had been upset. Flora continued, with her usual soft solemnity.

"I learnt how to use my magic there because they accepted me; I didn't  _have_  to hide it."

Her elder brother was listening now, his eyes fixated on her own. She caught a glimpse of Finian's shrewd, fox-like face from beside the banquet table, eyes blazing like elvish veilfire.

"Don't feel bad for sending me away," Flora whispered, knowing that this was somehow crucial. "I was born at Highever, but I was  _made_ in Herring. So don't be sorry, Fig."

The childhood nickname rose unprompted to the surface of her memory, like a fisherman's line emerging above the waves.

Fergus recoiled almost as if she had struck him, stopping abruptly in place and staring down at his little sister. She gazed back up at him with the solemn, earnest eyes of their dead father, clothed in Cousland blue and crowned with the golden laurel; her Highever red hair loose and feet bare like a peasant girl. Her words were eloquent, yet shaped by the cadence of the poverty-stricken north.

Impulsively, Flora reached out and hugged him; he put his arms around her and held her tight against his tunic, one hand coming up to cup the back of her head clumsily. Suddenly Finian was bounding long-legged like a Mabari across the flagstones, clearly deciding that if Flora bore no anger towards Fergus, then neither did he. The three reconciled Cousland siblings stood together, defiant in the face of Howe's attempts to extinguish them.

"There's our united Cousland faction," murmured Eamon to Leonas, who inclined his head slightly. "That can only lend us more influence at the Landsmeet."

Some time later, Leliana had abandoned the musicians and returned to the dance floor, taking advantage of the emptying space to demonstrate her elegant and fleet-footed steps. To her slight irritation, the musicians were now playing Fereldan melodies which tended towards the lively jig or reel; at polar opposite to the stately Orlesian minuets and waltzes that she excelled at. She allowed a gentlemanly Alistair to lead her around the floor several times, before returning to sit beside the arls.

Flora, who was more used to the raucous fiddle-led songs, was in her element. She had tried to teach Finian the steps to  _Gathering the Harvest;_ then Zevran had demanded his boon from the previous night's entrapment, triumphantly claiming the next dance.

Unfortunately, it was not the slow, romantic clinch that the elf had hoped for; but an even livelier reel. Flora cackled at his attempts to keep up with her as she spun barefoot on the flagstones, his hand clenched tightly in hers. The Cousland laurel slipped down over one eye and she reached up to adjust it with her other hand.

"This is worse than a Rivaini gypsy dance," he panted, the blood rising beneath the dark tattooed marks on his cheeks. "This is not the way I hoped I'd be sweating in your company,  _florita."_

"It's what we dance in Herring on Summerday," replied Flora breathlessly, stepping back from him and weaving her hands over her head. She was having such an unexpectedly good time that she was pointedly ignoring the growing ache in her knee.

Alistair was sitting with the other nobles on the top table, politely turning down their offers of more wine. Eamon and Leonas were talking quietly beside him, discussing the final arrangements for tomorrow's journey to Denerim. Leliana was seated further down the table, alternating between flirting aggressively with Teagan on one side and muttering to Wynne on her other.

"You've done an exemplary job, my dear," Wynne was saying to the bard in an undertone. "The food was perfection, and the music was lovely. Exceptionally well-organised, and I know Arl Eamon appreciates the effort you've put in."

Alistair was not listening to any of the other conversations taking place along the table. He was gazing at his sister-warden as she spun around on the flagstones, hair and skirts streaming around her. Zevran had kissed her hand and departed to the hearth to tame his hair; but Flora was day-dreaming of Herring, reluctant to stop. If she blurred her eyes as she danced, the cold tiles beneath her feet became the exposed rock of the northern coastline; the lively fiddle reminding her of the only festival that the people of Herring ever really celebrated – mostly because there was no giving of gifts as there was on Satinalia. The great hall of South Reach melted away into the firelight, becoming the small torchlit stretch of stone and sand that served as the centre of Herring.

"Isn't she the most beautiful girl you've ever seen?" Alistair breathed to the person beside him, which happened to be Finian. Finian rested his pointed chin in his hand, gazing across at his sister.

"She has a rather odd expression on her face," he observed cattily, but then relented. "But aye, she's lovely. Although I can't say too much, for fear of appearing vain."

Alistair grinned sideways at the young noble, whose face was indeed a masculine mirror of Flora's own, their colouring near-identical.

"Separate caravans sounds like the best idea," Leonas was saying, nodding his head in agreement with Eamon. "At an interval of several hours. One can take the river route, the other can take the hills."

"Should the Wardens be split up?" Teagan interjected, leaning across Leliana.

"A good idea in theory," Leonas murmured, uncorking a fresh bottle of Marcher brandy and pouring it into a flagon. "Although you know they'd not tolerate the parting."

Flora was lost in her own day-dreams, sunk so far in her own imagination that she almost fancied she could hear the vicious north wind lashing salt-spray against the bared Hag's Teeth. Suddenly she heard her name called, sharp as a whip, shattering the illusion of Herring into sandy fragments over the flagstones.

"Flora!"

It was Wynne's voice, calling her name with customary authority. Oddly, there was an edge of panic to the word that drew Flora's attention.

"Flora!  _The arl!"_

Flora, confused, looked across to where a rising Wynne had extended a trembling finger.

Leonas Bryland was leaning back in his chair, still clutching his flagon as the colour rapidly drained from his shocked face. Black veins were spreading down his neck, and a muddy froth was starting to bubble from his mouth. He let out a strangulated croak even as the flagon fell from his stiffening fingers, spilling the rest of its contents over the flagstones.

The others were momentarily frozen before springing to action, Arl Eamon calling frantically for water.

" _Poison!"_  called Leliana, her eyes narrowing to slits as she rose to her feet. "Rivaini-made."

Leonas let out a choked gurgle, his pupils dilating as he stared blindly at the ceiling, the black veins spreading upwards to his cheeks.

"Can't see- " he gasped, through an acid-ravaged windpipe. " _Can't see_."

Suddenly Flora crashed into his lap, having just hurled herself over the top of the table. The arlina's dress, not meant for more strenuous activity than dancing, tore up the thigh with a cruel ripping of silk. Taking the arl's frantically twisting head firmly in her hands, Flora planted her mouth on his and  _inhaled._

She tasted the poison immediately in her own mouth, sharper and fouler than the taste of Blight. The toxic substance burned as it slid down her throat and she could feel small blisters forming on her tongue; it  _hurt_  so much that her instinct was to pull away. However, she was aided by a force more powerful than instinct and instead of retreating, she pressed her mouth more firmly against Leonas' own gasping one, then  _exhaled._ The golden mist rolled up her windpipe like a cleansing tide, soothing the blisters in its wake before passing into the Arl's own mouth.

Eamon lifted the brandy, eyes narrowing. Leliana's quick mind had already jumped to the same conclusion, she was striding down the hall and calling to Zevran.

"The kitchens, quickly!"

The Bann of Calon drew his dagger and went to follow them, glancing once more at the afflicted arl. Wynne, retrieving her staff from where she had stored it neatly beneath the table, followed shortly afterwards.

Alistair rose, as did Fergus; but Eamon lifted his own hand hastily to stop them.

"Hold, there may be more than one assassin in the fortress tonight. The target could be you, Alistair, or any of the Couslands. We ought to stay together."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: HOW RUDE of an assassin to break up the party! When I envision Herring-style music, I think about the Celtic/Irish fiddle music, like jigs and reels and things like that. Stuff that we used to have to dance to in sports in school when I was younger (OOH the delights of growing up Celtic, lol).


	186. An Unexpected Meeting Of Mouths

Those still present at the top table returned their attention to Flora and the incapacitated arl. Clustering around, eyes moving between the pallid Leonas and the archway, they suddenly felt very exposed in the vastness of the great hall. Flora's mouth was still determinedly adhered to Arl Bryland's; he had gone limp and complaint beneath her as she straddled his legs. Alistair, sober in an instant, stared at his sister-warden's rapidly paling skin as she drew the poison methodically from Leonas' throat. She had also begun to sweat profusely, as the toxin struggled for dominance over the natural rejuvenative properties of her flesh.

"Why did I leave my sword in our quarters?" muttered Fergus, ensuring that the nervous Finian was close at his side. "I should never have let my guard down. Any of us could have drunk that brandy."

Flora was lost in the rhythm of  _in-_ and  _exhalation_ , blindly trusting in the strange rhythms of her body to neutralise the poison as it entered her mouth. She could feel the golden mist rising at the back of her throat, its uncomfortable prickling almost soothing compared to the burning corrosiveness of the toxin.

Eventually the arl began to cough, some ruddy colour flooding back into his cheeks. His dark eyes gradually focused on Flora, who withdrew and took several deep gulps of air. She looked slightly the worse for wear, pallid and sweaty; he could feel her shivering as she perched on his thighs. Fergus was also starting to twitch with anxiety, desperate to remove his little sister from proximity to the Rivaini corruption. Alistair held him back from interfering, but Flora's brother-warden's eyes were also shadowed with worry.

Flora reached out and rested trembling fingers against the arl's neck, her eyes drifting out of focus to assess Leonas' internal condition. The poison was on the run inside his body now; trying to hide in the curlicues and crevasses of his lungs.

"One more breath," she muttered through chattering teeth, half-falling forwards and hoping that her mouth would roughly collide with his. It did, and she repeated the  _inhale-exhale_ one last time, gripping the arl's head between her hands. Then she slumped back against the table, hunching her shoulders and giving a little shudder. Alistair was there immediately, crouching beside her and offering his own previously-drunk flagon of wine.

Flora took a sip, spilling much of it down her chest with her trembling hand. Alistair reached out and steadied the flagon, smoothing a strand of sweaty hair from her face. She grimaced at him, feeling the golden mist flooding her lungs and purging the remnants of inhaled corruption.

"Ugh, tastes worse than Arl Howe's traitorous Amaranthine oysters."

"You  _saved_  me," said Leonas incredulously, his voice hoarse as he stared down at her. Flora flashed him a toothy smile, the colour gradually returning to her cheeks.

"Reviving poisoned arls is my speciality," she mumbled, laughed at her own reference; then realised that she was still straddling his lap.

Slightly awkwardly, Flora clambered off the Arl of South Reach and perched on the table, inspecting the rip in the skirt of the dress. The delicate silk had been irrevocably torn as she had hurled herself in the least ladylike manner possible over the table in her haste to reach him.

"Sorry for this," she said apologetically, and then also pointed at his mouth. "Ah, and for that too. I don't usually just…  _lunge,_ but it seemed like an urgent situation."

Leonas let out a rough, humourless laugh, eyes narrowing to dark points as he rose abruptly to his feet.

"You're welcome to  _lunge_ any time you like if it's going to save my life," he murmured, reaching for the short-sword he always kept at his belt. "Now, I'm going to track down the snake in the grass. You –  _all_  of you – ought to stay together. Could be other assassins in the castle."

As Leonas rose to his feet, he swayed and reached out to clutch the wooden table; still in a mild state of shock from the poison. Eamon reached out a restraining hand, placing it on his old friend's arm.

"Leonas, stay here until you're fully recovered. My brother will go."

The Arl of South Reach scowled, but acknowledged the wisdom in Eamon's words. Together they watched the bann stride out of the hall in the direction of the kitchens, face taut with anger and a sword held loosely at his side.

Flora hiccupped as her stomach gave a gurgle; she eyed her belly with mild trepidation.

"Is it the poison?" breathed Finian, gazing anxiously across at his sister. She shook her head and gave a slight grimace.

"No, I think it's the Amaranthine oysters," Flora replied honestly, digging the heel of her hand into her abdomen. Alistair slid his arm around her shoulders, angling his own body subtly to shield hers against an unseen enemy.

Leonas' tactical eyes had been moving between the various entry points into the large chamber. The top table at which they were sitting was in direct view of the minstrels' gallery, which lay in menacing shadow at the far end of the room; it was also clearly visible from the main archway leading into the great hall.

"Let's move," he said suddenly, voice blunt. "This position is too vulnerable."

They obeyed the arl's instruction, reconvening behind the banquet table. This was located at the side of the room, tucked away from the direct view of the various doorways.

"We should be out there looking for the assassin!" Alistair complained, sitting back against the wall and clenching his fist in ineffectual frustration. Eamon shot the young prince a stern look, fingers running distractedly through his grey beard.

"We can't afford to take any risks, not now the Landsmeet draws so close," he chided, sharing his own hip-flask with the yawning Finian. From the kitchens, there came the distant sound of a crash and a yell.

The youngest Cousland was sitting cross-legged on the banquet table above them, facing out into the great hall. She had stationed herself practically, knowing that she could expand her shield in half a heart-beat and protect those gathered against the wall behind her. Alistair had bitten his protests back, not liking the idea but grimly acknowledging that she had a valid point.

Flora was amusing herself by methodologically hurling the treacherous Amaranthine oysters in the direction of the minstrels' gallery, imagining that each one was Arl Howe's head.

"Traitor!" she snarled in the wake of an unfortunate item of seafood as it soared majestically through the air; watching gleefully as it fell short of the gallery and smashed against the stone.  _"Ha!"_

Running out of oysters, Flora looked around for another distraction.

"Is  _Louse_  an Orlesian name, Arl Bryland?"

Leonas, roused from his brooding, gazed up at her. "Eh, child?"

"Your ancestor,  _Ser Louse_ ," Flora said patiently, as Alistair almost choked on Eamon's hip-flask. "I saw his statue in the hallway earlier."

"It's  _Louis,"_ replied Leonas, not unkindly. The arl was well aware of Flora's poor literacy, having often seen her labouring under instruction by her companions. "And yes, it is Orlesian. My mother was from Orlais."

Flora twisted her head over her shoulder and scowled down at Alistair.

"He's called  _Louis?_ You called him Ser  _Louse_ too!"

"Sorry, my dear. It made me laugh," admitted Alistair, doing a poor job of hiding his grin.

Flora stuck her tongue out at her brother-warden in response, and then quite suddenly there came a dreadful commotion from the minstrels' gallery.

A Rivaini man hurtled wild-eyed from the passageway, only to find himself trapped by Leliana on one side, and Zevran on the other. His head spun from side to side as he pressed himself against the railing of the minstrels' gallery. He was armed only with a butcher's knife stolen from the kitchens, the weapon appearing a child's toy compared to the blades wielded by both assassins.

Those observing from the floor of the great hall rose, gazing up at the scene playing out on the gallery above. Flora lifted her hands, ready to summon the shield at a heartbeat's notice.

The Rivaini man spotted Teagan approaching from the west passageway and made a desperate lunge towards Leliana, having made the fatal error of assuming that she was the weakest. The bard darted out of his way, quicker than an Orlesian greyhound; ducking the blade and bringing the point of her elbow down on the back of his neck. He staggered, lashing out blindly with the dagger. The very tip caught Leliana's skirt and slashed it neatly from hip to thigh. Leliana gave a little shriek of outrage even as both Zevran and Teagan started forwards. Using the man's own momentum as he charged her, the bard twisted her body and thrust with all her strength.

The assassin toppled over the wooden balustrade; seeming to hang in the air for a heartbeat before plummeting to the flagstones below. His body made a sickening crunch as he crumpled, landing in a ragged pile on the tiled floor. The knife spun out of his reach, its silver edge gleaming in the firelight.

There was silence for a long moment, and then the assassin let out a bloody cough. Arl Leonas led the convergence around the man; a death sentence written stark on his face as he compulsively gripped the hilt of his short-sword. Both Leliana and Zevran were able to drop down from the balcony, landing with catlike grace on the tiles. Teagan took a glance over the wooden balustrade, and decided that he would take the stairs.

Flora hung at the back of the crowd around the assassin, only half-listening to the harried murmurs of conversation. She was gazing at the bloody man lying on the flagstones, who was incapacitated but did not seem to be mortally wounded. From his thick, laboured breathing, he appeared to have suffered some sort of internal injury.

Yet for once it was not the wound that drew her attention, but the Rivaini man's appearance. With his tan skin, ragged dark hair and hawk-like features, he could have been a younger sibling of their old Warden-Commander. It was this more than anything that made Flora angry; that someone who shared such physical similarity with Duncan could turn out to be a villain.

"Flora?"

It took her a moment – and Finian's nudging elbow – to realise that she was being called. Eamon was gesturing her forward, an odd, strained look on his face. The stress of the evening had taken its toll, and he looked two decades older than his forty seven years.

"Ideally, we'd like to question him," the Arl of Redcliffe murmured, glancing at her quickly before his eyes slid away. "But he's not in sufficient condition to reply."

"Maker, you're joking!" said Alistair incredulously from the back of the small crowd. "You want her to  _heal_ him? This assassin?"

Flora had understood Eamon's unspoken request at the same moment as her brother-warden. She grimaced reflexively, hearing Finian let out a snort of disbelief at her side. The man on the floor let out a bubbling sigh, the air wheezing from his fractured chest.

"He almost  _killed_ you, Leonas!" exclaimed Alistair, but his protests seemed to fall on deaf ears.

"It would be useful to see if we could extract anything worth knowing," murmured Leonas, the guilt shadowing his face.

Flora stepped forward obediently, trying hard to see only the  _injury_  and not the  _individual_. She knelt beside the assassin on the flagstones, seeing that his dark Rivani eyes were bleary and unfocused. Carefully, she placed her hand on the man's chest, gentle enough to cause no discomfort.

"Try and keep still," she said stiffly, feeling the magic itching beneath her fingernails. "This might sting a bit."

Behind her, Alistair muttered darkly under his breath, shifting from foot to foot. He nudged the assassin's knife further away with his boot, shooting the Rivaini a glower.

Flora inhaled, feeling the air transform into something golden and prickling in her lungs. She leaned forward and pressed her mouth dutifully to the injured assassin's own. At first his mouth was slack against hers; but as she exhaled a combination of rejuvenative and creation energy between his lips, the colour began to return to his sallow cheeks. As his dark eyes regained clarity, they swivelled upwards to focus on her.

"Everybody else is accounted for," Leliana informed the nobles, her fingers moving distractedly over the tear in her raspberry silk skirt. "It seems that he was working alone."

"Anyone could have drunk that brandy," added Fergus, his skin pallid beneath the freckles dotted over his nose. "It just happened to be Leonas."

Suddenly, the assassin made a swift lunge upwards, his catlike reflexes restored by the golden mist. Instead of reaching for the knife, his hands shot upwards and gripped Flora's head, pinning her in place as he ground his lips against hers and forced his tongue lewdly into her mouth.

Utterly taken aback, Flora froze for a heartbeat before pulling back with some difficulty. As their mouths parted, she let out a little yelp of pain and sat back hard on her rear; lifting fingers to a bloodied bottom lip.

" _Theirin whore!"_

It was hard to know who bellowed first, anger erupting amongst those present like thunder rolling across the sky. Fergus started forward with a yell, as did Leonas Bryland. Zevran and Leliana both reached for their blades; yet even their reflexes were no match for Alistair's cold anger.

With movement that was swift and purposeful, the Warden drew the sword from Arl Eamon's sheath and stepped forward. In a single thrust, using all the force his powerful musculature afforded him, he drove the blade straight down between the Rivaini assassin's ribs, the metal point severing flesh and spine before driving into the stone tile below. The assassin died instantly, the smirk frozen on his hawk-like face.

Leaving the sword wedged in the man's body; Alistair turned away without a flicker of emotion and crouched beside his sister-warden. She was gazing wide-eyed at the assassin's body, her own bloodied lip temporarily forgotten.

"Well, so much for questioning him," murmured Leliana, though she had to fight hard to keep a satisfied smile from rising to her face.

"Good for Alistair," agreed Zevran, whose own knife had been drawn halfway from its sheath. "I would have no expected no less."

"There was no need to question him anyway," added Fergus abruptly, glancing at Alistair with a new, guarded respect. "It's clear that he was sent by Howe. Amaranthine has long-established trade connections with Rivain."

Leonas inclined his head in acknowledgement, striding off to find someone to clear the mess. As he passed Flora, he dropped a sympathetic hand on her shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze.

Alistair gripped his sister-warden by her arms, anxious eyes searching her face. She was in slight shock, blinking vacantly with her fingers still held to her bruised and bitten lip; having never before suffered such indignity during the act of healing.

"I was _trying_ ," Flora whispered after a moment, quietly outraged. "To help –  _ugh."_

She wiped her mouth roughly with the back of her hand, smearing the blood further over her chin. With a little shudder, she recalled the sour, metallic taste of the stranger's tongue as he forced it between her lips. She felt oddly violated, not simply from the several seconds that he had forcibly kissed her, but from the fact that he had done it while she was  _healing_  him.

Suddenly and without warning, a tear surged from the corner of one eye, sliding down her right cheek. Determined not to cry in front of the others, Flora blinked hard and gazed up at the ceiling. Against her will, she felt more tears swelling up beneath her eyelashes.

"Come on, sweetheart," murmured Alistair, gripping his sister-warden's fingers tightly as he guided her to her feet. "I think that's enough for one evening."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Flinging oysters at the wall, WTF Flo? I wonder at your thought process sometimes, lol.
> 
> Incidentally, this day both starts and ends with someone kissing Flora unexpectedly – but in quite different contexts. It's just funny, the different circumstances; with Cullen in the morning and the Rivaini assassin in the afternoon. Also, more evidence of my version of hardened Alistair!


	187. Brother-Warden Tends To Sister-Warden

 

Her brother-warden did not spare a glance at the assassin's slowly leaking corpse as he led Flora out of the great hall, putting an arm around her shoulders as they went. He guided her wordlessly across the courtyard; helping her up the west tower steps and back along the passageway to the arlina's chamber. There were now a total of four guards stationed outside the Wardens' doorway – Leonas was clearly taking no further chances.

The chamber was cold and bathed in shadow, unoccupied for hours. Ashen remains of the afternoon's logs rested in the hearth; the servants' usual fire-lighting routine disrupted due to both the celebration and ensuing assassin. Leliana's creams and powders still lay scattered across the top of the dressing table, the smell of stale fragrance hanging in the chill night air.

Alistair led his sister-warden over to the bed, throwing aside a clump of rainbow-hued garments to make room on the blankets. Sitting her down on the cleared space; he brushed a hand affectionately over her head before crossing to the dresser and tipping out a ceramic bowl of bracelets over its polished surface. Filling the bowl with water from an adjacent ewer, Alistair scooped up a discarded silk handkerchief from the chaise before returning to the bed.

He sat back down next to Flora, who was watching him closely, curiosity having temporarily overcome her dejection. Smoothing her hair away from her face with a hand, the bastard prince dipped the handkerchief in the bowl of water before bringing it to her bloody lip. He held it there for a moment, and then lowered the handkerchief back to the bowl.

Flora was mildly perplexed, until she realised that Alistair was doing what no one else had ever done –  _taking care_ of her. It was such a novel experience that she sat there quietly and let him daub carefully at her lip, cleaning away the blood from her chin. Although she could have healed the wound in a second, she sat very still and let her brother-warden tend to her.

Her eyes followed him as he rinsed the handkerchief out; hazel eyes keenly focused on his task and handsome face suffused with both concentration and concern. Despite the shadows massing around them, Alistair's hair retained its brilliant, burnished lustre, as though it had an inner light source of its own. The handkerchief at her mouth could not have been applied more gently, despite the brute strength of the calloused hand wielding it.

"There we go," Alistair murmured after several minutes, drawing back and placing both handkerchief and bowl on the bedside table. Touched beyond words, Flora leaned forward and reached around his neck. As she rested her chin on his shoulder, she felt him fold her within powerful arms that seemed slightly incongruous clad in expensive velvet.

"I love you," she said impulsively, pressing her forehead against his. "I wish I'd bitten his tongue off."

Alistair smiled softly back at her, his mouth curling up at the corner. "I love you too, my dear. If it's any comfort, I'm pretty sure I saw Zevran beginning to sever his manhood as we were leaving."

"It should be thrown into the Amaranthine Sea as fish-food," Flora whispered back, perking up as she warmed to the idea. "It's not as if their oysters could taste any  _worse."_

Alistair laughed, letting his fingers settle for a moment on the back of her neck, before gently lifting the Cousland wreath from the top of her rumpled head.

"Let's get this finery off," he said softly, placing the golden headpiece on the table alongside the bowl. "I swear to the Maker, a full suit of heavy armour is more comfortable."

Flora let out a grunt of agreement, swivelling her head to try and gain the measure of the complicated system fastening the back of her dress. Alistair had divested himself of tunic, shirt and boots in the time that it took her to wrestle the first hook and eye free, beads of sweat forming on her forehead.

"Allow me, sweetheart. Or we'll be halfway to Denerim and you'll still be sat here."

Alistair sat beside her on the bed, now only clad in fine calfskin breeches; Flora dutifully swivelled around and pulled her hair over one shoulder. Carefully, he unfastened each small hook, letting the navy silk fall open to reveal the pale skin of her back. He paused for a moment to touch his lips to the centre of the  _Peraquialus_  freckles; mouth lingering between her shoulder-blades.

"Do you remember when you saw me getting undressed in the Chantry at Redcliffe?" Flora asked, recalling Alistair's indignant outrage when she had dropped her dress to the waist to heal a minor scratch. "You shouted at me and hid behind a cushion."

Alistair grinned, unfastening the last hook and eye nestled at the base of her spine.

"I don't know why I was so shocked," he murmured, lifting the dress over Flora's head as she raised her arms. "It wasn't the first time I'd seen you naked."

There came a muffled gasp from the depths of the costly Orlesian silk, and Flora surfaced from beneath the layers of material with wide eyes.

" _When_  did you see me naked?!" she demanded, rifling through her memories of Ostagar in an attempt to divine the possible moment in which he could have seen her unclothed. "Did you look round while we were changing in the Warden tent?"

"No!" Alistair protested, starting to laugh as she assumed an expression of mock-outrage. "Remember after your Joining, when you took that bath in the back of the Chantry tent? Caused me a few restless nights."

"You came in and interrupted me," Flora breathed, smacking her palm against the taut muscle of his chest. "Ooh, I knew you were spying! You fiend! You're as bad as  _Zevran!"_

Alistair was properly laughing now, adjusting his position to lie back against the cushions before drawing her alongside him.

"It was entirely accidental," he insisted through a grin as she crossed her eyes malevolently at him. "Oh, the gargoyle face: my personal favourite."

Thrusting a loose strand of hair back into a slovenly braid, Flora smiled at Alistair as he slid an exploratory finger along the hem of her lacy Orlesian smallclothes.

"Can you help me purge that man from my mouth?" she asked, and a shadow immediately fell across Alistair's face as he recalled the indignation that the assassin had inflicted on his sister-warden. He propped himself up on an elbow and gazed down at Flora, angling his body as if to form a physical barrier between herself and the rest of the world.

"How can I help, my darling?"

He watched her like a hawk as Flora brought a finger to her mouth, brushing it along her lower lip and sealing the ragged bitemark imprinted there. Satisfied that the physical remnants of the assassin had been eliminated, she gazed up at Alistair from beneath her eyelashes.

"Kiss me," she instructed, seeing his eyes flare with mingled affection and desire. "Until I can't remember nothing but you."

"Well," murmured Alistair, leaning over Flora on his elbow and cupping her chin with his fingers. "I can certainly do that."

Brother-warden kissed sister-warden enthusiastically for the next hour, while courteously making no attempt to deepen their intimacy. Alistair limited himself to the chaste territory of Flora's shoulders, her waist and her back; and although she could feel his obvious arousal, he did not draw her attention to it.

Instead, Alistair gripped her face between his palms and focused on stealing the breath from her lungs with a series of kisses that alternated between the passionate and the tender. Before long, her lips were swollen and sore, bruised from the constant attention of his mouth.

Eventually, a knock on the door and ten seconds grace allowed the Wardens to adjust to a more respectable position underneath the covers. By the time that Wynne entered, strands of grey hanging limply from her ears; Alistair was leaning chastely back against the cushions with Flora beneath his arm.

"Are both of you still awake? We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow, and you need to be fully rested," the old woman chided, the tiredness evident in her voice. "Yes, just drop him anywhere."

This was directed at two guards, who were manhandling a snoring Oghren between them. As instructed by the senior enchanter, they dumped the dwarf ungently on the Orlesian rug.

Wynne gave both Wardens a stern look as she departed for the finer quarters originally assigned to Alistair.

"Remember, it's an early start!" she called over her shoulder, as Zevran sidled past her through the doorway. " _Get some sleep."_

"On the contrary," purred the elf, neatly stepping over Oghren's prostrate body as the door shut in the senior enchanter's wake. "I suggest you get up to all sorts of naughtiness."

As the elf settled down on the chaise, folding his arms behind his head, his tone took on a more serious note. He tilted his head back to gaze at the white-plastered ceiling, eyes sliding sideways to the Wardens.

"That was an expertly delivered blow that you administered earlier, Alistair," he said, after several moments. "A clean kill."

Alistair let out a little nondescript grunt, feeling Flora yawning against his chest. Zevran reached up to the bed and walked his fingers affectionately over the smooth line of her calf.

"Are you alright,  _mi florita?"_

Flora nodded sleepily, moving the hair from her face with clumsy fingers as the elf stroked her strapped knee.

"Mm," she mumbled, feeling tiredness swell up as the evening's adrenaline drained. "I'm fine, thank you."

There was a few moments of silence; the shadows settling around them as an owl's long, mournful hoot filtered in through the window.

"Leliana won't be joining us tonight," murmured Zevran quietly, folding his fingers at his waist. "Guess whose door I saw her disappearing into."

"Bann Teagan's," piped up Flora immediately, who liked guessing games. Alistair opened a sleepy eye, yawning but also curious.

"Not Teagan."

"The Bann of Calon?"

"No. Your potential future husband,  _carina."_

Flora looked blank for a moment, then let out a sound caught somewhere between a giggle and a groan. She felt Alistair tense imperceptibly at her side, his fingers tightening in the blankets.

"I forgot about giving Arl Bryland an answer tomorrow morning," she hissed, wide-eyed in the darkness. "What am I going to say? How could I have forgotten that he proposed to me?"

"Sleep on it, my Rialto lily," advised Zevran, leaning over to blow out the candle. "Good night, my friends."

Flora pressed her face against the cushion and thought about it for several minutes, her brow furrowed.

When she turned back over, Alistair was gazing down at her, his pupils large and dark with regret. She reached up to trace the strong angle of his jaw, pressing her finger into the indented hollow of his cheek. He turned his face against her palm, and Flora felt dampness on her skin. A faint golden glow rose beneath her fingernails; just sufficient to see that Alistair's eyes were gleaming, the eyelashes darkened with unshed sadness.

Impulsively, she reached out and embraced him hard, pressing her face against his shoulder. The two Wardens clung to one another for several minutes before Flora extracted herself and slithered out from beneath the blankets. Grimacing slightly as bare feet met the cold flagstones, she padded across the room and retrieved another impractical nightgown from the arlina's dresser.

Alistair sat up and squinted at Flora through the shadows, watching her pull the nightgown on over her head; muttering under her breath as half the hair proceeded to fall out of her loose braid.

"Flo? Where are you going?"

"I'm going to give Leonas his answer," she replied, shoving several loose strands behind her ears.

"Do you want me to come with you? In case there's another assassin?" Alistair asked hesitantly; while also internally acknowledging that she was more than capable of defending herself.

Flora smiled at him as she headed towards the door, tugging the arlina's nightgown down over her knees.

"Thank you, I'll be alright," she replied, nudging the door open. "Try and sleep, Alistair."

The last thing she saw as the room disappeared into darkness was her brother-warden staring bleakly up at the ceiling, his face sad and shadowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Flora has never had anyone take care of her before, which is why she's so taken aback when Alistair begins to tend to her lip – she's never fallen ill, and she's never had an injury that she hasn't immediately been able to heal. I thought it was a sweet thing for him to do – he's perfectly aware that she could just fix herself in a second, but he wants to look after her and make her feel better.


	188. Considering The Arl's Proposal

 

There were four guards posted outside the arlina's chamber, all of whom straightened imperceptibly as Flora closed the door softly behind her.

"Lady Cousland," said one rather dubiously, eyes taking in her nightgown and bare feet in a single sweep. "Is all well?"

"Yes," replied Flora, tucking loose strands of hair back into her untidy braid. "I'm going to see Arl Bryland."

"Rolf and Jacon will accompany you," said the guard who had spoken; the fortress still on high alert after the assassination attempt earlier that evening.

Flora, used to being under escort, shrugged a shoulder and continued on down the passageway. She had seen the door leading to the arl's personal quarters before – it was near the entrance to his private solar, at the top of a winding stairway.

_It had to be up_ more _steps,_ Flora thought grimly to herself, awkwardly clambering up the torturous spiral staircase. Her knee was taking gleeful revenge for her earlier exertions on the dance floor, throbbing with every floor climbed.  _Why do nobles like sleeping so high off the ground, anyway?_

The two guards followed dutifully at her heels, elongating their pace to almost comedic slowness in order to give her time to ascend the steps. Flora passed the wooden doorway that led to the solar, counting the last few steps through gritted teeth. Two more guards had been posted outside Leonas Bryland's personal quarters; they gazed down at her in blatant, undisguised confusion.

Suddenly, Flora remembered Zevran's gleeful revelation that Leliana had been seen vanishing into Leonas' chamber after the chaos in the great hall had ended.

Somewhat awkwardly, drawing wary stares from all four guards, she leaned forward and pressed her ear against the door. There came nothing but silence from the other side of the wood, and Flora decided to take her chances. She raised her fist and gave a tentative knock on the wood.

"Who is it?" Leonas' voice rose immediately from inside, the edges raw with suspicion.

"It's Floraa- _ence_."

Flora butchered her own name, grimacing quietly to herself. There was a pause, and then the sound of several bolts being drawn back. She waited patiently, stifling a sudden yawn. It seemed quite unbelievable that she had assisted with the birth of the child only earlier that day; it seemed as though a week's worth of events had transpired in the meantime.

Leonas opened the door, and to her immense relief, he was fully dressed. There were dark swathes carved out beneath his eyes, and the lines dug at either side of his mouth seemed far deeper than they had done the previous day. He gestured her in, glancing warily into the shadows behind her.

Flora followed him inside the chamber, gazing curiously around the arl's private quarters. In keeping with the stark, militaristic aesthetic of the rest of South Reach fortress, the room lacked any excessive finery or décor. It was large and plain, furnished in dark, heavy wood that was ostentatiously Fereldan. Several suits of armour lined the far wall; while a several swords adorned a stand beside the door. It was a stern and wholly masculine chamber, save for the woman sleeping beneath the blankets on the bed. A mop of bright ginger hair was just visible resting among the pillows, a familiar dagger placed within reach on the bedside table.

"Sorry," muttered Flora in an undertone, as Leonas returned to the desk where he had been standing before her tentative knock. "I hope I didn't interrupt nothing –  _anything."_

A half-empty bottle of Orlesian red wine – the room's only evidence of Leonas' foreign heritage – sat on the polished dark wood; and the Arl poured himself another glass.

"It's fine, child," he replied, making no effort to keep his voice down. Topping the glass off, he lifted it to his mouth and downed half the contents in a single gulp. Flora, standing awkwardly in the centre of the room, surreptitiously shifted her weight to her stronger knee.

"Did you want some?" he offered after a moment, glancing over his shoulder at her. Flora shook her head, feeling more hair fall away from her half-hearted braid.

"There's no point in me drinking alcohol," she replied, padding forwards towards the desk. "My magic distils it into water."

Eyebrows rising, the Arl reached for another glass and poured a single swallow of red wine, nudging it towards her. Flora took it dutifully, tilting her head back and letting the alcohol sit in her mouth for a few heartbeats. Immediately, she felt the characteristic prickling of magic rising under her tongue.

Leaning forward, she spat the mouthful back into the glass in a manner not entirely befitting a teyrn's daughter. The liquid was wholly clear, and the arl let out a muffled snort of astonishment.

"Maker's Breath," he murmured, lifting the glass and tilting it back and forth to catch the firelight. "It  _is_  water."

"My body heals poison naturally. I don't think wine is very  _good_  for you," replied the pious daughter of a teetotal fisherman, her expression solemn. The arl stifled a laugh, using a calloused thumb to drive the cork back into the neck of the bottle.

"That's most likely true."

A silence fell and Flora paused uncertainly, having – as usual – not planned what she intended to say. Leonas not did press her, his eyes returning instead to a small framed painting resting on the desk. It depicted a woman's face, olive skinned and dark eyed, her mouth curving upwards in a shy smile. Her braided dark hair was decorated with a fine netting of seed pearls, and an ornate choker had been painted around her neck.

"Is that Lina?" Flora asked, and the arl startled, glancing quickly over his shoulder at her.

"You remember her name?"

Flora nodded; always slightly embarrassed to admit why the development of excellent recall had been necessary.

"I've got a good memory," she said honestly, eyes dropping to her feet. "It's because I never had  _the letters_  before Alistair gave them to me. I couldn't write nothing, I had to remember everything."

Leonas gazed at her for a long moment, and when he remained silent; Flora decided to say what she had come to say in the first place.

"Thank you for your proposal," she whispered, forcing herself to look straight into his rigid, stiff-lipped face. "It was a kind and selfless offer."

The Arl of South Reach said nothing, waiting for her to finish.

"But it would be selfish of me to accept it," Flora continued, swallowing and pressing forward determinedly. "You deserve someone who can be a proper wife to you in – in  _every_ way."

Despite her determination not to do so, her eyes slid sideways towards the bed, where Leliana appeared to be just waking up, shifting beneath the blankets.

The arl's gaze followed hers, and Flora coughed, willing herself not to blush.

"Anyway," she said, returning her eyes to his. "I don't- I don't know if you'll ever find another wife, or even if you even want to. But you  _could,_ once all this is over. I wouldn't want to… get in the way."

Leonas gazed at her for a long moment, the expression on his face unreadable. It was impossible to tell whether he was looking at her as the daughter of his old friend, as the lover of another man; or as someone who crashed her mouth against his without reservation to save his life.

"I'm not sure if Bryce would be grateful or outraged that I've proposed marriage to his daughter," he said after an almost unbearable pause, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

Flora retrieved a memory of her father, kind, stern and entirely willing to betroth her off while still an infant to secure a connection with the Theirin dynasty.

"I don't think he would have minded," she said eventually, her expression thoughtful. "I think he would have seen the practicality of it."

Leonas nodded, the twitching lips rising into a proper smile.

"I agree," he murmured, reaching out to ruffle her hair in a manner more fatherly than uxorial. "We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow. You should get some sleep, child."

Flora smiled back at him, and had just turned to take her leave when Leliana called for the young healer to wait. Flora hovered obediently in place, watching the bard retrieve her slippers from beside the bed before wrapping herself in a crimson silk robe.

Linking her arm into Flora's, Leliana deftly led the way out of the arl's chamber. The two guards dutifully fell into step behind them, one of them hiding a yawn.

"I'm  _exhausted_ ," she chattered, her eyes bright and the perfume somehow still fresh on her skin. "I'm looking forward to – oh? Are we going somewhere,  _ma petite?"_

Instead of turning right to descend from the landing, Flora had angled herself towards the arl's solar.

"Leliana, I want to write something and send it before we leave tomorrow. Will you help me?"

Leliana, eyebrows rising towards the ceiling beams, gave a little nod; following the redheaded healer into the arl's private office.

They spent the next half-candle length at Leonas' writing desk, surrounded by ink bottles and sheets of parchment. Leliana wrote out each of Flora's desired three messages neatly, before sliding the page over for Flora to copy out anew on a fresh sheet. Three times, Flora laboriously copied out  _Warden-Commander Cousland (Acting);_ before the bard sealed each letter with an unceremonious blob of wax from the candle.

Once they had finished, Leliana tucked the letters safely into the pocket of her crimson robe; shooting her a sidelong glance of reluctant admiration.

"This was your idea,  _ma crevette?"_

Flora nodded, inwardly giving her knee a little motivational speech before the journey back to the west tower.

Leliana left her in the upper passage, desiring to distil the evening's events once more with Wynne. By the time that Flora had reached the arlina's chamber, her leg was throbbing and the guards were trailing at a snail's pace behind her. Thanking them both, Flora nudged open the door and stepped into a seething mass of shadows.

The next moment she had nearly fallen over a snoring Oghren, who fortunately slept sound enough that not even an Archdemon could rouse him.

Lifting her hand, Flora summoned just enough light to cast a faint, flickering glow over the flagstones. Zevran was still prostrate on the chaise, his shirt-covered chest rising and falling in steady motion. The bed was cloaked in darkness, but she could see well enough that there was no one beneath the crumpled blankets.

Just then, the pattern of shadows shifted on the flagstones as a form moved against the window. Flora turned to see Alistair standing before the arrow slit; silhouetted by the silvery edge of moonlight. He was bare-chested; the broad, muscular shoulders slumped dejectedly as he stared down at the courtyard below.

With some difficulty Flora heaved herself over to him, wondering if it were physically possible for her leg to actually  _drop off._

"Alistair?"

The bastard prince turned to her in abject despair, having been so immersed in his own gloom that he had not heard her enter the room. In slight alarm Flora reached up to touch his face, feeling dampness on his fine-hewn cheeks.

"Brother-warden," she whispered, brushing her thumb gently beneath his eye. "Why are you upset?"

"I'm sorry, Flo," he breathed, the words coming out mangled by his own distress. "I know it's selfish, but I-I can't bear to think of you married to anyone else. I can't let you become another man's wife."

Flora opened her mouth to reply but he rambled over her, his hazel eyes dark and desperate.

"Leonas is a good man, and I know he's only proposing for your own safety at court, but - "

"I'm not marrying him," interrupted Flora, and Alistair stopped short, gazing down at her as though she had grown a second head. "I don't  _need_ anyone to protect me; I've always been able to protect myself."

Alistair reached for her then, taking her face between large, calloused hands and kissing her with both immense relief and sudden, overwhelming desire. Seeing that Flora was limping, he lifted her without effort and carried her gently over to the bed.

Brother-warden made love to sister-warden with tender, urgent need beneath the blankets for the next hour, regardless of the presence of their sleeping companions. And if Zevran had indeed been up to his old tricks and feigning slumber, the elf had enough sense to bite back any commentary he would otherwise be compelled to deliver.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I love it when Flora inadvertently slips into her Herring cadences, most often characterised by the double negative "I DIDN'T DO NOTHIN!" It reminds me of when I go super-Welsh among my London colleagues and they're like WTF are you saying, what does "I'll do it now in a minute" even mean?
> 
> Another moment that I really like in this chapter is Flora acknowledging that ultimately – when it comes down to it – she can protect herself far better than anyone else can. Despite being naïve and immature (anon reviewer, you're definitely right about the Circle thing), and often coming across as childlike in her mannerisms; at the end of the day, Flora doesn't need anyone to defend her.
> 
> Also, the thought of the spirits aiding Flora reflexively distilling the alcohol into water - since it's technically a 'poison' makes me laugh!I imagine that if she tried to ever get her ears pierced, the holes would just heal up, lol. Even though I thought at first writing Flora as a pure healer/shielder/defensive mage would be a challenge, or else quite limiting, I'm having loads of fun with it!
> 
> This is literally my publishing process btw:
> 
> 1\. edits chapter usually while getting distracted by something on TV
> 
> 2\. posts chapter
> 
> 3\. goes back to read over it twenty minutes later. notices 600000 spelling and grammatical mistakes, or sentences that just sound ridiculous
> 
> 4\. frantically rushes to edit in doc manager, only to see that five people have read it in the meantime
> 
> 5\. stress over the fact that five people now think I'm a moron lol
> 
> bearing in mind I'm doing all this on my phone, please excuse my errors, haha


	189. Farewell To South Reach

 

The morning of their journey to Denerim began gloomily with cloud and grey drizzle, rain pooling over the flagstones and dripping from leaded gutters. Mabari chased out from Chantry and barracks sheltered beneath overhanging porches; watching the stable-lads as they rushed about preparing horses for the upcoming journey. The nobles' caravan had already been prepared, canvas swathes hastily tied over the carriage contents to protect them from the incessant downpour.

It had been decided that they would travel to the city in two separate parties. The nobility, including the Cousland brothers, would travel in a larger cohort along with several dozen retainers, the emissaries and the various merchants who had attached themselves to the Wardens' company. They would take the slower West Road route, a populous trade passage frequented by caravans and individual travellers alike.

The Wardens and their company would take individual horses, travelling fast and light over the low eastern hills of the Bannorn, and would be expected to arrive at the city walls on the third day after their departure from South Reach. Bann Teagan would be accompanying the Wardens' party, to keep in communication with his elder brother using the Guerrin ravens. Sten, who preferred to travel alone, had already departed for the city several days prior.

Once in Denerim, the nobility would settle themselves in their town residences – the Couslands staying with Arl Eamon- and ascertain the position of the court; while the Wardens laid low and bided their time until the Landsmeet.

As the anaemic sun hung low in a surly sky, Wynne bustled her way into the arlina's bedchamber without knocking, impatient to see how far they had progressed in their preparations to depart. Zevran was leaning beside the arrow slit window, raising a lascivious eyebrow at the stable-boys in the courtyard below. Oghren was nowhere to be seen; the dwarf having risen remarkably early to pay a personal farewell to the arl's freestanding kegs in the buttery. Alistair was sharpening his sword beside the dresser, clearly envisioning it sliding neatly between either Howe or Mac Tir's ribs – preferably both, one shortly after the other.

Flora was sitting cross-legged on the chair in front of the dresser, gazing intently at her reflection in the mirror. To her irritation, she had woken up with two spots on her chin and was busy poking at them with her fingers; golden mist rising dutifully to smooth away the blemishes.

Reflexively, senior enchanter chose junior apprentice as the focus for her attention.

"When you've finished  _manhandling_  your own face, child, there's a journey we need to embark upon," announced Wynne, briskly striding forward and pulling the curtains to one side on the bed. "Where's your bag?"

"It's all ready, already," Flora protested, jabbing a finger towards her leather pack. She had joyfully left the arlina's clothes neatly folded on the mattress, grateful to return to her typical masculine travel garb of shirt and breeches. The Cousland wreath, stored in its polished case and wrapped in an Orlesian nightgown, was tucked away in a safe corner at the bottom of her pack; nestled beside  _Exotic Fish of Thedas._

In fact Flora had risen remarkably early, pulling a woollen jumper over her head and creeping out of the arlina's chamber before the sun had broken the horizon. Leliana had been waiting in the passageway, a cloak wrapped tightly around her nightgown-clad body. Together, they slipped out of the west tower and ascended the damp stone steps up to the arl's rooftop rookery. Leliana had spent a considerable number of hours here over the month they had resided at South Reach; sufficient time for her to get to know the messenger birds and their capabilities intimately.

Flora watched as Leliana withdrew the three messages they had scribed together the previous night, rolling each one into a slender tube and tying it to the offered leg of a waiting crow. Leliana bowed her head over each bird, murmuring softly as her fingers caressed their glossy necks. The two redheads - a decade's worth of differences separating them – watched as the three birds winged their way out into the dawn. One wheeled in the direction of the Brecilian Forest, one to Lake Calenhad, and the final bird – the strongest – set its course towards the distant Frostback Mountains. As the largest raven disappeared into the clouds, Flora reached out and squeezed Leliana's hand, tightly. The bard smiled down at her, returning the pressure.

Later that morning down in the main courtyard, the rain showed no signs of abating. The Mabari shook their wet fur miserably before skulking off to find shelter, while the surrounding humans wished that they could do the same. The nobles' caravan was far larger than the one that the Wardens would be travelling in; consisting of a dozen carts and wagons in addition to the glossy, fine-bred horses. Grooms and retainers hurried back and forth to check that everything was in its proper place, while Arl Leonas leaned down to give last minute insurrections to Dane. The arl's capable right hand man would oversee South Reach in his master's absence.

Since the nobles would be embarking first to clear some room in the courtyard, those in the Wardens' party came down to say their farewells. Eamon spent a long time talking to Teagan, before gripping his brother tightly by the arm and clapping him on the back. Flora was embraced by both Finian and Fergus, neither of whom looked particularly happy. During their residence at South Reach, it had been easy to forget the burden placed upon their younger sister as a Grey Warden; and once they were in the city, her role would become abundantly clear.

Alistair took a deep breath and ventured towards the mounted Arl Leonas, ducking past Oghren as the dwarf loaded up his pack with bottles. The arl broke off his conversation with Dane as he saw the young prince approaching, his dark eyes surveying Alistair with cautious respect as he shifted in the saddle.

"Thank you," said Alistair abruptly, staring up at the arl who had granted them both time and safety to consolidate their cause. "For- for everything."

Leonas Bryland bowed his head to acknowledge Alistair's gratitude.

"I'll take personal responsibility for Florence's brothers," he replied quietly, canting his head towards where Finian was laughing at a murmur from his man Tommaso. "She need not worry."

The nobles' party departed mid-morning, well provisioned and with their retainers armed to the teeth to discourage any malign interference. The carriage wheels rolled away over the drawbridge, the caravan rumbling its way down into the town before heading towards the ancient road that led to Ferelden's ancient capital.

Dane, a practised hand at the tiller of South Reach, was at ease overseeing the departure of the Wardens' party several hours later. He expertly directed the assignment and loading of the horses, while the erstwhile travellers gathered together at the foot of the west tower.

Leliana had vanished into the Chantry for some last-minute prayers; it was mostly due to the absence of the enthusiastic lay-sister that Morrigan chose to make an appearance. She unfolded herself from a dark, winged shape on the steps behind Alistair, manifesting close behind him and laughing nastily as he gave a yelp of surprise.

"You need to stop sneaking up on people," he hissed at the witch, backing up rapidly against the foot of the rampart wall. "Or we could just tie a bell onto your ankle like a naughty Mabari."

"'Tis not my fault that you are so spectacularly unobservant," retorted Morrigan, sauntering forwards to stare at the preparations. "My, how  _tedious_ it must be to travel everywhere on foot. I shall join you in the city; I have no desire to gain blisters during the day and listen to the sound of your noisy copulation at night."

Alistair coughed, willing the flush to remain beneath the line of his silverite breastplate. Leonas had looked as shocked as Alistair had ever seen him when the young Warden had brought out his battered Templar armour. The arl had instead provided Alistair with a far finer suit from his own extensive personal armoury.

"Well," he began, preparing a suitably scathing retort; but then trailed off before he could deliver it. Morrigan turned her catlike amber stare in the direction of Alistair's gaze, and then let out a derisive snort.

Flora was sitting at the bottom of the steps leading up to the great hall, a bread roll wedged between her teeth as she tied her hair on top of her head in a dishevelled bun. A Mabari was whining at her feet, casting soulful brown eyes towards the food. As they watched, Flora lowered her hands from her hair and shook her head sternly at the dog. However, it did not take much whining before she had relented; tearing the bread in half and offering one part to the Mabari.

"Why are we watching this inane display?" hissed Morrigan, her nostrils flaring.

"I suppose you wouldn't recognise kindness if it punched you in the face," murmured Alistair, his eyes warm as he stared at his sister-warden.

"No, fortunately it's never something that I've been afflicted with," retorted Morrigan, nastily. "'Tis a pity she cannot cure herself of it, as she would any other  _weakness_."

Alistair ignored the witch, striding forward across the flagstones to sit on the step beside his sister-warden. Slinging an arm across Flora's shoulders, he planted an loud, affectionate kiss on her cheek. She smiled sideways at him, her jaw moving mechanically up and down as she worked through her mid-morning snack. He smiled back at her, tightening his grip around her narrow back.

"I'm not sure I remember how to ride a horse properly," the solemn Flora informed him through a mouthful of bread. "You might have to teach me how to get on again, like when you and Duncan got me from the Circle."

Alistair couldn't help but stifle a smile, recalling the impromptu lesson on the shore of Lake Calenhad. "Didn't you fall off?"

Flora nodded indignantly, elbowing him as he grinned wider.

"Yes! About fifteen times on the way to Ostagar. You made fun of me."

"Remember when Duncan and I were so absorbed in our conversation about Orlais that you fell off into a ditch and we didn't notice for ten minutes?"

From the scowl that Flora shot him, it was clear that she  _did_  remember. Alistair laughed, ducking his head to kiss the back of her ear. With no small measure of surprise, he realised that he was now able to think of Duncan without the usual accompanying rush of grief and anger.

"My lord Theirin?" It was a young stable-hand, clutching the reins of a handsome bay mare as he led her across the flagstones. "Your mount."

Alistair, who had spent hours in the stables during their stay at South Reach, was familiar with all of Arl Leonas' mounts. He stepped forward, then crouched to run his hand expertly up the horse's fetlock.

"What a beauty," he murmured admiringly, carefully arranging his pack over the glossy creature's haunches. "This is Bryland, isn't it?"

The stable boy nodded, watching Alistair mount up easily despite being clad in gleaming steel and silverite. Flora gazed up at her brother-warden, proud faced and straight backed astride the saddle. Despite the drizzle and the overhanging cloud, she thought – not for the first time -  _he looks like a king._

This was such a disconcerting thought to Flora that she lifted her pack and went in search of her own equine companion. Leliana was already magnificently mounted on a beautiful grey, looking like a warrior princess from the type of storybook that Flora had never owned herself, but had overheard others talking about.

Wynne and Oghren too had been assigned horses, and Zevran was just clambering up onto the back of a black mare that stood several hands taller than the elf's platinum blond head. Flora clutched the leather straps of her pack forlornly and swivelled her head, wondering if she had been forgotten about.

"Lady Cousland? Your horse is over here."

Flora, with increasing wariness, rounded the back of Leliana's grey and followed the direction of the voice.

A young stable boy was clinging to the reins of a short piebald pony, which immediately shot her a wall-eyed stare of pure malevolence. It was quite possibly the ugliest horse that Flora had ever seen. She immediately felt beads of sweat rising on her forehead as the creature blew out its nostrils and clattered its hooves impatiently on the flagstones.

"Arl Bryland said that you'd want a smaller horse," said the red-faced stable boy clinging to the reins. "We were going to give you Spotty, but he's stronger so the dwarf has got him."

Flora shot a resentful look over at Oghren, whose placid horse was chewing a mouthful of hay with a serene expression.

"Who is this?" she asked tentatively, approaching the saddle with pack in arms. The pony rolled its yellowed eye back to stare at her, with what appeared to be unadulterated hatred.

"This is the Beast," muttered the stable-boy, helping Flora to sling her pack over the piebald's haunches and tuck her staff between its straps. "He's alright really, you just have to stay away from his hooves. And… the teeth."

Flora gloomily clambered up into the saddle, clutching at the reins as the horse gave a little irritated shiver.

"Why is he called  _the Beast?_ " she whispered, but the stable-lad had shot off adoringly to adjust Leliana's stirrup.

For a moment Flora sat there in mild terror, and then the horse whipped its neck around and made a valiant attempt to nip at her calf with its teeth. She lifted her boot up out of the way; clinging to the reins as she felt herself slide backwards on the saddle. The beads of sweat now emerged freely on her forehead, slithering down the sides of her cheeks.

"Are you going to do this all the way to Denerim?" she asked the horse plaintively; and it lashed its tail in grim assent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: This was a fun chapter to write! I thought the mental image of Flora healing her own spots was cute – hmm, I wonder why your hormones are going a bit mental at the moment? THE POWER OF DENIAL IS STRONG, LADY COUSLAND.
> 
> Also she's still shit at riding and horses still hate her. They're probably annoyed about too much stable shagging, tbh
> 
> Typical, they start their journey to Denerim and it's absolutely pissing it down with rain! Fereldan's weather is so English, lol.
> 
> Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to Denerim we go (at last! I caught up to where I was before my game decided it was on crack, so now we have some actual progress)


	190. Tattoos and Tent

 

The rain increased in ferocity as the Wardens and their company left South Reach; hammering onto heads and haunches as the horses picked their way in a soggy procession down through the town. Nobody spoke much, save for a brief fragmented conversation between Wynne and Leliana about how long it would take them to reach the low hills of the eastern Bannorn. Instead of talking, they hunched within their collars and pulled hoods over their heads, trying to keep as dry as possible.

Flora, who came from a village where it rained more often than not, was unfazed by the incessant drizzle. Rolling her wet sleeves around her elbows and shoving hair back into her recalcitrant bun; she was more focused on staying on  _the Beast's_  saddle. The horse seemed to alternate between charging ahead at top speed, slowing to a snail's pace, and, most disconcertingly of all, coming to a dead halt and quivering violently as though possessed.

The company stopped for lunch far later than Flora would have liked, beneath the meagre shelter of a clump of trees. They had made good time despite the inclement weather, having crossed the majority of the croplands that morning. They were now passing through a shallow valley, the low hills of the eastern Bannorn rising on the horizon. By Wynne's estimate, who had once ridden the high road in circumstances she did not care to relate, they should reach the foothills by late afternoon.

Now they sat on the soggy grass under a sparse cluster of branches, eating bread and cheese prepared earlier by Arl Bryland's kitchens. The horses had gathered together further beneath the trees; all apart from a particular wall-eyed piebald pony, who stood obstinately out in the rain and chewed grass with a mutinous expression.

"I think the Beast is one of Rendon Howe's assassins," said Flora through a mouthful of bread, eyeing the pony warily. "He's tried to throw me three times already."

"I offered to swap with you," replied Alistair, who had indeed made the gallant offer after the Beast's first attempt to launch his sister-warden into the cornfields. He had changed into his travelling leathers once he had seen how isolated and exposed their route was; any assailant would be spotted from miles away.

"Your feet would be dragging along the ground, Alistair," retorted Leliana, taking another long drag from her water pouch.

Teagan was checking their route against the map, ensuring that they remained on course. Oghren was also gulping from his flask, although from the smell of it, the leather pouch did not contain water. He and Zevran had been comparing notes on the various conquests they had made at South Reach; the elf had been irritated to learn that he had bedded a kitchen maid the night after the dwarf had already claimed her.

"Sorry, laddie," Oghren crowed, taking a swig and grinning through his ginger moustache. "Yeh can't have been any match for a dwarf on  _certain_  fronts. I hope she weren't too disappointed!"

Zevran's eyes were narrowed as he lowered his half-bitten apple, trying to ignore the dwarf's triumphant gloating. Flora, who had been staring at him for the past few minutes, suddenly leaned over and prodded his cheek gently.

"Did these hurt?" she asked, touching the dark stripe etched above the elf's jawbone.

"The tattoos? Somewhat,  _carina,_ but what is life without a little pain?" Zevran replied, over-flippant to disguise the tensing of his body as she traced the pattern curiously with a nail-bitten finger.

"They do it with a pin and ink, don't they?" Alistair interjected, having demolished two days' worth of cheese in a single meal. "Some of the other Wardens had them."

"Would  _you_ like one, my dear Alistair? What would you have inscribed on your body?" Zevran smiled archly at the bastard prince, as the young Warden appeared to sit back and seriously consider his answer.

"Something to do with the Grey Wardens," he replied after a moment as Flora sat with her mouth half-open, also thinking hard. "Maybe a griffon on my back, or a… big sword. Something  _manly."_

Leliana let out a delicate little snort, glancing sideways at Teagan with an amused expression. Even Wynne wasn't quite quick enough to hide a smile.

"What about you,  _mi florita?"_

"I'd get a fish," Flora replied decisively, leaning over to steal a handful of untouched grapes from Oghren's platter.

"And where would you like it etched on that ripe little body?" purred the elf, raising a single eyebrow as he took a sip of wine. "I can suggest a few places."

"On my  _face_ ," replied Flora, pointing between her eyes as Zevran spluttered on his mouthful. "With its fins coming down like this."

She drew twin lines down her cheeks with both fingers, while the elf blanched beside her. A bread roll paused halfway to Alistair's mouth as he froze in horror.

" _Mi sirenita,"_ Zevran said eventually, dabbing wine delicately from the corners of his mouth before leaning out and taking her chin between his fingers.

"I could never do such a thing to this lovely face; it would be akin to taking a knife to a pair of Antivan fine leather boots."

Flora rolled her eyes in true adolescent fashion, sitting back against the tree trunk and stretching her legs in front of her.

"Alistair, if you  _did_  want that griffon, I'd be more than happy to etch it onto your back," murmured Zevran, sealing the wine and replacing it in his pack. "Although it would have to wait until we get to Denerim, so I could obtain the requisite perfumed oils."

"Perfumed… oils?" asked Alistair, still recovering from the fish-on-face revelation.

The elf nodded matter-of-factly, raising an eyebrow.

"For the massage, of course."

" _Massage?"_ Alistair said, even more faintly.

"Why, yes. It warms up the skin and the muscle in preparation for the needle."

Alistair shot the elf an alarmed look; it was now Flora's turn to laugh openly.

The company set off again, taking the winding track that led up into the east Bannorn foothills. The terrain in this region of Ferelden was far milder than its western counterpart; the hills a pale reflection of even the lesser slopes of the Hinterlands. However, the Amaranthine sea wind blew harsh and hard across the rolling grasslands, a constant stiff breeze which directed the drizzle directly into their faces. They saw no other signs of life save for the occasional herd of druffalo; the vast creatures ambling amongst the gorse and heather, utterly ambivalent to the unfortunate conditions.

Mid-afternoon the Beast tried to hurl a squawking Flora into a clump of bushes; prompting Alistair to clamber down from Bryland and exchange his pack for his sister-warden. Flora, feeling relatively safe perched on the higher saddle, glowered down at the ill-tempered pony.

"I don't know why he hates me so much," she complained, wiping the rain from her eyelashes with the back of her hand. "I haven't done  _nothing_ to him."

Alistair, who saw assassins crouching behind each tree, was far happier now that his sister-warden was within his arms. He kissed her impulsively on the cheek as Flora settled back against his chest.

"No animal likes me," she grumbled, winding her fingers in Bryland's braided mane. "It's not fair."

The company continued east, less protected from the elements now that they were exposed on the hilltops. The rain delighted in blowing sideways, a teasing wind plucking hair free from bands and snatching up anything not tightly secured to the horses. One corner of the tent strapped to Wynne's horse was gleefully tugged free; the canvas flapping wildly until Teagan dismounted and strode to secure it.

Fortunately, despite the absence of any other travellers the track was in fair condition and they continued to make good time. Teagan had suggested they make camp within a shallow basin named Ulfric's Palm, a small dip between the hills that had some measure of shelter.

The sharp-eyed Leliana had been the first to spot the old granite standing stone that marked the entrance to the wooded hollow. As they filed through the narrow gap between the trees, the rain abruptly abated, to large cheers from Oghren.

"Thank the Ancestors for that, I'd hate to be puttin' up tents in the rain!" he announced fervently. The next moment, he had claimed an urgent need to relieve himself and vanished into the tree line.

Dismounting onto damp grass tangled with shreds of bark and mossy clumps; they let the horses free to graze before untangling the three separate tents from their packs. Flora and Alistair, who could perform this ritual in their sleep, managed to construct the first tent in a matter of minutes.

Zevran, watching the two young Wardens work together in unspoken coordination, was struck by a sudden idea. Clearing his throat, he stepped forward to intercept Alistair before the bastard prince could retrieve the next tent.

"I propose a competition," he suggested smoothly, quirking an invitational eyebrow. "In the assembly of the two final tents. The gentlemen versus the ladies, and the winners may demand a boon from the losers."

Leliana, who was fiercely competitive, immediately agreed. Flora, who was _not_  but had picked up on the bard's desire to win, got thoroughly overexcited and nearly tripped over the canvas folds of their own tent.

"Careful!" hissed the Chantry lay sister, eyeing their rivals to ensure that the gentlemen were not attempting to gain an early advantage. "Mistakes like that could cost us our  _victory!_ "

Zevran and Alistair gained an early lead purely from the latter's strength; the young Warden easily able to carry the mass of canvas and wooden poles in one loaded armful. Shoving the framework into the soft earth with no need for a hammer; they were already draping the canvas over the rudimentary structure by the time that the mage and bard had finished gathering their own poles.

Flora decided to give their side an advantage by darting forwards and stealing the pegs from beneath Alistair's nose; only to be caught by the swift eyes and swifter hands of Zevran.

"Your fiendish attempt to cheat has been foiled, you little minx," he announced, gripping Flora's wrists firmly behind her back whilst taking painstaking care not to actually hurt her. "You are now imprisoned here for the next thirty heartbeats."

Leliana struggled manfully with the canvas, managing to sling it over the framework single-handedly until Zevran released the pressure on Flora's wrists.

Flora scrambled back across the clearing towards Leliana, slyly grabbing a trailing guy-rope as she passed and giving it a hefty tug. The men's tent collapsed in her wake as Zevran let out a cry of despair, watching the canvas fold in on itself.

" _Alistair!_ Your construction is flawed."

Now with an unassailable lead, Flora and Leliana were able to complete their tent at a leisurely pace. Leliana stamped the last peg into the mossy earth with her boot and raised her hand triumphantly in the air. Opposite, Alistair was still hauling the canvas over the wooden framework; Zevran had begun to sulk and was of little help.

"Ha!" exalted Leliana, who relished every victory - no matter how small. "We need to take some time to think about our boon, gentlemen."

Flora, who never won anything, was equally pleased. She came forwards to help Alistair with the last part of the tent, tugging the canvas down and securing the rope around the wooden peg. He smiled at her, and then grunted as the elf flung several bedrolls petulantly in his direction.

Wynne, after rolling her eyes and commiserating with Teagan at the shenanigans of the younger half of their party; proceeded to busy herself with the preparations for dinner. The bann had gathered wood for a fire and together they arranged it in suitable formation. The senior enchanter touched the head of her staff to the piled logs and ignited them in a rush of sparks. The moment that the first skewer of meat made hissing contact with the flames, Oghren wandered back out of the woods; claiming to have 'got lost' during his excursion to relieve himself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: ON THE ROAD AGAIN! I do love travelling chapters, and it's been ages since we've had one.
> 
> Lol at that tattoo conversation in game! Made me laugh!
> 
> TENT ASSEMBLY COMPETITIONS. The Wardens and their company are so young – I think it's easy to forget HOW young they are actually, given their v. serious and important mission – Leliana and Zevran are both late twenties, Alistair is literally 20 (infant) and Flora is 19 (embryonic). Hence the diversions and entertainment!


	191. A Conversation With Bann Teagan

 

Hours of afternoon dampness had brought out the fragrant scent of heather as the sun drifted languidly below the horizon. The nondescript wooded clearing in which the company had pitched their tents was gilded by the waning light, the pale green leaves of the trees brushed with a metallic sheen. Above them, the sky was an artist's palette of rose gold hues; yellow seeping into dusky pink and indigo blended with amber.

They ate skewered meat from Arl Leonas' kitchens, and heated potatoes in the smouldering ashes of the fire. Nobody spoke of Denerim, which was still a day and a half's ride away. Zevran and Oghren played a game of Wicked Grace by firelight; the elf winning two games to the dwarf's one.

Although he did not speak of it, Denerim was still very much on Alistair's mind. He knew that soon after they arrived in the city, his bid to become king would become publically known; and that this would pit him directly against Loghain and Anora. To his own mild surprise, the thought of becoming king was no longer quite so intimidating. Alistair had no particular wish for power; but the young man had developed a fierce desire to restore the country that had become part of the fibre of his being with every step of Fereldan earth he had trodden.

The main reason why this prospect was no longer  _anathema_  was sitting beside him on the damp grass, her thigh pressed against his knee as she gingerly prodded her potato out of the ashes with a stick. The skin was charred black, and when Flora tapped it with the end of the twig it sounded as though she were hitting stone.

"Yeh've incinerated that, lassie," Oghren informed her from the other side of the fire. "It's rock hard. Yeh could fire it from a ballista and it'd take out a dozen Darkspawn."

Flora grimaced, leaning forward to retrieve one of the cooking knives. Carefully, she pried the potato apart to reveal fluffy yellow meat within.

"No-oo, it's alright on the inside! Look."

She impulsively snatched the potato up to show him, then yelped and dropped it rapidly as it burnt her fingertips. Alistair fished the unfortunate vegetable from the flames as Flora shoved her fingers in her mouth. A few moment later, golden mist prickling under her tongue, she withdrew them and scowled.

While Alistair carefully peeled off the potato's charred skin, his calloused fingers less susceptible to the heat; Wynne gazed curiously through the flames towards where Flora was inspecting her fingertips.

"Did you think about that?"

"Eh?" Flora replied, distracted by the potato coming apart in Alistair's capable hands. "Think about what?"

"The creation energy, just now. Did you  _consciously_ summon it?"

Flora thought for a moment, and then shook her head.

"No, it just – came."

"Hm," said Wynne, eyebrows rising as she smoothed a wrinkle from her skirts. "You have a strong connection with the spirits."

The senior enchanter said this in the same matter-of-fact tone as she would praise someone's eyesight, or fleetness of foot. Flora gave a slight shrug, her eyes moving sideways to the potato clutched between Alistair's fingers.

"It's still hot," he warned her, holding it away. "Patience, my dear."

"Are they different spirits each time, do you think?" Wynne asked carefully, inwardly delighted at this chance to probe Flora's ability further. Most often when she had tried to question the young healer about her connection to the Fade, Flora had abruptly changed the subject; mostly due to embarrassment about not actually understanding how her magic worked.

"No," Flora muttered, quick and definitive. "I know it's the same two each time that help me. I know  _them_."

"Isn't it unusual to have a relationship with the same spirits that goes back years?" asked Leliana, lifting a water pouch to her lips. Somehow, the bard made the gesture as elegant as though she were sipping from a delicate porcelain teacup.

"It has been known," the senior enchanter replied, glancing up at the silvery disc of the moon as it breathed wisps of cloud across the heavens.

"They've been with me for as long as I can remember," Flora replied, taking the potato from Alistair and picking out a crumbling fragment with her fingers.

She screwed up her face as she took a bite, recalling a recently uncovered memory from her five years in Highever.

"I used to call them Silver Knight and Golden Lady. My nurse used to think I had imaginary friends. Or had brain problems."

"They're clearly very powerful," murmured Wynne, pausing as an owl let out a low, mournful hoot from the branches above them. "It's fascinating. I wonder if the strength of their creationism blocks your ability to channel other schools of magic?"

Flora let out a little noncommittal grunt. She was acutely aware that the abilities she held were actually the result of acting as a conduit for the spirits; rather than from any natural skill that she possessed.

Zevran, who had been in a sulk ever since losing his own tent construction challenge, brightened up as something occurred to him.

"Alistair," he purred, edging around the fire to sit closer to the two Wardens. "I have a small query."

Alistair shot him a wary look, familiar with that particular tone of voice. "Yes?"

"If these two spirits are always in the presence of  _mi sirenita_ , does that mean that you are actually engaging in amorous congress with  _three_  others?"

Flora nearly choked on her mouthful of potato as she spluttered with laughter; both at Zevran's comment and at Alistair's ensuing horrified expression.

"I- I - don't …!"

"How very  _Antivan_ of you, I highly approve," continued Zevran gleefully, ignoring Leliana's snort of exasperation. "If multiple lovers are indeed your predilection, I know a sweet little whorehouse in Denerim which would be happy to cater to your desires."

Fortunately for a red-faced Alistair, he was saved by a dark shape fluttering down through the canopy of branches overhead. At first they thought it was Morrigan; but then the bird landed neatly on Teagan's knee and they saw that it had a slender glass message tube tied to its leg.

The hawk lifted its clawed foot, patiently allowing Teagan to extract a narrow strip of parchment from the tube. They all waited with baited breath as his eyes moved over the brief handwritten message, and relaxed when he gave a brief nod of confirmation.

"The other party have reached the Drakon River without incident. Does anyone have a pencil or inkpen?"

Naturally, Wynne had more than adequate stationary supplies and she provided the bann with a selection of writing tools. Teagan scrawled a quick response on the other side of the parchment, before rolling it up and replacing it within the tube.

"Return to  _Eamon_ ," he instructed, feeding the hawk a small scrap of leftover meat between his fingers. The bird gulped it down in seconds, before flapping its way back up towards the winking eye of the moon.

"Maybe it'll eat the witch as a snack on its way back," Alistair said hopefully, and Flora shot him a reproachful look, swallowing the last mouthful of potato.

"Do you think Morrigan could get attacked by a larger bird?" she asked anxiously, this possibility having never occurred to her.

"I'm pretty sure that woman could run into the Archdemon itself in mid-air and come off the better," replied Flora's brother-warden, planting a kiss on her cheek.

As usual, a pattern of watches was decided so that their camp would never be unguarded. The two Wardens would take separate watches just in case there were any Darkspawn lurking nearby – although it was rare for them to claw their way up through the hills, nobody wanted to take any chances.

Alistair, resigning himself to a chaste night punctuated by snoring, retired to a tent with Oghren and Zevran. Wynne, who displayed the most patience with Leliana's lengthy prayers, would share accommodation with the lay-sister. Teagan and Flora would take the first watch, which began just before midnight.

Around them the usual rustles and soft sounds of nighttime emerged from the woods; the bann glanced around somewhat warily, envisioning all manner of creature emerging from between the shadowed trunks. Unable to sit still, he rose from beside the fire once more and paced the length of the campsite. He checked on the horses, who were resting peacefully beneath the spreading branches of an oak; then squinted off towards a clump of bushes that appeared far more sinister at night than they had done during the day.

Flora watched him with some perplexion, leaning forward to jab at the dying fire with a stick.

"I can sense Darkspawn if they're near," she said eventually, crawling over the mossy earth to reach into Wynne's pack. "You don't need to worry about that."

Teagan let out a grunt, staring off towards a flicker of movement in the canopy above them. A bat broke free, silhouetted dark and angular against the moon for a moment before wheeling out of sight.

"How do you spell 'shipwreck?" asked Flora after a short time, gnawing the end of the pencil between her teeth.

Teagan glanced over to see her now sitting close to the fire, a blank sheet of parchment resting on the earth before her. He stopped staring suspiciously at the bush and went to peer over her shoulder. Flora had covered the top part of the page with sentences scribed in her sloping, rounded hand; the letters unconnected and occasionally back to front. From what the bann could ascertain, she appeared to be writing a simple description of the village of Herring.

He enunciated the correct letters slowly and Flora carefully wrote them out, ending a sentence about a reef named the Hag's Teeth. Once she had finished, she handed Teagan the parchment and a pencil.

"Would you check it for me?" she asked, politely.

The bann took the page and read the rudimentary sentences, correcting the occasional spelling mistake and adding grammar. He handed it back to Flora with a murmured  _well done,_  and she read over it, pleased that she had made relatively few errors. She made a few quick strokes at the bottom of the parchment and then held it up to show him what she had written:  _Teagan Guerrin._

"I remembered," she said proudly when he smiled back at her, giving a slight nod to indicate that it was correct. "Not  _Teggin Gwern._ "

"Alistair taught you all this?" Teagan asked, already knowing the answer. He had been present in the upper hall of Redcliffe Castle, months prior – his elder brother still submerged in cursed sleep – when Alistair had first written out the alphabet before the fire for his sister-warden to laboriously copy down.

"Mm, he gave me  _the letters_ ," Flora breathed, turning her head reflexively towards where Alistair lay dozing between Zevran and Oghren. "I don't know what I could ever do to repay him."

Teagan also glanced briefly in the direction of the young man who called both him and Eamon 'uncle'. After a moment he sighed, returning his gaze to the fire.

"Well, for what it's worth, I've never seen Alistair happier than he's been with you," the bann said abruptly, firmly quashing anything else that he might have said with more alcohol in his system. "Despite it all."

Flora beamed, a pink flush of pleasure rising to her cheeks. Lifting the pencil, she quickly ducked her head back over the parchment.

"How do you spell  _'coast'_?"

Once their watch was over, Teagan went to rouse Alistair and Flora to wake Leliana. Bastard prince and lay sister duly swapped with the first pair, taking up a similar position beside the fire. Alistair, yawning, looked barely awake while Leliana appeared as though she had just woken from eight hours fruitful rest.

Teagan ducked his head into the deserted tent, and then abruptly stopped as he saw Flora flat on her back; sending small curlicues of light towards the ceiling as she waved her fingers absentmindedly.

"Don't worry, I won't bite," she said amiably, sensing that the bann was unused to sharing accommodation with a girl twenty years his junior. Flora, who had slept in the same room as her Herring parents for a decade, then in a dormitory, and then in communal tents; was far more accustomed to sleeping in close proximity to others and thought nothing of it.

She dropped her hands, the wisps of golden light fading away into the ether as Teagan lowered himself to the bedroll beside her. Flora rolled over onto her side, tucking her knees up into her stomach and pulling the blanket above her chin.

"'Night, Bann Teagan," she mumbled, cheek pressed against the damp bedroll.

"I believe we've spoken about this."

"Sorry. 'Night, Teagan."

"Sleep well, Flora."

"… Teagan?"

"Yes, child?

"Guess who I am:  _Teeeeeeeeeeeagan!"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol Flora is a cheeky mare. God Isolde's voice was annoying though, I had to sit through her a second time when my game shat itself and TEEEEEEEEAAAAAGAN TEEEEEEAAAAAAAGAN
> 
> There's a little bit more about Flora's ability as a spirit healer in this chapter – I did some research before starting this story and I chose this route for Flo because I thought it was so fascinating. As explained on the DA wikia article, mages can become spirit healers in three ways: firstly, by passing trials and gaining spirits' trust, secondly, by charming the spirit with their charisma, and thirdly – if the spirits themselves choose the individual. As was probably obvious in the Highever memories chapter, Flora is the third example.
> 
> TEEEEGAN TEEEEEEEEAGAN TEAAAAAGAN


	192. We Have To Consider The Possibility

 

Flora was woken several hours later by Leliana sliding her way into the tent, watch completed, accompanied by a chill night breeze. The healer dutifully shifted over several inches on the bedroll to let the shivering bard lie down beside her. Flora could feel Leliana's cold arms and shoulders beneath the thin, skin-melded leathers; the temperature clearly having dropped with the deepening of the night.

Stifling a yawn, she rolled over and huddled up against Leliana, pressing her face to the older woman's shoulder and flinging an arm over her chest. The lay sister gratefully nestled her body alongside the naturally warm Flora; in the coldest, darkest depths of the Deep Roads, Alistair had called his sister-warden his  _little furnace._ Leliana, who had hidden her exhaustion with a bard's practised ambiguity, fell asleep in what seemed like moments. Flora, lulled by the even rise and fall of Leliana's chest, soon followed suit.

_She woke standing on an angular jutting ridge, perched high above the Brecilian Forest. The tangled canopy spread out for miles below her; its dark green expanse only broken by the occasional ambitious treetop. The scene was so realistic that for a dizzying moment Flora thought that there might have been some truth in it. Only the sky alluded that the scene was a falsehood; part construct of her sleeping mind, and part something more. The heavens were as white as fresh-washed linen, absent of any natural blue or grey colour. The sun was a blazing dark mass on a distant horizon, bleeding the faint greenish lines of the Fade._

_As Flora watched, a great winged shape rose from some hidden clearing in the Forest below. Although it was some distance away, she felt a great sweeping updraft of air to accompany the movement; the sheer power of its lifting blasted her hair up around her ears. The Archdemon's silhouette was stark and unmistakeable against the bled-out sky, its wingspan far larger than any other dragon that they had encountered on their travels._

_It hung in the air for a moment like some vast, malevolent bat; its snakelike neck turning from side to side as though trying to scent something. Flora stared at it, feeling horribly exposed on the top of the high ridge. However, to her slight alarm, she realised that she no longer felt the urge to cover her eyes and turn away from the creature's scale-covered maw._

_The head turned in her direction and despite the distance, Flora could see its hooded eye flicker towards her. Then it was flapping its great wings, coming closer and closer with every beat of air. Its mouth was opening as it approached, revealing rows of bleeding teeth; and she could hear the insidious whisper growing louder in the back of her brain. Her entire body thrummed with warning, whispering for her to run, to duck and to hide._

_For a horrible moment, Flora thought that she had been paralysed by her own terror, her feet planted frozen to the windblown grass. It was so close now that she could taste the rolling waves of Blight emanating from its body, a miasma reminiscent of something old and rotting._

_Why aren't I running? she heard her mind squawk, driven into a panic by the approaching behemoth._

_**Because you must face it.** _

_Must I?_

_**Yes.** _

_But it's going to kill me._

_**Nevertheless, it must be done.** _

_Flora stared up at the creature as it began to descend above her, the air from its beating wings buffeting her body and whipping her hair into a frenzy. The stench was enough to make her eyes water, and the taste of the Blight clung foul and furred to the inside of her mouth. It let out a terrible, shrieking roar that forced her to her knees. Both deafened and disorientated, she hunched on the damp grass but made no effort to crawl away._

_Slowly, teeth gritted so tightly that her jaw sang with pain, Flora raised her head and looked up. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a patch on its neck, where the scales were paler and not so tightly interlocked._

_Could that be a weak spot? she thought, and then-_

Flora woke to the pale light of morning streaming through the tent flap, her eyelids snapping open. She could feel her heartbeat thudding quick but even within her ribcage, and she took a quick, deep gulp of air, looking around. Teagan was snoring, his proud Guerrin nose pressed up against the far side of the canvas; Leliana was still curled at her side, the bard's face softened by sleep. The tent was filled with a pale, greenish light, the sunrise filtering through the heavy canvas. Outside, she could hear Oghren humming tunelessly to himself as he uncorked what sounded suspiciously like an ale bottle.

The sudden rush of nausea came as a complete shock to Flora, who was still waiting for the typical post-Archdemon shivering and flood of fear. The reality that instead she was about to be _sick_  struck her like a physical blow; Flora pulled Leliana's arm from where it had settled across her chest. Flinging the blanket back over Teagan, she lunged down the bedroll and clawed at the entrance flap.

She emerged squinting into bright sunlight, sensing that her vision was already beginning to narrow. Ignoring the cheerful greetings of the dwarf, Flora stumbled three steps forward before promptly falling over onto her hands and knees into the charred remains of the fire. Clambering upright with ashes coating her palms, she lurched off into the treeline towards the curious horses. The moment that she stopped, Flora doubled over and then dropped onto hands and knees for a second time.

In total, she was sick three times in quick succession, left with eyes streaming and the inside of her throat irritated by acid. Flora coughed weakly, wondering if there was anything left to expel. When her stomach remained placid, she sat back on her rear in the damp leaves and blew out her cheeks, miserably.

The next moment, Flora felt blunt teeth nipping painfully at her shoulder. She spun her head around to see the Beast's wicked piebald face, eyes rolling evilly as he withdrew his jaw.

"WHY?" she demanded, feeling tears welling beneath her lashes. "Why do you hate me? I haven't done  _nothing_ to you!"

The Herring accent cut strongly through her words as she flung them towards the unapologetic pony; who looked utterly unconcerned as he returned to eating grass.

" _Why_ is a good question, Flora."

It was Wynne, stepping quietly through the treeline with water-pouch in hand. Although her face was stern, her voice was soft, and there was no rancour in it. Instead, she reached down to help their young healer scramble to her feet, offering the water pouch in an elegant hand. Flora took several long gulps, swilling her mouth out gratefully.

The senior enchanter waited until Flora had regained some of her composure before continuing.

"So,  _why_  do you think this nausea persists then, Flora? You have been suffering this for over a month."

Flora scratched her head, and gave a little sullen shrug. Wynne's voice sharpened slightly; patience was not her strong point.

"There's  _nothing_  to be gained in refusing to think about this. We have to consider the possibility that you may be with child."

"But it's impossible," repeated Flora, stubbornness creeping into her tone. "I  _know_ it is. Alistair and I were both tainted when we became Wardens."

Wynne let out a little sigh of exasperation, hearing sounds of movement from the camp behind them. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the others beginning to emerge from their tents and lowered her voice to avoid her words carrying.

"Flora, use your  _brain_. You admitted earlier that your body reflexively neutralise anything corrupt that enters it. We saw that with the poisoning of the arl, and countless times with the Blight itself. You let Alistair spend himself inside you. There is a chance that his seed could have been  _made_ viable by the strange nature of your magic."

Flora gaped in silent horror at the graphic detail of the old woman's language. Wynne let out another, louder, sigh of exasperation.

"You can pull all the faces you want," she finished abruptly, taking back the empty water-pouch. "But you need to consider it as a possibility. It could change everything."

The senior enchanter turned and began to make her way back to the tents. A scowling Flora called after her, as loudly as she could without drawing the attention of the others.

"Even if you  _were_ right- which you  _aren't!-_  it wouldn't change anything," she retorted, defiantly. "We're going to summon our army, kill the Archdemon and end the Blight  _no matter what."_

Before she re-joined the others, Flora slid a hand beneath her shirt and felt the slight curvature of her abdomen. It felt firm and solid, the flesh warm against her palm.

_That's nothing,_ she thought scornfully to herself.  _Just the product of overeating last night at dinner._

It wasn't until she had nearly reached the tents that Flora remembered that she had just puked the entire contents of her stomach out onto the mossy earth.

Still, Flora's stubbornness meant that she was able to convince herself firmly that it was just a coincidence. By the time that she had reached the remains of the fire; she was certain that the senior enchanter was wrong in her assumption.

There was more movement about the camp by this point, her companions had roused themselves and were in the process of preparing breakfast. Thanks to Wynne's varied talents, a blazing fire had been provided for cooking eggs, and a bucket of water filled for quick washes.

Alistair, with routine institutionalised from a decade spent in the Chantry, found it impossible to start the morning without at least a wipe-down. Nobody protested at this, least of all Zevran and Leliana. The lay sister was making a concerted effort to mask her gaze by briskly stirring the eggs within the saucepan; only taking the occasional glance at the bastard prince's damp, muscular shoulders as he daubed himself with a flannel, chatting amiably to Teagan. Zevran was far more open in his lechery, a grin plastered across his face as dagger and whetstone lay idle in his lap.

"What does it feel like to be pinned to the ground between those thick arms,  _florita?"_ he murmured, catching sight of Flora out of the corner of his eye.

"Bah! It's just muscles," complained Oghren, casting a sour look at Alistair's half-naked physique. " _I_ have muscles."

"It's hardly the same," hissed Leliana, cursing under her breath as she accidentally spilled some of the eggs into the flames. "Your muscles are –  _compressed_ into your frame _._  And buried under a layer of fat."

Alistair turned around as he heard Flora approach; a look of transparent delight spreading across his face. Immediately he dropped the flannel in the bucket and went to his sister-warden, taking her face between his wet hands and kissing her on the forehead; his lips moving to her chin and then finally her mouth.

"I missed you last night, my dear," he murmured, stroking a stray strand of hair away from her face. "Let's make sure we're in the same tent later."

Flora smiled up at him, turning her face to the side to brush her cheek over his palm.

"Alistair," she said, and then lowered her voice. "I saw the Archdemon again in my dream. I think it was over the Brecilian Forest."

Immediately Alistair's face darkened; the young prince envisioning the strange beauty of the ancient wood soiled by the spreading taint of Blight. Yet his first concern was for his sister-warden, and he reached out to grasp her fingers.

"Are you alright?"

Flora nodded slowly, casting her mind back over both the vision and her reaction to it.

"I was fine," she said eventually, realising with some surprise that it was the truth. "I didn't run away."

Alistair gazed down at her for a moment, and then drew her wordlessly to his wet chest, resting his chin on top of her hair. He held her for a long time with her cheek pressed against taut muscle; Flora caught a glimpse of Zevran mouthing something lewd at her, and almost laughed out loud.

"Flo?"

"Hm?"

"Am I… am I ever in those dreams? The ones with you and the Archdemon?

Flora shook her head, sensing his body tense against her own. Alistair paused for a long moment before clasping her a fraction more tightly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I like to compare this dream with the first time that Flora dreamed about the Archdemon, the first night they spent in Redcliffe Castle (Chapter 31, maybe?) That time, she freaked the fuck out and summoned her shield and Alistair broke through another layer of his shyness in helping her to deal with it.
> 
> Now, she's still scared but she can look it in the eye without running away, which is definite progress!
> 
> The power of denial is still v strong with Flo btw, as is evident in this chapter, lol.


	193. Traversing The Eastern Bannorn

After eating, washing and packing up camp, the company set off once again over the low hills of the eastern Bannorn. To the relief of most, it was no longer raining and the sky was a clear wash of blue. The sun bore down uninterrupted on the scrub-lined track; barely a tree clung to these exposed upper slopes. The only signs of human habitation they saw were the remains of half-collapsed shepherd huts, dotted amongst the tangle of gorse and heather.

Flora had originally intended to try her luck with the Beast again that morning; a plan thwarted when he had nipped meanly at her shoulder. So, to Alistair's inward relief, she was once more perched before him on Bryland's lofty saddle, shooting the occasional glower down at the wall-eyed piebald. Beads of moisture were dripping freely down her forehead as she clung to the pommel, fingers damp with sweat.

Being from the cooler northern coastline, Flora was not used to balmy temperatures. It was also her first spring spent outside in four years, and as a pale-skinned redhead she had quickly learnt that if she spent too long exposed under the sun's unforgiving glare, she would be suffering for it the next day. Thus she spent much of the journey tucked back against Alistair's travelling leathers, trying to keep in his broad-shouldered shade.

Her brother-warden, conversely, thrived in the heat. With his olive skin and ripe corn-hued hair, he had colouring that was well suited to warmth; although not to the same extent as Zevran, who was well on his way to becoming nut-brown and glossy. Despite repeated complaints that the Ferelden sun was but a paler, weaker mockery of its glorious Antivan cousin, the elf was seen frequently turning his face up to its warmth, almost as if receiving a benediction.

Wynne, who had travelled this high, isolated route before under mysterious circumstances she did not care to relate, led the way as the track descended once more into a heather-lined dip. She was conversing cheerfully with Leliana, the two women laughing together as their horses picked their way down the uneven path. To Flora's irritation, despite Leliana's bright ginger locks and creamy skin, the bard seemed immune to the heating effects of the sun. Not a single bead of sweat marred the woman's high, white forehead as she smiled, the faintest of lines creasing the corners of her eyes.

Teagan and Zevran were also sharing conversation as their horses rode alongside one another. Despite himself, the bann was fascinated by Zevran's line of work and could not help but question him about various aspects of the assassin's life. Although Zevran tactfully avoided explicitly discussing the Crows; he kindly disgorged a few tantalising titbits of knowledge for the curious noble. This was mostly because he thought the bann good-looking – in a rough, Ferelden way - knew he was still a bachelor, and couldn't help but wonder which way Teagan's predilections swung. Oghren was busy trying not to draw too much attention as he surreptitiously drank from what appeared to be a bottle of Arl Leonas' finest vintage port.

Looking down to see that the inch of skin between her breeches and boots was growing pinker, Flora slid back further on the saddle; inadvertently pressing herself against Alistair's travel leathers. After the previous night's enforced separation, her brother-warden had not been coping well with their ensuing physical closeness. He let out a little groan as her rear nestled against his crotch, leaning forward to mutter darkly in her ear.

"Stop it, Flo, or I won't be able to dismount decently when we stop for lunch."

"I'm trying not to get  _sunburnt,"_ Flora hissed back indignantly, feeling him shifting against her. "I don't want my skin to match my hair. Stay still so I can keep in your shade.  _Alistaaair!"_

Alistair shot a quick glance ahead to their companions, who were still preoccupied with their own conversation as they wended their way down the scrub-lined track. Bowing his face over her shoulder he began to press fleeting kisses down the curve of her neck, inhaling the clean, soapy scent of her skin. Flora tilted her head to the side, her fingers pausing curious in their braiding of the horse's mane. Alistair transferred the reins to one hand and lifted the other to her clothed breast, cupping it reverently.

"You're  _audacious_  for someone raised in a monastery," Flora whispered, trying not to giggle as Oghren surreptitiously tossed his bottle into a gorse bush. "Everyone thinks that I'm the deviant one from living in a Circle, but it's  _you,_ Chantry boy! _"_

Alistair grinned, deftly sliding his fingers between the buttons of her shirt. As he began to nudge his calloused thumb experimentally against a nipple, Flora let out a banshee-like howl. Alistair yanked his hand free in terror and the others pulled their horses up, heads spinning and hands reaching for weapons.

"The Beast  _bit_ me again!" squalled Flora in outrage, rolling the leg of her breeches up and glumly inspecting the teeth-marks embedded on her thigh. "I hate that horse!"

"Well, it clearly hates you too, Sparkles," replied Oghren cheerfully, full of wine-augmented merriment.

The company stopped shortly after climbing out of the valley, both to give the horses a brief rest and to eat the squashed sandwiches prepared by the arl's cooks the previous morning. They perched on a granite ridge overlooking a sun-dried slope of scrub and mossy grass, the horses gathering behind them to drink from a small spring. It was turning out to be a pleasantly warm spring day, a vast contrast to yesterday's cloud and drizzle.

Eager to get at the food, Oghren was passing out the rather squashed sandwiches, tossing apples at backs of heads and then looking surprised when they turned around in irritation. Teagan received another update from his elder brother; the nobles' party seemingly making good time along the West Road. They had spotted what could have been bandits lurking in the trees at one point, but the would-be assailants had fled on seeing such a large and well-armoured party.

The bann now took this opportunity to reply to his brother, using his knee as a surface upon which to pen a response. Leliana fussed and cooed over the hawk, which was used to being petted and responded with pleased chirps. Zevran, who saw Crow shadows behind every trunk and clump of heather, turned his back on the bird of prey; needing no further reminder that his former guild were most likely out for his blood.

Meanwhile Flora was lying flat on her back on the grass, red-faced and thoroughly fed up. It was warm, but not overly hot, and she could not understand why she was feeling so flushed and sweaty. She had knotted up the damp cotton shirt just beneath her breasts and had abandoned both boots and woollen breeches; she was exposing as much skin as Leliana's cropped leathers but feeling none the cooler for it.

"You know, you won't be able to strut around in your smalls when we get to Denerim," the bard herself chastised, eyeing the arlina's beribboned silk bloomers in disapproval. "You'll need to dress like a lady, not a country girl."

Flora wondered if Leliana was even biologically capable of looking less than pristine. Beside her, Alistair let out a soft snort, swallowing the last of his sandwich as he gazed pensively out at the pale green expanse before them.

"What was the weather like in Bournshire?" Flora mumbled in her brother-warden's direction, naming the monastery where he had resided for nearly a decade.

"Mild and damp, similar to Redcliffe," he replied, reaching for his water pouch as an idea struck him.

"Sometimes we'd get a heatwave blown straight up from the Korcari Wilds. Training was horrible on those days. We'd all be roasting in our practise mail, and the Templars would expect us to spar all afternoon. Then we had to sit down in evening prayers for another two hours."

Plugging the pouch half closed with a finger, Alistair began to let small amounts of water drip onto his sister-warden's face. Assuming that it was the combination of Flora's northern background and natural warmth that was causing her to overheat, he continued to talk softly about his adolescence at the monastery, while dripping more water over her flushed cheeks.

Flora listened with her cheek resting against Alistair's knee, letting him speak uninterrupted. The combination of the water, the shade created by his body and his low, steady tone soon helped to cool her down; and when she heard him pause to take a gulp of water, she opened her eyes and beamed up at him. He smiled back at her reflexively, and then leaned down to press his forehead against her water-dampened one. After a moment, he slid his fingers through her sweaty hair and kissed her mouth, his lips lingering on hers for several seconds before withdrawing.

After lunch they set off again over the rolling scrubland, and to Flora's immense relief the sun decided to veil itself demurely in cloud by mid-afternoon. The temperature dropped several degrees and a stiff wind began to shiver the tops of the taller gorse bushes, accompanied by some light rain. Delighting in the sensation of faint, misty drizzle on her skin, Flora stuck her bare feet out into the breeze, barely noticing that she was beginning to slide from the saddle until Alistair hastily removed one hand from the reins and clasped his arm protectively across her belly.

By late afternoon, Flora's mood had improved sufficient to the point where she was regaling the company with several of her favourite Herring folk tunes. Unfortunately, the youngest Cousland had not inherited the sweet singing voice of her mother. To add to this, Herring sea shanties tended towards the melancholy and tragic; the grim subject matter, combined with Flora's mournful, off-key caterwauling, proved to be a rather disconcerting experience for the rest of her companions.

Alistair gritted his teeth, a slight sweat forming on his forehead as Flora bellowed merrily a mere handful of inches away from his ear. She was singing a lament about an old fisherman swallowed in his entirety by a revenge-seeking whale.

"Lucky bastard," murmured Zevran in an undertone, urging his horse forward. "I wish that something would gobble me up and take me away _; ideally as soon as possible."_

Despite the elf's sharp words, the dark eyes directed towards Flora were soft and affectionate. The tenderness of his glance was not missed by Leliana, whose face was curled in an expression akin to discovering an ogre reclined seductively on her bedroll.

"All of these songs are dirges," she hissed, casting an appalled look over her shoulder. "Wholly depressing!"

"I admit," Zevran agreed, rolling his eyes mournfully. "It bewilders me how such a horrendous sound could emerge from such a lovely mouth."

"It's worse than the howling of demons," interjected Wynne flatly, her mouth drawn in a taut and wholly un-amused line.

Flora was about to start on _Bones in the Sand,_ a popular tune at Herring weddings, when she felt golden mist rolling its way unprompted up her throat. Within moments it swelled beneath her tongue, coagulating thickly before spilling over her lips. Spluttering incoherently, Flora put a hand to her mouth in confusion as the senior enchanter let out a short bark of laughter.

"It seems even your spirit allies wish you to cease singing," Wynne pointed out, making no attempt to hide a smile.

Flora scowled, and then settled into a silent sulk for the rest of the afternoon's journey.

The company made very good time, reaching Llewel's Point by sunset. In ages past, this ramshackle ruin might have been a prosperous hillside settlement; but abandonment and the elements had left only the bare bones of stone dwellings clinging to the mossy slope. The sole standing structure was a three storey windmill, its wooden arms long since rotted away. The amputated tower perched on a high promontory, with excellent views sweeping over the rugged, undulating moorland. From this vantage point, they could see the high ridge ending in Dragon's Peak to the north; while the dark fringe of the Brecilian Forest lay to the south. To the north-east, a faint line of navy indicated the distant Amaranthine coast

They decided to make camp within the ruined windmill, since this would save them from needing to assemble the tents. Teagan and Alistair built up the firewood on the earthy dirt of the ground floor, beside a half-collapsed wall looking eastwards. The crumbled gap in the stone would allow the smoke to escape while also protecting the fire from the stiff winds that accompanied their higher altitude. Since there was only one entrance into the crumbling mill, it was decided that Zevran's ingeniously assembled trap in the doorway would provide sufficient notice of any intruders; allowing everyone to get sufficient sleep ready for their arrival in Denerim.

Flora, cheered immensely by the vague glimpse of the ocean, helped to arrange the bedrolls and blankets. By the time that the sun had descended in a veil of dusky mauve, Wynne had ignited the fire and vegetables were roasting on spits above the flames.

The Guerrin hawk arrived as they were finishing dinner, bearing the news that the nobles' party had also reached their intended destination. Teagan scrawled a quick reply, slipping the roll of parchment into the message tube before sending the bird on its way once again.

"I would use ravens," said Leliana suddenly, watching the bird as it flapped out through the crumbled gap in the wall. "Equally intelligent, easier to train and more discreet."

"Not as stylish, though," countered Alistair with a winning smile, loosening the laces of his travelling leathers. Leliana made a distinctive sound that showed what little stock she put in Alistair's comment.

Oghren, who had been drinking steadily from midday onwards, chose that moment to crash backwards senseless onto his bedroll. The rest of the company looked at him dubiously, shooting little sideways glances at one another.

"Is he… alive?" ventured Leliana after a moment, her elegant brow furrowing. Teagan leaned forwards and tilted his head close to the dwarf's chest, after a moment, he gave a slight nod.

"Aye, just sleeping."

"I might follow the dwarf's example," interjected Wynne, giving a pointed yawn before lifting up her own bedroll. "We're going to need an early start tomorrow. I suggest the rest of you don't stay up too late."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: AHHH I forgot how much I love travelling chapters! When I was in school I did Duke of Edinburgh award (which is basically when teenagers get lost in hills for a week while carrying massive backpacks) and despite nearly falling down the Brecon Beacons, getting chased by cows and experiencing nonstop pissing rain, I genuinely loved it
> 
> The start of this chapter is definitely inspired by my own life haha, as a pale skinned redhead I have to put on about three hundred layers of factor 50 (yes, really) before even leaving the house in the summer. I'm so pale I practically get moonburn. Poor Flo is experiencing the perils of sunburn for the first time since leaving the Circle (the sun doesn't shrine in Herring)
> 
> Lol at Alistair getting cock blocked by a horse! I'm not sure if it's physically possible to shag in a saddle? I used to ride horses but I never invited any of my high school boyfriends up to join me there haha. 
> 
> Herring is possibly the grimmest little village in Ferelden lol
> 
> Also no wonder Flora is getting hot flushes Alistair, she's ten weeks pregnant. AND YOU'RE THE FATHER (springer style!)


	194. The Difference Between A Cure And A Kiss

Quite deliberately, the senior enchanter carried her bedding over to the far side of the old mill, finding herself a private spot behind a row of discarded grinding stones.

Those still remaining awake let the fire slowly dwindle, it was a mild night and there were no wild animals around to disturb them. Perched high in the ruined windmill above the moors, the rugged landscape spread out for miles around; lit only by a pantheon of distant stars and a sliver of new moon. The silence was heavy and hung over them like a blanket, all-encompassing.

"Leliana, thank you for the herbal salve used to prevent  _chafing_ ," Zevran murmured, watching the dying curlicues of ash in the base of the fire. "My boots cannot cope with all this Fereldan drizzle and have shrunk accordingly."

Leliana nodded, inclining her head to acknowledge his gratitude. She went on to extend a sinewy, toned arm; as though to illustrate the necessity of such a tonic when one preferred form-fitting leathers.

"How big is the Amaranthine Ocean?" asked Flora eventually, fiddling with the ribboned hem of her bloomers. Although the dark line of the coast had been blurred by night, she kept squinting in its direction regardless.

"It reaches from Ferelden, past Antiva and Rivain, all the way to Par Vollen in the north," replied Teagan quietly, using quick, deft gestures of his fingers to illustrate.

Flora watched the bann's lined hand move in fascination, her pale grey eyes losing focus as she tried to envision this vast expanse of water. The Waking Sea, beside which she had grown up, suddenly seemed very small in comparison. Alistair, sat beside her, leaned over and kissed his sister-warden on the cheek; feeling a sudden and inexplicable surge of affection.

"I'm looking forward to seeing it," Flora whispered, winding the pink ribbon around her finger and watching the top of her nail whiten. "I want to try and catch an  _Amaranthine Speckled Cod._ My fish book says that they're twice as long as those caught in the Waking Sea."

"Ah, I've thought of my boon," said Leliana suddenly, her eyes lighting up. "For winning the tent construction."

Both Alistair and Zevran responded warily, wondering what manner of nefarious request the bard had managed to concoct; while Teagan tactfully made his excuses and left to settle down on his own bedroll. Leliana smiled, her cool blue eyes gleaming like pale jewels embedded in some Val Royeaux noblewoman's headpiece.

"Don't be so alarmed," she murmured, smoothing the leather skirt down over her muscled thighs. "I simply have an innocent _question_  for you both. Alistair, you will be first."

Alistair looked mildly terrified, but manfully raised his chin in resignation.

"I know I'm going to regret this… go on, then. Ask away."

Leliana grinned, cupping her chin with slender fingers and leaning forward.

"What were the circumstances of your first kiss, Alistair Theirin, son of Maric?"

Alistair coughed on a mouthful of ale, feeling himself blush but relieved that the question was apparently an innocent one. Zevran grinned wickedly, approving of the subject matter even if the query was not quite  _explicit_ enough for his personal predilections.

"Why do you want to know?" the bastard prince demanded, and the bard raised an eyebrow.

" _Currency,_  of course. For the future."

" _I_  know the answer," announced Flora gleefully, recalling a conversation from Lothering that now seemed to have occurred a lifetime ago. The next moment, she felt an odd twinge of melancholy.

_Poor, lost Lothering; first to fall. Why didn't I light a candle for you in South Reach Chantry?_

Grimly, Flora resolved to mention Lothering first in her prayers that night, as Alistair's hesitant voice broke through her clouded mind.

"I was fifteen," he muttered, fixing his gaze firmly on the remains of the campfire. "It was with a Navarren lay-sister, quite a lot older than me. I think she must have been on a pilgrimage and was staying at the monastery, I don't know. We didn't really  _talk._ It was… awkward."

Zevran cackled as Leliana flared her nostrils in prim disapproval.

"How inappropriate for one on  _pilgrimage_ ," she murmured, shaking her head. "Your mind should be wholly devoted to the Maker during such a holy undertaking."

"I wager you could  _see_ the waves of sexual frustration rolling off those Chantry monasteries," added Zevran gleefully, his mind on a very different track. "I may have to pay a visit to one in the future. How about you, my little Rialto lily? I know that you did not lose the wager, but I am curious. When was your first kiss?"

Flora looked up rather guiltily, having fiddled with the elaborate hem of her bloomers so extensively that the silk had begun to unravel.

"Oh," she replied, and since Alistair had remained relatively composed, she willed herself not to blush. "It was on Satinalia. With him."

She pointed unnecessarily and Alistair smiled at her, but Zevran let out a little cackle, leaning forward across the embers of the fire.

"Come now,  _mi sirenita,_ the bastard prince's mouth was not the  _first_  to touch your lips, admit it! We have seen otherwise, in your own memories."

"You can't count my  _healing_ people _,"_ retorted Flora indignantly, eyes widening. "It's completely different."

"I don't see much of a difference in it," cajoled the elf, taking great delight in teasing her. "It appears much the same."

"It's  _completely_ different!" squealed Flora, and then lowered her voice as she remembered Wynne sleeping behind the millstones. "I mean, how can you compare this - "

Flora swivelled around on the earthen floor, took Leliana's chin in her fingers and planted her mouth firmly over the bard's, letting the briefest exhalation of golden mist drift from her lips to the lay-sister's as they parted reflexively.

"To  _this."_

Patting Leliana briefly on the cheek, Flora turned to her other side and kissed Alistair. To her slight surprise, Alistair responded with immediate and ardent desire; his tongue probing forcefully between her lips with a ragged edge of lust.

Shooting her brother-warden a curious look as she withdrew, the triumphant Flora turned to Zevran.

"See,  _completely_  different."

When there was only silence in response, she eyed her companions dubiously. Zevran had his eyes closed, a massive grin distorting the black tattooed marks on his face. Leliana was fussing around with her water pouch, trying to disguise the blush that had risen to her cheeks. Meanwhile, Alistair was gazing at Flora with the hazy, hooded stare that usually indicated that he was about to start fumbling with the buttons of her shirt.

"Sorry,  _mi florita,"_ murmured Zevran, opening his eyes in transparent delight. "I was just inscribing that scene forever in my memory. Incidentally, it may feel different for you but it looks  _very_ similar from our perspective."

Alistair nodded, still slightly dazed. "Need any more rejuvenation, Leliana?"

Flora rolled her eyes, elbowing her brother-warden to awaken him from his apparent stupor.

"In that case I've 'kissed' hundreds of people and I don't remember who was first," she grumbled, scowling up at Alistair as he slung his arm over her shoulder.

"Flo," he beseeched her, seeing the reproachful light in her eyes. "Don't sulk, we're only  _joking_."

Flora, who for years had been the butt of Circle jokes due to her unusual style of healing, was not prepared to listen to further jibes. As gracefully as one could manage in beribboned Orlesian bloomers, she squirmed away from Alistair and rose to her feet.

Zevran leaned out placatingly to stroke her calf as she stalked past.

"I was only teasing you,  _carina_ ," he murmured in his best soothing tone. "Come and sit next to me.  _Perdóname_."

But Flora was in no mood to be assuaged, heading determinedly towards the wooden ladder leading up to the next floor. In several sections it had gaps instead of rungs, and she almost missed her footing twice.

"Don't fall out of the hole," called Leliana after her in an undertone, having naturally already scouted every inch of the half-ruined windmill. Then, to an anxious and guilty Alistair: "No, don't go after her. When women are in such a mood, they prefer to be left alone."

Flora continued up to the next floor, the ladder creaking perilously beneath her bare feet as she clambered up each rung. In the shadowed darkness before her, she could see the broken mechanism of the mill, the main shaft leaning at a treacherous angle amidst the ruins of spur wheel and quant. The floorboards appeared to be half-rotted; in places, she could see straight through to the horizontal support beams and the lower part of the mill.

Fortunately, the top floor was far more intact – at least, underfoot. The tiles of the roof were long gone, leaving behind a forlorn wooden skeleton. The sails of the windmill had broken away years ago, bringing down the majority of the east-facing wall with them as they fell. This left a gaping void in the stone, opening the top floor out to the expanses of the rolling moorland. A cool breeze fluttered the hem of Flora's shirt as she ventured across the dusty floorboards, bracing a hand against the broken stone and peering out into the darkness.

The scrub-covered hills were bathed in shadow below, but Flora's attention was immediately stolen by the night sky as it stretched out in magnificent array above her. A sliver of limpid moon, delicate as any Orlesian lady's headpiece, bathed in an atmospheric miasma; silver and navy and deep violet all mingled together in metallic skeins that stretched across the sky like thread. The stars glowed fiercely in their clustered constellations, picking out pinprick patterns against the darkness.

Flora had never been this far east in her life, had never seen the skies over this part of Ferelden; and she was struck into silence by its beauty. She clung to the stone and gazed upwards, mouth agape, her own petty hurt temporarily forgotten.

She felt Alistair's presence before she heard him, a slight warmth flaring at the back of her mind like a match struck in the darkness. The ladder emitted a creak of protest, and she heard her brother-warden curse softly under his breath. The warmth spread down her neck and she felt him approach her, not needing to listen for his footsteps to divine his location.

"I thought I was going to plummet through all three floors," he murmured, coming to a halt beside her. "Maker, if the elf did that, he'd land on his feet. Blasted rotten ladder."

Alistair worked a half-inch long wooden shard out from the ball of his thumb with his teeth; beads of blood emerging at the point of its withdrawal. Flora reached out reflexively and took his thumb into her mouth, feeling the golden mist surge forth from beneath her tongue.

As the cut sealed itself in the wake of her magic, she was overcome with a wave of self-consciousness; standing before him with his thumb wedged between her lips. Her eyes dropped to her feet as she let go of his wrist, tasting the faint sourness of the Blight in his blood.

_Fainter than it was,_ a small voice in her mind whispered.  _When you healed his shoulder on the way to Ostagar, the Blight was like a dark current running through his veins. Now it's barely a skein of thread. What have you done to him?_

Alistair gazed down at his sister-warden, somewhat perplexed by her body language. She was gazing at her bare toes intently as though studying them, her cheeks flushed and unhappy.

"It  _is_  odd, isn't it?" she whispered after a moment, determined to keep her voice steady. "My magic. The way I heal people. It's peculiar and… not  _normal_. You wouldn't see First Enchanter Irving put his mouth on people to cure them. Or Wynne."

Alistair felt a great lurch of guilt at inadvertently causing his sister-warden to feel embarrassed at her own abilities. He reached for her, preparing to launch into effusive apology and frantic reparations; when instead he found himself reacting quite differently.

Instead of enveloping Flora against him – or dropping to his knees in remorse – Alistair took her chin firmly between his fingers and tilted her face up to his.

"I never want to hear you talk like this again," he said, in a tone that invited no argument. "I mean it, Flora. You have a rare and unusual gift, and there are hundreds of people out there still alive because of you. So don't you  _dare_  start to doubt yourself, or feel ashamed of what you are."

His voice rumbled around the half-ruined mill, assertive and final. It was a voice that could silence squabbling councillors; that could give commands and issue edicts; a voice that could perhaps even rule a country.

Flora stared up at her stern faced brother-warden, who stood tall and imperious despite his travel-stained leathers and the less than salubrious surroundings. Suddenly, she was filled with a rush of sudden pride and couldn't help but grin up at him.

Alistair blinked back down at her, wrong-footed by her apparent pleasure. His stern expression dissolved, replaced by a tentative smile.

"You're right," Flora said, nudging her chin against his calloused fingers. "I might heal in a peculiar way, but funnily enough, I've had no complaints."

He grinned, sliding his palm up her jawline to cup Flora's cheek, tracing a thumb over her high Cousland cheekbone.

"And I clearly need to see the difference between the  _cure_  and the  _kiss_  once again," he murmured, fingers caressing her hairline. "Just for clarity. And you've already cured my thumb, so…"

Flora threw her arms around her brother-warden's neck and crashed her mouth clumsily against his face, missing his lips and colliding with his stubbled jaw. Gently, he repositioned his mouth to align with hers, then reached down to rest his hands on her waist.

The east Ferelden sky gleamed like a phosphorous-laced cave above them; a vast and glittering wash of stars. It was raw and beautiful, and Alistair did not spare it a second glance, absorbed instead in the planes and angles of his best friend's face. Flora smiled up at him, her pale grey eyes smelted in silver by the moonlight.

"Herring's loveliest export," he breathed, sliding a hand affectionately over the top of her head.

"You haven't seen our lobsters," Flora mumbled in response. "They have sweet little faces, I think they're beautiful."

Alistair laughed, slinging an arm around her shoulders and giving her a little squeeze. They stood together for several minutes, gazing out at the glimmering horizon. Flora pointed out a constellation that she had paid little mind to in Herring; but which took pride of place here in the skies over eastern Ferelden.

"What's that?"

He squinted towards her raised finger, gazing up at the mass of stars hanging like lanterns above them.

"Is it  _Toth?_ No, hang on, I think it's  _Eluvia_." Alistair shrugged, self-depreciatingly. "Wynne's the expert. I'm pretty sure it is  _Eluvia_ , though."

"Oh," breathed Flora, staring up at the angular arrangement of stars with growing interest. "Can you see the  _Peraquialus?"_

Immediately, she thought of the young Connor Guerrin, who by now would have arrived at the Jainen Circle with his Templar escort. She hoped that he was settling in well, and that he had managed to see some of the tall ships she had told him about. The evening they had spent together in South Reach's courtyard, with the nervous young Templar lieutenant looking on as she created her own small  _Peraquialus_ and sent it soaring skywards, now seemed like an age ago.

"Yes," Alistair replied, voice thickening in his throat. "I see it."

Yet his eyes were not directed at the sky, but at the base of his sister-warden's neck. Finian's shirt was too large on Flora, and the back of the neck hung low enough to show her slightly sunburnt shoulder-blades. His gaze was fixed on the tan freckle that denoted the top of her personal  _Peraquialus'_ mast.

Flora gazed up at him curiously, fascinated by the way that desire was gradually burning away the affection in his irises; tenderness replaced by the raw heat of lust. Alistair's breath was warm on her neck as he leaned forward, brushing his lips over the shell of her ear.

"Take off your shirt, Flora," he murmured, the vein of command rumbling once again through his words.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol I know I say this about every chapter, but I really enjoyed editing this one! Most of the time Flora isn't bothered about the odd way that she cures people – the magic manifesting itself in her body demonstrates her close relationship with the spirits who loan her their powers – but occasionally she does get self-conscious, especially when she's teased about it.
> 
> More evidence of 'hardened' Alistair here – I hope that I've managed to develop his hardening (ha!) convincingly over the past HALF A MILLION WORDS (!) He's definitely grown more of a backbone and is not afraid to shut Flora down when she's being a drama queen, which she definitely was being in this chapter lol. blame it on the hormones
> 
> Although Alistair's taint being reduced is something that only exists in my canon, there is some logic behind it – obviously, the number one reason is Flora accidentally cleansing him every time she kisses him, but he also has a genetic resistance to it as evidenced by his mum losing the taint naturally!
> 
> The Eluvia constellation is referred to as 'Sacrifice'; from the DA wikia: "During the Glory Age, folklore told of a young woman saved from a lustful mage by being sent into the sky by her father—after which the mage killed him (hence the sacrifice). The daughter became the constellation, depicted as a seated woman with her head in the clouds."


	195. Take Off Your Shirt

The last two Wardens in Ferelden stood together on the top floor of the ruined windmill; the stars fixed in glorious firmament beyond the broken wall. Flora, who had always been an obedient girl, reached up to undo the buttons of her shirt. Alistair watched her as a hawk would scrutinise a field-mouse; his face somehow seeming older in its predatory stillness. The bastard prince appeared to be barely breathing, the air caught somewhere in his throat as his eyes moved over her body.

Buttons loosed, Flora let the shirt slide down over her shoulders, the loose material easily slipping from her arms. As the garment dropped to the dusty floor, Alistair inhaled quick and hard, sucking in a dizzying breath of desire. Still he did not touch her, utilising a discipline part instilled by the Wardens and part unknowingly inherited from his royal bloodline.

Instead he stared at his sister-warden as though drinking her in; eyes moving hungrily over the curve of her sunburnt neck and the swell of her freckled breast, stepping around slowly so that he could survey every inch of flesh. Flora blushed, sensing the heat of his gaze prickling against her skin, but remained standing patiently in the sliver of moonlight.

Finally, Alistair came to a pause behind her, just beyond the reach of her sight. She felt his breath first, hot and laboured on her neck; this was soon followed by the press of his body against her back. His arousal was already straining against the confines of his breeches, yet he made no mention of it.

"You know what I wanted to do earlier?" he murmured in Flora's ear, cupping her breast casually as his other hand stole down the front of her Orlesian silk smalls. "When we were travelling here and you were wriggling against me on the saddle."

"What?" croaked Flora, feeling her throat drying up even as his fondling fingers prompted the opposite elsewhere. "And I wasn't  _wriggling,_ I was trying to get in the shade."

"I wanted to order everybody else to stop, and then  _had_ you behind a bush," he whispered, ruthless in his stroking; she felt him stiffen further against the small of her back. "Let those who want you hear _me_  taking you. That blasted elf, Teagan. Leliana."

Flora focused on the most startling name of the three, her eyebrows rising even as Alistair began to thrust his fingers with more focused intent.

"Leliana?!" she half-squawked, incredulous. "You're joking. I'm too  _common_ for Leliana _._ "

"I'm serious," he murmured, withdrawing his hand just long enough to pull the smalls down around her knees; then immediately returning his fingers to probe between her thighs. "Zevran said that the lay sister was arousedwhen you kissed – sorry,  _cured –_ her earlier,and he should know."

Flora felt a flush rising to her cheeks, even as she heard Alistair groan softly at the memory.

"I feel bad now," she whispered, hearing the soft rustle of cloth as he thrust down his own breeches. "I didn't mean to make her feel like that. I should apologise."

"Don't feel bad, my dear," he replied, turning Flora around to face him before lowering her to the dusty floorboards. "She enjoyed it. I… I think we  _all_  did, to be honest."

Flora shot her brother-warden a curious look as he positioned himself above her, pinkness creeping up his neck.

"Did you  _really?"_  she asked naively, parting her legs as he took himself in hand, pushing gently against her.

"Maker help me," he muttered, easing himself between her thighs. "Yes."

He sunk inside her with a soft groan of relief, and then there was nobody else in the world save for the other. Brother and sister-warden moved together in familiar rhythm quickly found over the past few months; trying not to be too noisy, yet finding it rather difficult to stay quiet.

At first their lovemaking was soft and tender, but then Flora clamped her legs around the bastard prince's waist and bit hard at his shoulder. Alistair gripped a handful of her hair and pulled Flora's head back, with a force that his sober mind would have been appalled at.

Yet he was not in his right mind; his brain was lust-soaked and his instincts were honed down to their primal cores. Pressing a savage kiss against the hollow of her throat, he began to drive into her with increased urgency. Lips drawing back over his teeth, a vein pulsed in his neck as he lifted her hips up to better facilitate his own pleasure.

When he spent himself inside her, it was with a strangled cry; fingers tightening hard enough on her hips to leave lasting marks. It took Alistair several minutes to compose himself, sweat dripping from his forehead down onto her face, before he finally withdrew.

Flora healed the reddest marks that they had left on each other, as Alistair stepped back into his breeches. Satiated and exhausted, he could do little more than grin dazedly at her as she fumbled with her shirt-buttons.

This smile quickly vanished at the prospect of descending the treacherous ladders once again.

"Don't worry," she reassured him, clambering cautiously down into the dark void of the lower floor. "If you fall and break both your legs, I can fix them."

"I'd rather not, if it's an option," muttered Alistair, watching her dishevelled oxblood head disappear into the gloom.

Fortunately, they both made it down to the ground floor without incident. The soft snores of their companions drifted towards them as they made their way back to the ashes of the fire. Flora carefully stepped around Teagan's body, recalling that Alistair had also uttered the bann's name while listing those who allegedly desired her. Flora put little stock in this; Eamon's brother had always been assiduously polite to her, almost rigidly so, but nothing more.

Leliana had curled herself in a corner besides some old sacking. The bard somehow never looked anything less than pristine; even in sleep, her hair rested smooth against her cheeks and not a hint of saliva had dried on her chin. Flora thought on what Alistair had suggested, then eventually dismissed it; unable to believe that the polished and cultured bard could harbour  _desire_ for someone as decidedly unrefined as herself.

"Did you young ones enjoy your reconciliation?"

Zevran's voice filtered out of the darkness, the faintest hint of slurring at the edges of his words. The elf was leaning back cross-legged beside the dying fire, a half-empty bottle of ale at his side. Flora sat down next to him, wincing slightly at the stiffness in her lower body as Alistair went off to retrieve their bedrolls.

The elf immediately slung his arms around her neck from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. She could smell the sour aftertaste of ale on his breath, and wondered how long he had been drinking alone in the dark.

" _Flor-aaaa_ ," he slurred in her ear, the words colliding into one another like drunk patrons at closing time. "My little  _flo-ri-ta._ Sorry for teasing you earlier."

"It's fine. You've been drinking," she informed him kindly and unnecessarily, while Alistair crouched to arrange the bedrolls beside the ashes.

The bastard prince snorted on seeing the elf, rolling his eyes as he channelled Wynne at her most sanctimonious.

"Do you want to breathe some life into me,  _carina?_  As you said, it is not the same as a kiss."

Flora flashed the elf a smile, gently extracting herself. She then proceeded to shuffle her rear over the dusty floorboards, sliding underneath Alistair's expectant arm. Her brother-warden drew her against his chest and rested back on the lumpen bedroll; his fingers came down to entwine with hers as the other hand slipped beneath her shirt to cup her breast with easy intimacy.

"You're  _definitely_  wrong about Bann Teagan," she hissed in Alistair's ear once he had settled down. "And I don't think I'd be up to Leliana's standards."

Her brother-warden grunted, unconvinced, before pressing a kiss to the side of her neck.

"I'm not wrong about Zevran, though," he pointed out and Flora gave a little grunt of concession. She felt Alistair's arms tightening around her waist as he aligned his body against her own, lips lingering against her skin.

"But Zevran fancies  _everyone_ ," Flora whispered back, idly running her thumb back and forth over his calloused knuckles. "He said that Wynne had a majestic bosom the other day."

Alistair couldn't help but give a little shiver, squeezing her fingers reproachfully.

" _Don't,_  Flo, I'd rather not have that be the last image in my head before I sleep."

The company roused themselves early the next day, woken by the rising sun blazing through the gaps in the fallen masonry. Alistair had stirred first, with the faces of Mac Tir and Howe emblazoned on the insides of his eyelids. After several minutes of fidgeting in nervous anticipation, he stilled himself by gripping his sister-warden's limp fingers and gazing down at her.

Flora lay sprawled on the bedroll beside him, lips slightly parted and hair dishevelled. As usual, Alistair found himself soothed by the fine-hewn familiarity of her face; his eyes moving from the feathered lashes resting on her faintly freckled cheeks to the full, sulky mouth that loaned her face its customary solemnity.

Alistair was just thinking how peaceful she looked when Leliana decided that it was time for everybody else to rouse themselves. She clattered the handle of her dagger mercilessly against Alistair's shield; the sound reverberating and amplified around the ruined mill walls.

" _Lever et briller!_ The Maker has blessed us with another beautiful morning, and Denerim eagerly awaits our arrival!"

This last declaration was not quite true, since they were aiming to enter the city as  _discreetly_  as possible. Flora and Wynne, who had each experienced many rude awakenings by Templars during their respective stays at the Circle, shot up reflexively. If the senior enchanter had not been quite so fond of the bard, she would have reprimanded her for such an abrupt arousal.

Both Teagan and Zevran bolted upright as though under attack; the elf actually reaching for his daggers before realising that no assault was incoming. Oghren merely let out a groan, burying his face in his bedroll before releasing a belch.

"I'm surprised that your reflexes were quite so quick, considering the quantity of ale you drunk last night," Leliana shot towards the elf as they began to clear away the camp. "Is it wise to be drinking at such a crucial stage in our journey?"

The two assassins continued to bicker back and forth, even as they retrieved the horses and loaded up the bedrolls. Alistair leaned out of a gap in the ruined wall and tossed the cooking equipment down to Teagan, who caught each piece deftly before affixing it to the saddle.

As the young Warden turned back, he nearly collided with a yawning Flora, who was rubbing her eyes and not looking where she was going. To her immense relief, an initial twinge of nausea had quickly faded; her stomach apparently dormant.

"Sorry, my dear," Alistair murmured, ducking his head to kiss her on the nose. Flora held onto his shoulder, pressing her cheek alongside his own to feel two nights' worth of stubble against her skin.

"Aah, I like it," she said, entranced, sliding her cheek back and forth against his jaw. "It's nice."

"Do you, sweetheart?"

"Yes, it reminds me of my dad."

Twitching, Alistair withdrew immediately to find the short blade used for shaving; while a nearby Zevran let out an evil cackle.

" _Florence_ , you cannot arrive in Denerim in such a grim condition," called Leliana, peering around a half-rotted doorframe. "Come and bathe in the millpond. How has your hair got so tangled in a single night? It looks as though creatures have been  _mating_ in it."

Flora waited until Leliana had turned her back before pointing at Alistair and mouthing something accusatory. The bard's finger crooked imperiously around the door, and the youngest Cousland shuffled obediently across the floorboards, peeling the shirt over her head.

"I love watching you leave,  _mi sirenita,"_ the elf called after her lecherously, and she flashed him a cross-eyed grin over her shoulder.

"She shouldn't arrive in Denerim as  _Florence Cousland_  at all," interjected Wynne, gathering up the last of her reagent pouches. "We don't want to draw attention to ourselves until we've ascertained the situation."

When Leliana and Flora returned from the millpond, only Zevran, Teagan and Alistair opted to bathe. Zevran began to disrobe even before leaving the ruined mill; never spurning an opportunity to show off his lean, tattooed physique.

"I don't need to wash," announced Oghren proudly, hanging onto the Beast's reins as the foul-tempered pony shifted from hoof to hoof. "My skin naturally gives off a pleasin' aroma."

"Yes, alcohol fumes seep from every orifice," muttered Leliana, already mounted on her lofty grey. "Don't stand too close, or else you'll be intoxicated."

The rest of the company were waiting at the foot of the ruined mill, dew-damp overgrown grass rising up around the horses' fetlocks. As the lay sister had promised, it did appear to be a beautiful morning; the pale lemon sunrise hinting at fair weather to come.

"Like I said," countered Oghren, baring his teeth back at the pony. "A  _most_  pleasin' aroma."

Wynne was also mounted, the map spread out over the neck of her patient horse. She was marking out the final road that they would be taking to Denerim on the parchment; a relatively straightforward track that wove up and down the undulating eastern hills.

Flora, attempting to disguise the fact that she was too short to clamber onto Bryland's saddle without Alistair's assistance, was pretending to inspect the partially-exposed foundations of the mill.

"See anythin' interesting, Sparkles?" called Oghren, amused by the sight of her gazing intently at the stone foundations.

Flora startled, and then gave a guilty nod.

"I've determined that this structure is very… stable," she replied vaguely, giving the stonework a tentative pat.

Both bard and dwarf cast dubious looks up at the crumbling, half-ruined mill; with its hollowed-out spaces and protruding wooden beams.

"I'd stick to the healin', lassie," said Oghren after a moment, kindly. "I ain't sure engineerin's your cup of tea."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol, Alistair would never actually order the company to stop and then shag Flora behind a bush! It's one of those spur of the moment things that you say in a sexy bedroom-type situation, and then panic afterwards in case your partner thinks you were actually being serious, lol. At least Alistair wouldn't do that at this stage, although maybe once he's been hardened a bit more who knows?
> 
> Lever et briller means rise and shine in French… possibly? I studied French at school but that was a decade ago haha
> 
> also I literally had no idea what to call this chapter. Hot Windmill Action?


	196. Caught In A Storm

 

The company set off just as the sun fully broached the horizon, flooding the rolling hills with mellow amber light. The ocean was a gilded line in the distance, barely visible against the backdrop of sunrise.

Wynne navigated for the first hour and then Teagan took over; the bann had taken this more obscure route out of the city after publically questioning Loghain's sudden assumption of power.

"What did you say earlier about me not arriving in Denerim as  _Florence Cousland?_ "

Flora had overhead Wynne's comment just as she was leaving to bathe; the young healer had been puzzling over it for the majority of the morning. They had just begun to cross a shallow basin nestled within the hills, filled with knee-length grass and ringed with trees.

The senior enchanter glanced sideways at Flora, who was once again perched before Alistair on the saddle.

"Well, I assume that there'll be guards posted at every entrance to the city," Wynne explained, articulating concerns that had been forming in her mind for the past few nights. "Loghain is no fool – and unfortunately, neither is Rendon Howe. The guards may be directly reporting to either; and will have specific instructions to look out for both you and Alistair."

Flora felt her brother-warden tense behind her at the mention of his two most detested enemies. She grimaced, but before she could speak, Wynne continued.

"I doubt that Loghain would make any blatant attempt on a Theirin within Denerim itself; he has to appear  _somewhat_  legitimate to retain the support of the Landsmeet. But we know Arl Howe has no such scruples, and he'll have his men looking out for Couslands. It's imperative we gain a few days in the city unimpeded to ascertain the lie of the land."

Flora immediately brightened, inadvertently squirming against Alistair in her excitement.

"Oh! Couldn't I just be Flora of Herring? Nobody is interested in  _her,_ " she declared eagerly, then deflated as Wynne shook her head decisively.

"Too obvious, child. I suggest you start thinking about alternatives."

They climbed out of the grassy bowl and into a small wood, little more than a clump of trees strung out over a long ridge. The sun, which had started out so promisingly, began to subside behind a veil of cloud. Alistair and Flora took on the role of navigation; both of them reasonably competent after their months spent on the road.

Teagan and Leliana struck up a conversation about Denerim, both of them having frequented the city multiple times over the past few years. Neither of them were great fans of Ferelden's capital; Teagan preferred to remain in the familial territory near Lake Calenhad, and any city that Leliana visited post-Val Royeaux was sure to pale in comparison to the heart of Orlais.

"There is nowhere on Thedas quite like it," Leliana enthused, pale blue eyes gleaming through the shadow cast by the canopy overhead. "The buildings are painted azure blue, to reflect the  _Miroir du Mère._ Crimson banners stretch from balcony to balcony. The sweet singing from the Grand Chantry, all day and all night."

"The knights wearing feathers in their hats, the tiny little cakes," muttered Alistair in Flora's ear, then raised his voice. "So, Leliana, the reason why Orlesian nobles wear those ridiculous masks is because they're all just  _really, really ugly_ , right _?"_

Flora, who had been trying not to laugh, spluttered and nearly slid off the saddle. Alistair wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed the top of her head, letting out a little snort. Even Teagan, whose desire to be polite had been struggling with his native Fereldan disdain, could not disguise a smile.

Leliana studiously ignored the bastard prince, continuing to wax lyrical about the golden lion motif that manifested throughout Val Royeaux's architecture. Zevran, patriotic spirit inflamed by the bard's exultations, began to soliloquise on the qualities of his own beloved Antiva City.

"Orlesian cheese has  _mould_ in it," murmured Alistair in an undertone, his lips against Flora's ear as they wound their way through the woods. "It's a travesty, letting that happen to perfectly good cheese."

Flora bit the end of her hair to stop herself from snickering, winding her fingers tightly in the horse's mane.

"Stop" she whispered, as the elf and the bard continued to bicker behind them. "I'm going to fall off if you make me laugh."

Alistair pressed his mouth against her neck, keeping one eye on the wooded path ahead.

"No, you won't," he murmured, one hand straying dangerously close to her breast. "I won't allow it. Nothing bad is allowed to happen to my favourite little sister-warden."

" _Only_ sister-warden!"

The company stopped to eat lunch in a small tree-lined clearing, harnessing the horses to a nearby sycamore. It was just after midday and the spring sun blazed down with a last-ditch resurgence of energy; fortunately, they were shaded from the worst of its glare by the canopy of interwoven branches overhead.

Teagan rummaged in the saddlebag, passing out hunks of bread and cheese wrapped in waxy paper. Leliana had made a beeline for the single patch of sunlight in the clearing; and had rolled up her leather tunic to display acres of toned flesh.

"How does  _she_  not burn?" hissed Flora enviously, who was relegated to huddling, gnome-like, in the shade. "Her hair is more orange than mine, it's not fair."

Zevran, who had located a bag of apples in the bottom of one pack, distributed them with a little nostalgic sigh for the plump oranges of Antiva. Alistair, after devouring his bread and cheese in record time, rose to his feet and wandered across the clearing towards the Beast, apple in hand.

"Don't get bitten, Alistair," Wynne called in his wake, leaning back against the trunk of a tree and hiding a yawn.

"I doubt he will," Teagan offered, greenish Guerrin eyes settling on the young man whom he had known almost from birth. "Alistair's always had a way with the tricky and nervy ones. The horses at Redcliffe all adored him."

"Tha' horse is a monster," muttered Oghren through a mouthful of bread. "If it were down ter me, I'd 'ave it roastin' on a spit over the fire."

Sure enough Alistair was talking softly to the Beast; managing somehow to make himself seem both gentle and approachable despite his powerful build. The horse eyed him warily, letting out suspicious little snorts through flared nostrils. Alistair kept murmuring beneath his breath, holding out the apple as a peace offering. After a few moments, the greedy horse made a lunge for it, teeth bared. Alistair immediately withdrew his palm, a frown contorting his handsome features. The horse made several more fruitless lunges, and then hung its head in dejection.

The patient Alistair reached forward to touch its muzzle lightly, curling strong fingers to scratch between its eyes. This time when he offered the apple, the Beast leaned its head forward docile and pliant, nipping the fruit delicately from Alistair's calloused palm.

Teagan raised his eyebrows as though to say  _I told you so,_ tipping his water pouch upside-down to drain the last drops.

"Is that what he's like in the bedroom, Florence?" Leliana asked curiously, watching Alistair stroke the piebald's mane with a gentle, infinitely capable hand.

Teagan coughed and Zevran let out a cackle; Flora swallowed a mouthful of bread and beamed at the bard.

"You mean, does he lure me into bed with food? No, I wish he did."

"Don't jest,  _ch_ _é_ _rie_ _._ "

Flora frowned for a moment, her forehead creasing as she considered the bard's question seriously. Her eyes drifted across to her brother-warden as he coaxed small whickers of satisfaction from the grumpy little pony, tangling his strong fingers within its mane.

"Sometimes," she said, thoughtfully. "And then sometimes – not so much."

Recalling the bite-marks and bruises that she had needed to heal after their liaison in the mill, Flora averted her eyes assiduously to the crumbs in her lap.

A beaming Alistair returned across the grass, pleased with himself. Lowering himself to the earth beside Flora, he reached for her hand and kissed the back of her fingers; giving them a little affectionate squeeze before letting go.

"Is  _the Beast_  tame now? Can I ride him?" she asked, fiddling with the stopper in the neck of her water pouch.

"Well, you'd better keep riding with me anyway," replied Alistair, hastily. "Just in case."

As they packed up their supplies in preparation to depart, Flora was struck by another idea.

"What about getting inside Denerim on a  _boat?"_ she called towards Wynne over one horse's haunches, fixing the buckle of a saddlebag. "It's on the coast, I could row myself in with the fishermen."

"They'll have guards posted at the docks, too," the senior enchanter pointed out, assisted by a courteous Teagan as she clambered into the saddle.

"Oh."

Flora deflated slightly. Alistair reached down to haul her up in front of him; she grimaced as her knee gave a slight twinge of protest.

The company set off once again, emerging from the woods at the peak of the high ridge. The track here had been eroded by rainfall and poor maintenance; and was sufficiently treacherous to require them to lead their horses on foot. Alistair obligingly took the reins of the Beast as well as Bryland; encouraging both horses to keep close behind him with soft murmurs as they navigated the narrow, steeply shelving path.

For the first time since they had left South Reach, they began to spot signs of life other than themselves. The shepherd huts on these lower moorlands were intact and had the air of recent occupancy; on a distant plain, the sharp-eyed Leliana spotted a figure tending to several goats. A small village lay nestled between the crook of two hills far to the north. Far more arresting was the sight of a decrepit, bone-white tower on the plain ahead, its crumbling edifice standing proud like some ancient sentinel.

"Flavian's Tooth," murmured Teagan, his finger resting on the map as he squinted off towards the decaying structure. "I hoped we'd be further than here by now, I don't like the look of that sky."

The sunrise's promise of fair weather had been proven false; menacing swathes of dark cloud were beginning to spiral overhead. Despite it only being mid-afternoon, the sun had withdrawn behind a veil of impenetrable gloom, casting long shadows across the moors. The occasional speck of rain fell in ominous portent.

Flora, who could not read the sky like her dad in Herring, but knew enough to spot the gathering of a storm, was biting on her nails anxiously. Oghren, already suspicious of the vast emptiness above his head, wore an almost comical expression of dread.

"You have to love the Ancient Tevinters," murmured Zevran, pulling his horse to a halt beside the Wardens as they surveyed the rolling moorland before them. "And their giant white  _penises_."

"Excuse me?"

Alistair, blinking, sought to clarify. In front of him, Flora let out a juvenile snicker.

The elf grinned, always pleased to gain a reaction. He threw out his hand, metaphorically encompassing the entire continent of Thedas.

"Wherever the ancient empire conquered, they erected these massive towers in their wake. The old Tevinter structures are still the tallest buildings in Ferelden, no?"

"Yes," agreed Alistair, still confused even as they pressed forwards on the track. "But I don't what that has to do with… male genitals."

"Sign o' dominance, ain't it?" interjected Oghren, temporarily distracted from the inauspicious skies. "It's an-an  _allegory."_

"Exactly," murmured Zevran, quirking an impressed eyebrow down at the dwarf. "I couldn't have put it better myself, my diminutive friend."

The rain began to fall with intent, large drops bouncing off leather and metal alike. Teagan hastily folded the map, sliding it back inside his jerkin.

"If we attempt to reach the city tonight, we'll get caught out on the fens," he said bluntly, squinting up at the massing cloud overhead. "I don't fancy being out in the open when that storm hits."

Leliana was standing up in the stirrups; her mind, as usual, working ten paces before everyone else's.

"The Tevinter tower is nearer," she called, raising her voice over a sudden, brutal gust of wind that pulled at hair and clothing. "We should head there for shelter."

Their horses began to pick their way across the damp grass, battling forward valiantly in the face of increasingly heavy rain. Flora, after performing a series of elaborate contortions to reach the various saddle bags; finally managed to locate her pack and retrieve a woollen jumper.

Pulling it over her head, she emerged through the thick fabric into a sudden deluge. Zevran, who had never grown accustomed to Ferelden rain, let out a little moan of despair and huddled himself more deeply into his hood.

The sky darkened as though sunset had come early; clouds the shade of a bruise gradually swelling to fill the horizon.

"We'd call this a sour nor'easter," Flora called cheerfully, raising her voice over a sudden, menacing rumble of thunder that seemed to come from directly above them. "Ooh, the Maker is winding in His nets!"

Nobody was in the mood for her Herring nostalgia; although Alistair made a valiant effort to respond to his sister-warden.

"Look on the bright side, Flo," he half-shouted back. The volume was necessary despite her proximity; the wind shrieked like an Orlesian soprano at the dramatic peak of an aria.

"At least you're not getting lashed to a rock as a makeshift beacon this time!"

Flora stiffened, recalling that Wynne had unearthed memories of her beloved Herring during one of the forays into her mind. She twisted her head around, sweeping wet hair from her face to try and catch Alistair's eye.

"Did you  _see_ that? You never said! What else did you see?"

Alistair realised too late that he had inadvertently dug himself into a hole. He did not want to reveal to Flora that they had all witnessed what was possibly one of the most traumatic memories of her short life; her healing  _of_  and subsequent betrayal  _by_  a mortally wounded Templar, which had resulted in her enforced removal to the Circle.

Fortunately, he was saved by a sudden outburst of electrical discharge splintering in the clouds above, followed by an army's drumroll of thunder. The lightning seemed to open the floodgates of the sky; a deluge poured down upon the earth as though Lake Calenhad itself was freely disgorging its waters.

The company were forced to dismount once more and lead the horses by their bridles; Alistair taking the reins of both Bryland and the Beast. The earth quickly turned marshy beneath their feet, boots submerging knee-deep into the mud. It was slow and arduous going, made more difficult by the lashing and incessant rain. The Tevinter tower was little more than a blurred spectral protrusion in the distance, rising up from the fens like a skeletal finger.

They were just passing a series of watery marshes that had been overfilled by rain, lapping muddy water across the sodden grass. Zevran was leading the way, his fleet-footed tread best suited to finding the most stable path across the boggy land. A particularly ferocious gust of wind loosed one of the straps on Teagan's mount, several cooking utensils falling into the mud.

The bann let out a curse, the words snatched away by another mischievous blast of air. Flora, who had no horse to lead, doubled back to help him retrieve the dropped items. She was just bending down to retrieve a copper saucepan before the horse could tread on it, when she felt a horribly familiar  _pull_  at the back of her brain.

_Found you,_ it whispered.

Flora's head tilted as though someone had physically lifted her chin, and she felt her stomach give a slow roll of dread.

_The Darkspawn are here._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I read such an amazing fanfiction about Alistair's background as a stable-lad in Redcliffe Castle, and then I lost the link and I can't find it in my history! Aaaah so frustrating!
> 
> Also, I think this is a milestone chapter for the first use of the word penis! Hurray for architectural penises! The Ancient Romans (sorry, Ancient Tevinter) were very fond of them, lol.


	197. Death In The Marsh

_Does Alistair sense it too?_

Her brother-warden was a dozen yards ahead, head down and pressing forward determinedly through the rain. Flora stared at him and his lack of reaction; hoping, despite all evidence to the contrary, that she was mistaken.

Then it came again, a soft buzzing in the rear of her skull like a swarm of insects nestling within the curlicues and crevices of her brain.

Flora was just about to open her mouth to call a warning when the snarling Darkspawn half-lunged from the muddy waters of the marsh and grabbed Teagan's leg. Flora had no time to see whether the sediment-covered creature was Hurlock or Genlock – she only managed to catch a glimpse of a half-rotten jaw and vicious jagged teeth before it dragged the startled bann down the waterlogged bank.

Knowing that it meant death if Teagan was pulled beneath the surface of the water; Flora had just enough time to grab the man's scarlet sleeve, slithering into the brackish bog after him.

It was worse than when the Redcliffe jetty had collapsed and she had fallen into the water with the Darkspawn on top of her, because at least Lake Calenhad had been clear and she could see the surface above her. Now, Flora became disorientated the moment she slid into the muddied swamp, still clutching Teagan's sleeve. The bog was choked with tangled overgrowth, and the bottom made of up soft, sucking mud that was impossible for feet to gain purchase on. She swallowed a mouthful of brackish water and was almost sick, mud in her eyes and the breath forced from her lungs by the temperature.

Also knowing that she could not cast until she had air, Flora clung to Teagan's arm and blindly flailed the hand still wielding the saucepan. Although she could vaguely hear the shouts and yells of the others, their noises were dwarfed by the guttural snarls of the Darkspawn that had dragged them into the marsh. She didn't know how many of the creatures had burrowed up through the boggy earth, but it was clear that at least one was still trying to drag the bann downwards.

Teagan gave a sudden muffled gurgle of pain and Flora swung the saucepan as hard as she could through the muddy water; she felt it collide with something soft and rotting. Still unable to see or breathe, she half-fell against Teagan as he struggled to stand in the sucking mud. As another muddied creature lunged towards the bann like some primordial aquatic predator; Flora grabbed Teagan's arm and hauled herself upwards. Her head broke the surface and she took a huge gulp of air.

A heartbeat later, the shield sprung up around them both, creating a small haven within the muddied water. Teeth and claws scrabbled against the barrier in a futile attempt to penetrate it, yet the gleaming shield stood firm. Flora, still unable to gain purchase on the mud, began to run out of air and the barrier flickered ominously.

Suddenly, the dark silhouette of the creature collapsed against the waning shield; tainted blood spilling into the muddied water. Half a dozen arrows were visible sticking haphazardly from its back.

Still unable to see with much clarity, teeth chattering from both cold and adrenaline; Flora had enough sense to realise that the bann should not come into contact with the bloodied water. She nudged Teagan, elbowing him blindly towards the bank. There were muffled voices from the grass, rising over the rain that was still lashing the surface of the marsh.

Then Flora felt hands beneath her arms, hauling her roughly out of the marsh and onto the wet grass. She opened her mouth and coughed out a lungful of muddy water, spluttering and still not able to see properly. Someone – by the familiarity of the touch, it could only be Alistair – was wiping the mud from her face with trembling fingers. Flora blinked as her brother-warden gradually came into focus, crouched on the grass before her. Alistair's skin was grey beneath the olive tan, and he seemed to have aged a decade since Flora had last seen him several minutes prior, lines of worry carved deep across his forehead.

"Are you alright?" he breathed, paying no mind to the rain. Fortunately, the downpour seemed to have lessened somewhat even as the storm echoed overhead. His eyes moved over her in a continual dance of anxiety, from head to toe and then back again; needing her to confirm what his eyes had already established.

When she nodded Alistair let out a groan, the tension seeming to drain from his entire body. He slumped forward and rested his forehead against her shoulder, gloved fingers reaching up blindly to tangle in her hair. Flora, who had regained her composure far more quickly, stroked the back of his neck in an effort to calm the frenetic throb of his heart.

Two Darkspawn corpses lay on the sodden grass; one mutilated beyond recognition with a combination of ax and sword wounds, and the other charred to a blackened mass. Zevran was in the process of extracting his silverite dagger from its ribcage, where it appeared to have become wedged in the bone. There were also two Darkspawn corpses floating face-down in the bog, tainted blood spilling out into the stagnant water. Both of them had been felled by multiple arrows, bristling from their backs like a hedgehog's spines. Leliana was hovering at the edge of the marsh, wondering if she dared lean out to try and retrieve them.

"Bad idea, lass," muttered the dwarf, wiping his bloodied ax clean on the saturated grass. "That stuff's poison, yeh don't want ter be bathin' in it."

"The Darkspawn came up from the water," Wynne explained briskly, tucking her staff back over her shoulder as she raised her voice over the wind. "It appears to be an isolated attack. It's not the horde."

Flora nodded, the pull at the base of her brain had fallen silent. Moving a strand of muddied hair from her face, she glanced over at Teagan. He was sitting against his patient horse's foreleg, pale-faced and tense as he clutched his shoulder. She could see that the material of his tunic was torn, and blood was rising between his clamped fingers.

"Alistair," she whispered, giving him a little nudge. "I have to tend to your uncle."

He withdrew reluctantly, watching Flora like a hawk as she made her way over to the bann.

"Florence, I - " Eamon's brother started, and she pulled a face to interrupt him, her eyes focusing on the wound as she knelt down.

"Show me, please," she mumbled, wiping her muddied mouth on her sleeve.

Teagan obediently withdrew his hand, grimacing at the sudden, sharp tendrils of pain that shot through his chest. The wound was a bite-mark, each puncture indicating where a jagged Darkspawn tooth had broken the skin. The injury itself was not that deep, but it was stained with the rich, brown coagulation of rot. If it were allowed to spread unimpeded, the bann may have lasted a day longer before succumbing to the taint.

It looked foul, the flesh already smelling putrid; yet Flora was both Warden and healer, and it took more than a Blighted wound to faze her. The hollow of her throat gleamed gold, pulsing energy rising slowly beneath the skin as the creation magic manifested spontaneously under her tongue. She put her mouth to Teagan's shoulder, opening it wide to cover the whole bite, and then inhaled as much as she was able.

**_Draw it out_ ** _._

Immediately, she felt the sour bitterness of the taint between her lips, foul and cloying. Teagan startled, unused to the strange sensation; Alistair stepped forward to rest a reassuring hand on his uncle's elbow.

"Keep still," the young prince murmured, his voice soft. "It won't take long."

While Flora knelt with her face pressed against Teagan's shoulder, her lips working silently at the ragged flesh, the others retrieved possessions that had been scattered in the wake of the attack. Fortunately, Arl Bryland trained disciplined horses that did not easily lose their composure; they had merely huddled together for protection as the Darkspawn surged from the marshes around them.

"Once Flora is finished, we ought to make our way to the tower," Wynne called out, eyeing the ominous gathering of cloud overhead. "We're exposed here."

It was an hour from sunset; and yet it felt an hour  _past_ , the moorland cast into long and desolate shadow. Electrical discharge crackled far above them, as lightning echoed within the hollow confines of the clouds.

"In Antiva, we call this the  _sailor's winding sheet,"_ observed Zevran, raising a finger upwards as a roll of thunder unleashed its anger directly above their heads. "If you see that sky at sea, it's unlikely you'll live to see the shore."

Once Flora was satisfied that the corruption had been purged, she set about mending the wound with her fingers. It took only a minute of concentration before she withdrew; the fresh, pink skin in stark contrast to the rest of Teagan's muddied arm.

As the bann gazed down at his shoulder, a hovering Alistair immediately descended with water-pouch in hand. By now the routine was familiar; Flora gulped, gargled and spat until Alistair was satisfied, and then drank until she could no longer taste the taint herself.

"We should be there within the hour," Wynne observed, her keen eyes measuring the distance across the sodden marshland to the Tevinter ruin. "Though we ought to hurry, I don't advise that we get caught out on the marshes when the storm comes down."

Oghren, clutching his ax as though it could loan him some small measure of reassurance, nodded frantically.

"Hey, Lelian- _aaa_!" came the call from the rear of the party.

Both bard and senior enchanter turned around to see Flora, muddied and bloodied from head to toe, striking a pose. Beside her, Alistair was gripping his grim-faced uncle by the elbow, assisting him to his feet.

"I'm ready for the court at Val Royeaux," she warbled, waterweed trailing from her hair and Teagan's blood smearing her mouth like some macabre lipstick. "That lady with birds in her hair has got nothing on me!"

"Very stylish,  _ma crevette,"_ replied Leliana, as the rain once again increased in tempo. "Now, it seems more sporting to give the lightning a  _moving_ target, so shall we depart?"

They reached the crumbling ruins of the old tower just as the first bolt of lightning stuck the marshland. The door was soft and rotten, yielding easily to Alistair's tentative shove. Somewhat cautiously, recalling what had been waiting for he and Flora within the Tower of Ishal at Ostagar, the young Warden led the way inside.

The interior was similar in construction to other Tevinter towers; circular balconies ascended to dizzying heights, leaving a central atrium open to the lofty ceiling. Limestone colonnades ringed each floor, although many pillars had long since crumbled away. There were no visible windows – Tevinter towers were built primarily for defence rather than aesthetic – but its walls had been compromised by age. Large cracks and collapsed stonework allowed a small measure of gloomy daylight in; though it was still no brighter than a moonlit night.

Leaving the horses in an antechamber with water and grain, the company paired off to confirm that they were the only ones occupying the tower. Wynne used the head of her staff to ignite several fragments of wood, handing them out to use as makeshift torches. Flora, who was her own light source, took one anyway for the sheer novelty of it.

"The Veil is thin here," murmured the senior enchanter, glancing towards her. "Be alert."

Flora nodded, she could feel the faint prickle of arcane magic whispering over her skin; making the hairs on the back of her neck stand vertical.

Zevran had not been looking forward to checking all eight of the visible floors in the ruined tower; fortunately, the steps beyond the third floor had collapsed, preventing all access. Teagan and Oghren had checked the cellar, finding nothing but a cistern overflowing with rainwater. Teagan, who fancied he could still smell the Darkspawn's cloying scent on his clothing, elected to remain behind to rinse himself thoroughly.

Alistair and Flora were checking the series of connected antechambers that circled the ground floor, each of which was dusty and devoid of life. Any furniture had long since been looted; even the iron torch brackets on the walls had been pulled free.

Having confirmed that the final chamber was occupied only by a nest of spiders; they were about to return to the main atrium when a supercilious voice drifted from behind them.

"You've finally arrived, then. 'Tis so  _tedious_ to wait for the slow and ungainly."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I think it's cute how Alistair calls Eamon and Teagan his uncles! A nice familial connection for someone severely lacking in proper family of their own. A winding sheet is the name for a sheet they used to wrap corpses in (grim!)
> 
> The rinse-and-spit routine after Flora inhales the Blight is a habit established since Lothering – REMEMBER THAT? SO LONG AGO! When she snuck out of the inn and went to heal the refugees? She healed a young soldier's Blighted arrow wound.
> 
> Lol so I just heard the conversation in game again where Leliana talks about the Orlesian fashion of birds in the hair! So ridiculous.


	198. Counting Teeth In The Tevinter Tower

 

The witch's voice echoed in the gloom, breaking the creeping silence of the Tevinter tower's lower chambers. Both Alistair and Flora, on edge after the afternoon's Darkspawn ambush, let out simultaneous yelps of startled alarm.

Morrigan, emerging from the shadows, allowed her face to contort into an expression of incredulous scorn.

"Behold: Ferelden's _fearless_  Wardens," she said nastily, folding her arms across her chest. "'Tis rather depressing, truly."

" _You're_ rather depressing," muttered Alistair in juvenile fashion, as Flora smiled over at the Korcari witch, genuinely pleased to see her.

Flemeth's daughter did not appear to feel the same way, judging by the horrified expression on her face as she stared back at the young healer.

"What a  _repulsive_ sight," the witch breathed, nostrils flaring as derisive amber eyes swept up and down Flora's muddied form; which admittedly did appear almost an extension of the bog itself.

"Oh," said Flora, realising what she looked like. "We got attacked. How did you know we'd be here?"

The two Wardens followed Morrigan out of the small room towards the central chamber. The witch responded while stalking over the fragmented tiles, not bothering to turn her head.

"I simply assumed that you would be incompetent at crossing the marshland, and would therefore take long enough that you required shelter from the storm."

Wynne, who was lighting a hastily constructed campfire on the broken mosaic flooring, did not bother to hide her scowl as Morrigan sauntered towards her.

"So you've decided to join us, then," the senior enchanter murmured, her voice deliberately neutral. Morrigan let out a little laugh, brushing off the woman's disdain as she would flick a fly from her arm.

"For the moment," the witch purred back, perching herself atop a toppled limestone column. "Until I grow bored once again."

"Don't feel obliged to stay," interjected Leliana, returning from checking the tower perimeter. "We were doing fine without you."

"Yes, that's why your healer looks as though she's been wrestling in the mud," Morrigan retorted scathingly; ignoring a leer from Zevran, who was demonstrably delighted that the skimpily-clad witch had re-joined their party.

"I  _was_  wrestling in the mud," piped up Flora, mentally reclassifying her blind flailing as a heroic underwater grapple with the enemy. "I hit a Darkspawn with a saucepan."

"Will that be your weapon of choice for taking on the Archdemon?" Morrigan responded snidely, curling her bare legs beneath her on the stone. "That would make for an amusing – albeit  _brief_ \- encounter."

As a chastened Flora fell quiet, Wynne noticed Alistair shoot a brief, agonised glance down at his diminutive sister-warden. It was a mere fractional contortion of the features, lasting less than a heartbeat; which nonetheless indicated a great deal.

The senior enchanter noticed Teagan, who had returned damp and in fresh clothing from the lower cistern, also looking towards the young prince. The two oldest members of the party glanced towards one another, and no words needed to be exchanged for them to understand one another perfectly.

_He doesn't want her to participate in the fight against the Archdemon,_ her pale blue eyes flashed over the smoking flames of the fire.

Teagan inclined his head slightly; he had arrived at the same conclusion.

Flora rose to venture down to the cistern next, bemoaning the fact that she had forgotten to pack a spare change of clothing. Leliana, after she had overcome her initial horror, threw Flora something silken and crumpled from her own belongings. Alistair cast his sister-warden a small glance, wanting to accompany her but trapped in seemingly endless conversation by Oghren. The dwarf was bemoaning the horrors contained in the above-ground sky, reminiscing with the prince about the varied delights of Orzammar. Alistair had no choice but to listen, nodding blankly as he watched his closest companion disappear from view.

Edging her way tentatively down the crumbled steps to the lowest level, Flora could hear the wind howling around the base of the tower. From the rainwater trickling down the inner walls of the cellar, the foundation stonework was clearly not impervious to leaks.

Teagan had considerately left his torch wedged in the remains of an iron bracket; the flickering firelight illuminating a large stone cistern filled almost to the brim. He had laid his wet clothes out over the stone to dry; Flora followed suit with her own muddy shirt and breeches, after first rinsing them out. It took several minutes of muttering, but she finally managed to extract the leather tie from her mud-matted hair.

To her alarm, the silken garment contributed by Leliana appeared to be little more than a  _chemise_ ; bone-white in shade but far from virginal in design. Flora eyed it grimly for a moment, then gave a sigh of resignation and hauled herself into the stone cistern.

The water was naturally freezing, but since there was a distinct lack of Darkspawn emerging from its depths, it was a vast improvement on the afternoon's marshes. Flora forced herself to sit on the submerged stone ledge, then took a deep breath and ducked her head under the water.

She emerged with chattering teeth and streaming hair, eyes wide and horrified at the frigid temperature. Even her body's natural warmth was insufficient to combat the water's subterranean chill. Scowling, she ran her hands quickly over her body to wash away the mud and blood; plucking up the courage to submerge her head twice more to saturate her hair.

Eventually Flora could stand it no further and clambered out of the cistern, wringing out her hair and reaching for the bundle of silk. Wishing heartily that she had remembered to pack the arlina's woollen pyjamas, she wrangled the silk over her head. After struggling in vain to pull the  _chemise_  down to cover her knees, she gave up any hope of making the garment less provocative and instead arranged her hair strategically over her chest.

Returning up the decaying steps, bare feet leaving damp prints against the stone, Flora was distracted by the smell of roasting meat. The campfire glowed like a beacon amidst the ruined ground floor of the tower; she followed her nose back over the rubble towards where the rest of the company were sat around the fire.

As expected, Zevran did not disappoint with his reaction; pretending to faint back on the dusty stone as Flora sat down within the warm halo of firelight. Her knee gave a little twinge of protest, the joint swollen beneath the damp leather strapping.

"The stuff of my dreams is made flesh and blood," he crooned, eyeing her from his prostrate position. "And what  _lovely_  flesh it is, indeed. No wonder they locked you up in a Circle, my lily."

Flora scowled, trying in vain to make the immutable fabric of the nightgown stretch.

"I feel more n-naked than if I were  _a-a-actually_  naked," she complained through chattering teeth, her head tilting upwards to follow the movement of her brother-warden. Alistair had glanced at her before abruptly clambering to his feet and stalking across the tiles; features carefully arranged in neutrality.

"You're too much for our Chantry boy,  _florita_ ," the elf continued, leering openly at Flora. "He's gone to seek some…  _relief."_

Flora shot him a poisonous glare, teeth chattering as she inched as close to the fire as she dared. To her relief, Teagan had considerately averted his eyes, concentrating on rotating the skewers of meat evenly within the flames.

"You should have packed more efficiently, rather than- " Wynne began mercilessly, before the tail part of her sentence was drowned out by a loud rumble of thunder.

"Well, if you get cold, my lily, you know my arms are wide open and ready to offer  _heat_ ," purred Zevran, quirking one white-blond eyebrow at her. Flora was about to retort in a wholly unladylike manner, when the elf's features fell in almost comical disbelief.

" _Alistair!"_ he breathed in reprimand, dark eyes widening. "I'm disappointed in you."

Alistair had returned from where they had stationed the horses, clutching an embroidered blanket retrieved from his saddlebag. Flora gazed up at him with transparent delight and gratitude.

"You looked chilly," he offered cheerfully, lowering himself to the stone beside her and helping to adjust the oversized blanket around her damp body. "You can't cure colds, remember?"

"I remember," whispered Flora, oddly touched. "Thank you."

Alistair smiled sideways at her, his eyes soft and considerate. Flora none-too-gracefully lunged across the small space between them, impulsively throwing her arms around his neck as the blanket slithered to the tiles. Taken off guard, he rocked backwards; before wrapping his arms around his sister-warden and returning the embrace.

"'Twas only a  _blanket,"_ hissed Morrigan from her elevated position on the toppled pillar, averting her eyes in disgust. "Anyone would think he had offered her Ferelden itself. The simple-minded are easily pleased, I suppose."

They ate chunks of lamb straight from the skewer, pairing it with a cold mash of turnip and potato. The storm raged on throughout their dinner, before blowing its way westwards, towards the high hills of the Bannorn. Gradually, the wind died down, and the rain hammering the lofty eaves lessened in ferocity. By the time that the moon was casting tendrils of silvery light through the broken dome; the world outside appeared to have calmed itself.

Wynne, too proud to admit that the day of travelling had worn her out, claimed a headache and retired to her bedroll. Oghren had also muttered vaguely beneath his moustache before retreating to the antechamber with the horses; shortly afterwards, they heard the suspicious clinking of bottles.

Leliana, adrenaline still running hot in her blood after their earlier encounter with the Darkspawn, was casting significant glances across the flames towards Teagan. The younger Guerrin brother, who enjoyed female company despite being a confirmed bachelor, rarely turned down a willing partner; and the bard was both attractive and remarkably self-assured.

"I think we ought to inspect the perimeter once more," Leliana murmured, her face a perfect mask of nonchalance as she delivered the excuse. "Teagan, would you care to join me?"

Zevran rolled his eyes, muttering beneath his breath as he nudged at the fire ill-temperedly. Alistair, the only one within earshot, shot the elf a reproving look.

As the bann rounded the campfire, he paused beside Flora. She was sitting cross-legged on the blanket, laboriously mouthing her way through another entry from the  _Exotic Fish of Thedas._ Feeling a hand on her shoulder, Flora glanced up to see Teagan gazing down at her with an unreadable expression.

"Bann Teagan, did you know that a shark can live up to fifty years?" she breathed. "That's longer than the average  _Warden!"_

Flora beamed, delighted at her fusion of newfound knowledge and characteristic Grey Warden dark humour. Alistair, who was finding it increasingly difficult to reconcile his feelings for his lover with the dangerous reality of their mission, responded with only a vague half-smile.

Perturbed at the lack of reaction, Flora returned her attention to the bann.

"You saved my life in the marsh earlier, child," Teagan stated bluntly, steady greenish eyes meeting her own. "The list of  _Guerrins_  who owe you a debt grows longer by the day."

"No-one owes me nothing," muttered Flora, Herring inadvertently shaping her grammar once again as she stared down at the illustration of the shark. "Everybody helped with the Darkspawn earlier."

"Connor told me about the  _Peraquialus_ before he left South Reach."

Flora continued to gaze sternly at the shark, focusing on the inked letters beneath the picture. She could feel the curious eyes of the others settling on her, and made a concerted effort to avoid their stares.

_The shark has….two hundred… t-e-e... teeth._

Teagan could tell that the girl was embarrassed and spared her further discomfort; merely tightening his fingers on her shoulders before following in the impatient Leliana's wake.

"How many is two hundred?" Flora asked after a moment, sensing that either Alistair or Zevran were about to question her.

Alistair slid himself closer over the blanket, nudging her hands out in front of her. He reached out a thumb, brushing it gently over each finger in turn; then leaned down to touch each of Flora's toes.

"How many altogether?"

Flora, reasonably confident with her double-digit numbers, promptly gave an answer of twenty.

"Well,  _two hundred_  is ten times that," Alistair finished, lifting her hand to his mouth and pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

Flora stared at her own feet, envisioning ten sets of fingers and toes.

"That's a lot of teeth," she breathed, her gazing turning up to where Morrigan was still perched grumpily on the broken column. "Can you turn into a shark?"

The amber-eyed witch glowered down at her like a particularly grumpy owl.

"What use could that possibly be?" she hissed, evilly. "'Tis a  _ridiculous_  enquiry."

Zevran interrupted before Flora could offer a response, the elf's scowl far more perturbed than even that of the Korcari shapeshifter. He sat back on his bedroll and flicked a pebble into the base of the fire, lips coming together in a pout.

"How is it that everyone is pairing off and I find myself with empty arms?  _I!"_ he demanded, shooting a little vexed glance off towards where Teagan and Leliana had disappeared. "I have not needed to resort to my own company since I was a boy."

Morrigan opened her mouth in readiness to hiss a vehement rejection; but to her slight irritation, the elf made no attempt to proposition her.

"I mean, as pleasurable as it is to watch the both of you- " here, Zevran gestured courteously towards the Wardens- "it cannot compare to being an  _active participant,_  as it were."

Flora was only half-listening to the elf's complaint; she was probing her mouth with a finger in an attempt to count the number of teeth contained within. Alistair groaned, leaning forward to coax more life from the firewood with the tip of his sword.

"Why do you always have to spy on  _us?"_  he complained, the indignation plain on his handsome, clear face. "Why not my uncle and Leliana, for instance?"

Zevran let out a little snort, inclining his head as he inspected a loose thread hanging from his tunic.

"I may observe the bard and the bann at some point, if only to compare how she is with him as opposed to I," he said, with the frankness that always caused Alistair to blush. "But you know my eyes will always return elsewhere."

The elf shot the bastard prince a look of such loaded meaning that Alistair coughed, reaching hastily for his water-pouch.

"Twenty eight," said Flora triumphantly, who clearly hadn't been listening.

"Twenty eight  _what_ , my dear?" replied her brother-warden, grateful for the distraction.

"Teeth. How many do you have?"

As Alistair attempted to manoeuvre his tongue around his own mouth; Morrigan gazed down at them in sheer disbelief.

"Why, 'tis reassuring that Ferelden's fate is in the hands of a pair of utter imbeciles," she murmured, clambering to her feet. "I need to gain some distance, in case my own wits are drained from sheer  _proximity."_

The witch folded herself into a collapsing, shifting mass of shadows; a moment later, a dark winged shape flapped upwards towards the shattered ceiling.

"Thirty two," said Alistair as the three of them watched bird-Morrigan disappear many balconied storeys above their heads. Flora then gazed at her brother-warden in bemusement, her brow furrowing.

"Why do you have more? Is it because you're _taller?"_  she wondered out loud, and Alistair gave a helpless shrug.

Zevran leaned across to retrieve Leliana's half-drunk bottle of ale, taking a single, leisurely swig.

"In Antiva, we have a belief that the teeth you lose as a child hold your future within them," he murmured, replacing the bottle carefully on the tiles. "So, if parents wanted their child to become a noble, they would bury the tooth in the grounds of a grand estate. Or if they wanted the child to be a sailor, they would throw it into the sea. Did you want to be a Templar as a child, Alistair? Perhaps your teeth were buried in a monastery."

Alistair shook his head, taking the half-empty bottle and gulping down several mouthfuls.

"No," he replied, honestly. "I didn't even know who I  _was_ for a long time. When I was sent to the Chantry at Bournshire, becoming a Templar seemed like the only way to escape being Maric's bastard son. Other than disguising myself as a lay-sister and making a break for it!"

The cheery tone of Alistair's voice could not hide a note of underlying melancholy. Flora extended a bare foot and nudged his knee gently with her toes; Alistair glanced down, eyes following the smooth line of her calf. The cream silk of the Orlesian chemise rucked halfway up her thigh soon proved suitable distraction from his own introspection.

"How about you,  _mi sirenita?"_ The elf turned next to Flora, raising an eyebrow. "What did you desire to be when you were little?"

Flora thought for a moment, fiddling with a loose strand of hair.

"A lot of girls in Herring wanted to go and work in the teyrn's castle," she replied, rolling her eyes as Zevran gave a little snort. "I wanted to go as well for a while, but then my dad said that Highever was full of gambling and  _lecherous men_."

Zevran cackled, shooting her the expected leer on cue.

"So then I just decided to stay in Herring," replied Flora, absentmindedly tracing the engraved fish on the cover of her book. "I never thought I'd leave. After a while, I didn't even  _want_  to."

"So in a way, it was a  _good_ thing that the Templar betrayed you to the Chantry!" continued Alistair, mouth working ahead of brain. "I know it was bad at the time, but otherwise you'd never have been in the Circle, and Duncan would never have recruited you…"

He trailed off as Zevran raised resigned eyes towards the ceiling, letting out the faintest of sighs.

"You're very handsome, Alistair, and that's probably a good thing," the elf murmured, gaze returning to Flora. She was looking at Alistair with an odd expression, her fingers motionless on the book's cover. In an instant, she had made the connection between Alistair's comment and the mining of her skull the previous week.

"You  _saw_ that?" Flora said eventually, her voice small. The memory rose unwanted to the surface of her mind; the Templar's sudden, violent outrage, the mage cage, the face of her father as she was taken away like a criminal. Her last glimpse of Herring had been sideways and obscured by bars, the coast diminishing to a faint line on the horizon.

Alistair grimaced, inwardly cursing himself for his own thoughtlessness. He glanced back over at Flora, and saw that she was smiling.

"Well, it was my own fault," she admitted cheerfully, with a wry little shrug. "I knew I'd get caught if I healed the Templar. And you're right, it  _did_ work out for the best."

Alistair reached out for her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing each of her knuckles in apologetic turn. Flora smiled at him, feeling a flush beginning to spread in the hollow of her throat.

_It's been months since Satinalia,_ she thought sternly to herself, feeling his lips pressing against the bottom of her thumb.  _You don't need to blush_ every _time he kisses you. He's done a lot more than that by this point._

Despite her best intentions, Flora felt her cheeks flaring into inadvertent pinkness; a small twist of desire forming deep in her belly.

"I wonder how high you can climb in this tower," she said carefully, avoiding Zevran's knowing stare. "I'm going to have a look."

Flora clambered to her feet, pulling Leliana's silk  _chemise_  down over her thighs. Avoiding the shallow puddles of rainwater, she wandered barefoot across the obsidian tiles towards what remained of the stairway. After a moment, Alistair cleared his throat and followed her; sporting his best nonchalant expression.

"Ah, excellent," called Zevran in their wake, his eyes narrowed and voice petulant. "Just leave me in the company of a drunken dwarf and the snoring senior enchanter, I'll have a  _great_ time. And we all know you can climb three storeys and no higher!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I envision the Tevinter tower in the marshes as looking a bit like the Tower of Ishal in Ostagar, except not filled with Darkspawn and nasty dead bodies, eurghh!
> 
> And oooh it's finally happened – or at least Alistair realises that it's happened – he's let his feelings for his sister-warden interfere with his duty. He doesn't want Flora to participate in the fight against the Archdemon, which is frankly ridiculous, considering that she's got the best shield of all.
> 
> The belief about the teeth is actually from Turkey! I think it's super cute! I wonder if my parents buried my teeth in a museum or a castle when I was younger? Flora only has twenty eight teeth since she has no wisdom teeth, incidentally.


	199. Tevinter Altars And Desire Demons

Alistair followed his sister-warden up the crumbling limestone stairway, expecting her to duck inside one of the chambers that led off from the circular balcony. There were over a dozen to choose from, their contents long since looted, dusty but perfectly adequate for purpose.

To his surprise, Flora instead spent several minutes gazing over the balustrade to the obsidian tiles below; then craned her neck upwards to espy the hole in the cracked dome above.

Then, to the prince's mild dismay, Flora ventured over to the next curving set of steps. It became increasingly clear to Alistair as he ascended to the third floor that his sister-warden's expressed desire to climb the abandoned Tevinter tower might have been  _genuine –_ and not just an excuse for them to find a private corner.

Flora could feel the arcane residue lingering in the air like the salt-taste of the coast, growing deeper and richer with each step that she ascended. The upper floors of the tower became more skeletal; their dividing walls crumbled away to reveal bare white pillars. One broken chamber flowed into another, moonlight spilling over the worn flagstones like spilt wine.

Dotted here and there were remnants of a long-bygone era: a broken and faceless statue of a robed woman, a wooden table covered in dust so thick it appeared almost like fabric. There were also signs of other occupancy throughout the ages, the occasional remains of a campfire, discarded old weaponry and a shield painted with Dalish patterns propped against a wall.

Flora stopped in the remnants of what must have once been a library, the wooden shelves now rotted and empty. Odd scraps of parchment lay like wind-blown leaves, scattered across the cracked tiling. The wall overlooking the tower's central atrium had crumbled away entirely; Flora could just about make out the soft glow of their campfire several storeys below. Above, the pearly disc of the moon was just visible through the broken ceiling.

Alistair hissed through his teeth as she leaned precariously over the balcony, bracing herself against a pillar.

"You're not a monkey," he warned his sister-warden, watching her like a hawk as she picked her way back over the rubble to floor-level. "Don't go getting any ideas."

Flora shot him a vaguely suspicious look.

"What's a  _monkey?"_

"An animal that climbs, my dear. It looks like a tiny, furred human, but it has a long tail to help it stay balanced."

"That doesn't sound like a real thing!"

"Ask Zevran, I'm sure they have them in Antiva. I think they sell them in the marketplace at Denerim."

"Oh," Flora said dubiously, having never seen either a monkey or an illustration of one in her life. "You'll have to point one out for me when we go there."

Alistair smiled at her, his colouring somehow de-saturated by the pallid moonlight filtering through the broken dome. The ripe wheat gold of his hair was bleached silver, the olive skin drained of warmth; with his fine-hewn face and strong jaw, he would not have looked out of place if he had been carved from limestone and positioned with the other Tevinter effigies.

Flora realised that she was staring at the thick muscle of her brother-warden's chest, the sinew of his collarbone just visible at the neck of his shirt. Willing herself not to blush, she raised her eyes quickly, and then Alistair reached out with a calloused thumb to brush a smear of plaster dust from her cheek. He gazed at her without saying anything, his fingers edging towards her hairline.

"Let's see… what's in that room," croaked Flora, ignoring the instinctual urge to yield to that gentle, yet inexorably firm hazel stare. To her mild alarm, her body seemed unwilling to comply; her cheek flaring in response to his touch.

As curling tendrils of desire began to snake their way through her abdomen, liquefying her stomach before creeping downwards, Flora scuttled off towards the next chamber. She wasn't quite quick enough to hide the blush flooding up her neck, the flushed skin standing out against her pale complexion.

Alistair caught a glimpse of heated cheeks as his sister-warden scampered away across the dusty flagstones. Grinning to himself, he followed her at a more leisurely pace; pupils constricting as he focused on his fleeing quarry.

Flora found herself in a small, square chamber that was lined with pillars on three sides. Several discarded books lay scattered on the tiles, elaborate and incomprehensible script decorating their leather-bound covers. A low stone slab sat in the centre of the chamber; oddly, despite its obvious age, no dust appeared to have settled on its surface. Although the room was shadowed, the gloom was punctuated by slender shafts of moonlight, creeping through cracks in the external masonry.

Picking up one of the books, Flora advanced to a patch of filtered light. Still finding it too dark to read, she summoned white-gold energy to the tips of her fingers; using her backlit nails to illuminate the yellowed parchment. The letter forms were archaic and the language unfamiliar, Flora was able to make no sense of it.

"Do you know much about Ancient Tevinter?" she spoke into the darkness, sensing her brother-warden approach from behind.

"A little," Alistair replied, deftly sliding a finger beneath one of the  _chemise's_  silk straps. "I know that they used to worship dragons."

Brushing her damp hair to one side, he bowed his head and pressed his mouth to the warm skin of her shoulder. Flora gazed down at the book, barely taking note of the words and diagrams inked upon the page. She could feel her heartbeat quicken in her chest, the pulse of her blood surging in response to the gentle, insistent movement of Alistair's lips.

"Dragons?" she whispered, willing the words to come out steady as he brushed a kiss against the back of her neck. Already she could feel him pressing into the small of her back, testing the seam of his breeches with his growing arousal.

"Mm," Alistair replied vaguely, brain incapable of summoning anything more academic at that exact moment.

Flora turned the page of the book over blindly, making no attempt to decipher the contents. Her brother-warden slid the  _chemise_  strap further down her arm, exposing her breast. A combination of the tower's chill and her own arousal had stiffened her nipple; the sensitive peak swollen further by Alistair's fondling.

"Why dragons?" she continued hoarsely, even as the book dangled limp from her fingers. Alistair paused midway through making love to her neck, cupping her breast gently as he mused over her question.

"I suppose they're large," he murmured, using his free hand to gather the nightgown up around her waist. "And powerful."

"So are druffalo," pointed out Flora, the words coming out slightly stilted as Alistair began to thrust his clothed pelvis against her bare rear. "And nobody worships them."

Alistair was now beyond the point of giving a coherent response, his breath escaping in heated, erratic spurts as he ground his hips against her. Not daring to touch himself for fear of losing all composure, he gripped her hips and turned her to face him. Cupping her buttocks, he kissed her with raw and heated desire, pushing her down against the stone slab. The next moment, Flora found herself flat on her back, the  _chemise_  bundled up around her waist.

Alistair took one look at his best friend sprawled on the stone, hair dishevelled and thighs parted, before inhaling sharply between clenched teeth. The bastard prince raised his eyes to the ceiling as he began to mentally recite the first verse of the sacred Chant. This was a vain attempt to recover some measure of self-control; at this rate, he would be spending within his breeches like an adolescent.

_Hear now Andraste, daughter of Brona, spear-made of Alamarr…_

Flora, who rather cruelly had decided to take revenge on her brother-warden for his earlier teasing, decided to take matters into her own hands. A strange urge had entered her mind, seemingly from nowhere, encouraging her onwards.

Alistair's attention was caught by a little moan of startled pleasure. His gaze dropped immediately back down to Flora, and a strangled gasp caught in his throat. She was touching herself, using her own tentative fingers to emulate the way that he himself fondled her. Her pale grey eyes were dazed and dreamy, one hand lazily playing with her exposed breast. He watched, barely daring to breathe, as she experimented with increasing confidence; genuinely surprised at the sensations that she was able to extract from herself. As the rhythm of her fingers increased, she arched her hips up and let out a pleading whimper, desperate eyes meeting his.

A growl slipped from between Alistair's teeth as he shoved his breeches down violently, gripping her hips to hold them in place. He began to thrust back and forth even before he had fully sunk inside her, his lip curling back over bared teeth. The bastard prince took his lover in the crudest manner against the stone, using both mouth and fingers to coax her into yielding herself completely to him.

He had her first on her back; then Alistair rolled Flora onto her belly and took her from behind; bending over to tongue the back of her neck with heated desire. Each gasp and moan that escaped Flora's throat drove him onwards, delighting in the range of sounds he could draw from her lips.

Barely allowing his sister-warden a moment to catch her breath, Alistair grabbed her by the thighs and manoeuvred her easily on top of his hips. The sight of his lover straddling him, the fingers of one hand working between her legs as she rocked against him, proved to be the final straw. Alistair spent himself inside her, seeing flashes of white light beneath his eyelids as his pelvis juddered uncontrollably.

Sitting upright, he pulled the sweaty Flora into his lap and sat her on his knee, fingers slipping between her thighs. It took only a few moments of fondling before he had coaxed the sounds of a third whimpering climax from her open mouth. The sensation of his girl trembling helplessly on his thigh brought forth a fresh burst of stamina; and soon Alistair had her on her back once again.

The bastard prince had just begun a slow and leisurely rut, when something entirely unexpected happened. Veins of violet light ignited on the stone slab beneath Flora's naked rear, splintering off to ignite a border of runic figures that had once lain dormant in the stone. This was accompanied by the distinctive crackle of arcane magic; the air around them thrumming as though a storm was approaching.

Alistair withdrew with a yelp, scrambling to fasten his breeches around his waist as Flora sat upright, eyes narrowing. The stone beneath her was now vibrating with energy, the strange violet runes pulsing gentle and insistent. Slowly, in the shadows before them, a shape began to manifest itself.

"Ah, Maker's Breath," hissed Alistair, thinking longingly of his sword, armour and shield propped beside the campfire three storeys below. "Sometimes I really  _hate_ magic, present company excepted. Any ideas, Flo?"

Flora, smoothing down the rumpled  _chemise_  over her thighs, was gazing towards the shape as it congealed into solidness.

"I think it's a demon," she said carefully, edging forwards to stand in front of Alistair. She could already feel her own magic prickling over her palms, like mist rolling over the surface of the sea.

"Perfect! A demon," complained her brother-warden, and then groaned as the shape became solid and recognisable. "Oh, no. Not one of  _these."_

The Fade creature stepped forward and gave a light little laugh, having taken the form of a beautiful, mostly-naked woman with violet skin. Twin horns curled outwards from a head that darted like a snake, the full lips curling upwards in a plump, promising smile. When it spoke, its husky, feminine voice was undercut by the characteristic deep rumble of the demonic.

" _Why do you look so surprised?"_ the desire demon murmured, deep violet eyes widening in affront.  _"It was_ you _that summoned_ me."

"Excuse me, but we would _never_ summon demons," retorted Alistair, keeping his eyes focused with some difficulty on the creature's face.

Flora, who had more experience with the denizens of the Fade, looked down at the stone slab behind them. With a start, she realised that it was not just a convenient surface for Alistair to brace himself against; but that in some previous incarnation of its existence, it had been an  _altar_. She grimaced, her eyes not moving from the desire demon's face.

"Alistair, I think… we might have summoned it by accident."

The desire demon smiled at Flora, and opened its mouth, preparing to make an offer. It was not a very powerful incarnation of the breed; compared to some of its ilk that the younger healer had come up against in the Fade.

"No, thank you," Flora retorted immediately, and the demon's eyes narrowed once more.

" _What? I haven't even made you my offer yet!"_

The outrage on its face was a clear indication of its inexperience; since a more sophisticated demon would never allow its own latent desire to manifest so obviously.

Alistair accidentally dropped his gaze to the creature's exposed, violet breasts, and then muttered a curse under his breath. He was more than happy to allow his sister-warden to converse with the Fade-creature; she had been wrangling with them since she was a child.

Flora never bothered to engage in conversation with demons, since their elaborate wordplay often left her bemused. Instead, she lifted a hand and the shield swelled out before her, curling around to form a barrier between herself, Alistair and the demon. The white-gold magic hummed with its own distinctive energy signature, intangible and impenetrable.

Snakelike, the demon let its tongue curl from the corner of dark painted lips, tasting the particles of shimmering golden mist. Almost immediately it let out a little hiss of fear, recoiling backwards as blisters began to rise around its mouth.

" _Ah! You have powerful allies, mage,"_ the demon yammered, the metal bangles around its ankles clattering as it retreated in haste.  _"I was not aware. I shall retu- "_

The curved tip of a silverite dagger emerged between the creature's bare breasts, the metal honed sharp and deadly. The demon let out a thin, grating shriek, eyes flaring wide and dark, before folding in on itself in a small implosion of energy. A moment later it had vanished, leaving only scattered ashes and the acrid smell of the arcane in its wake.

"I'll take a kiss from either of you as my recompense," purred Zevran, inspecting his bloodless blade as he emerged from the gloom. "I suspect you won't be so quick to berate me for lurking in the shadows next time."

Alistair let out a little groan of resignation, leaning back against the stone slab. The next moment he remembered what it was, and shot upright with a squawk.

"Of  _course_  you were there," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Privacy is just a foreign concept to you, isn't it?"

The young Warden was uncertain whether he was more embarrassed by the elf's gleeful voyeurism, or their accidental summoning of a desire demon by copulating on some dormant Tevinter altar. On reflection, he decided that it was probably the latter.

Despite the potential seriousness of the situation, Flora could not help but see the humour in it. Alistair shot his sister-warden an appalled look as a giggle escaped her; Flora pressed both hands over her mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to suppress her laughter.

Zevran grinned at her in delight, sauntering over to inspect the fading runes on the worn stone.

"You can't tell anyone, elf," the flustered Alistair instructed, scrabbling around in the dust to retrieve his shirt. "Especially not the blasted witch, she'd never let us hear the end of it. Or, Maker help us,  _Wynne."_

Flora envisioned the senior enchanter's disapproving face and let out another shocked cackle, unable to help herself.

"Wynne said that the Veil was weak here," she recalled, attempting to flatten her hair with her palms. "I suppose when we…ah… "

"Climaxed _,"_ supplied Zevran helpfully, and Flora rolled her eyes at him.

"Mm,  _that._ It must have summoned it."

"Caught with your pants down, my handsome prince," the elf continued, delighting in the excruciated contortions of Alistair's face. "Don't look so downcast; your technique has visibly improved in recent weeks. I'm proud of you."

Alistair groaned, willing the flush to remain beneath the collar of his shirt. Muttering under his breath he began to pick his way out of the stone chamber, eyes fixed determinedly ahead.

Flora, still finding the situation too ridiculous to take seriously, was still snickering quietly to herself as she followed in her brother-warden's wake. Zevran linked his arm through hers, dark eyes dancing with wicked merriment.

"Oh, and  _also_ ," the elf murmured, darting her a little sideways glance as they followed a still-twitchy Alistair. " _Very_  nice display from you as well,  _mi sirenita._ You're learning quickly."

"There's something that my Circle instructors never said to me," replied Flora, with a little cackle.

Zevran raised an eyebrow, courteously stepping back to allow her to descend before him.

"Does anything ruffle your feathers,  _carina?_ You seem supremely placid."

"Ghosts," Flora replied, giving a little overdramatic shiver as they followed Alistair down the crumbling steps. "If it had been a  _ghost_  summoned from the shadows, I would have jumped straight over the balcony and just… splatted on the tiles."

" _Splatted?"_

"Yes: SPLAT," clarified Flora, smacking one palm against the other to illustrate. The sound of her clapping hands drew the attention of Teagan and Leliana, who looked up from the fire curiously as Wardens and assassin approached.

"Before you ask,  _yes,_ Flo and I were just having some… alone time!" blurted out Alistair, trying in vain to stop colour from flooding his cheeks. "And that's…  _all_ that happened. We slept together and then - that's it. Nothing else. Just your… normal experience."

"Yes," piped up Flora solemnly, trying her best to be helpful. "It was very mundane and ordinary. Nothing special at all."

Behind her, Flora heard the elf collapse in muffled convulsions of laughter.

Alistair shot her an evil look out of the corner of his eye as both Teagan and Leliana looked somewhat perplexed.

"It was practically  _routine_ ," continued Flora, not understanding why Alistair was now glowering at her. "So unexciting that I almost fell asleep."

"Thanks, Flo," her brother-warden muttered, slumping down beside the fire with a distinctly ill-tempered expression. "I think they get the idea."

Flora looked slightly confused, and Zevran eventually took pity on her.

"Time for sleep, I think, my lily," he murmured, sinking elegantly down onto the bedroll. "Tomorrow we make for Denerim."

They settled down, trusting in Leliana's carefully constructed traps at the tower's sole entrance point to warn them of any intruder. Despite Alistair's inexplicable grumpiness, he still reached out to draw his sister-warden against him on the bedroll, fitting his body neatly around her own. Just as his breathing settled into a slow, even rhythm, Flora twisted slightly within his arms and peered across at Zevran. She could see the faint reflection of moonlight against his dark irises, indicating that he had not yet fallen asleep.

"Zevran?"

"Yes, my little lemon?"

"Can you show me a monkey when we go to Denerim's market?" she breathed, wondering at the oddly pensive expression on the elf's face as he stared up at the broken ceiling.

The melancholy vanished in an instant and Zevran shot her a dazzling grin, teeth very white against the darkness.

"May I ask why,  _mi corazon_?"

"Alistair told me about them," Flora replied in a conspiratorial whisper. "I've never seen one."

Some part of Alistair's subconscious detected the utterance of his name; he mumbled something incoherent against Flora's neck and slid a thigh over hers. She clasped her brother-warden's calloused fingers more tightly, clutching his hand to her chest.

"I will endeavour to find you a monkey once we arrive then,  _mi reina,"_ the elf murmured, the corner of his mouth twisting oddly.

"Yes, please. 'Night."

"Goodnight,  _nena."_

"Don't let the weever fish bite."

"Hm, sounds rather  _exciting_."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol what better way to celebrate almost 200 chapters than by accidentally summoning a desire demon through shagging on an ancient Tevinter altar? Typical! Poor Alistair is never going to live this down, haha.
> 
> The monkey conversation was a late addition – I realised that actually, Flora wouldn't have a clue what a monkey was! They aren't exactly native to Ferelden, and she wouldn't have come across them in any books.
> 
> ALMOST IN DENERIM! Loghain – and Howe's – home turf. Poor Zevran, unrequited love is a bitch! we've all been there lol.


	200. The Final Approach To Denerim

The next morning dawned fresh and bright, the night's storm clouds blown westwards to reveal a flawless expanse of blue sky. Since they were now a day behind schedule and running low on food; Leliana roused herself early and went to see what she could scavenge for breakfast in the surrounding marshland.

The bard returned triumphant with both pheasant and eggs, waking the others with her loud prayer of gratitude to the Maker. Teagan was the first to muster himself, rubbing warmth into stiffened limbs as he went to retrieve some wood for a fire.

Flora woke up sprawled on top of Alistair's chest, his calloused palm resting possessively on the small of her back. Yawning and extracting herself, she retied the leather strapping around her knee and went to help Teagan collect some kindling.

To her relief, her stomach appeared to be relatively placid. Flora felt somewhat comforted by this, until she realised that these instances came as a relief because they were now a distinct minority – most mornings she woke with a curdling belly and an overwhelming urge to retch.

_We have to consider the possibility that you might be with child._

Wynne's voice from two mornings prior echoed unwanted in her ear. Flora deployed her usual tactic, which was to summon the memory of the Grey Warden beside the campfire at Ostagar. Concentrating hard on the man's claim that he could sleep his way around the lay sisters without worrying about spawning multiple brats, Flora willed his boastful voice to drown out the senior enchanter's omen of doom.

They broke their fast with pheasant's eggs, saving the meat for later that day. Alistair, still in mild disbelief over the events of the previous evening, was twitchy and irritable. He ate his eggs in record time and went to tend to the horses, checking that they had also been fed and watered. Oghren, who had apparently fallen asleep while raiding the saddle bags for ale, was slumped snoring in a corner.

The others heard the bastard prince talking to the Beast, voice low and soothing as he checked the soundness of the horse's legs. The creature gave a little whicker of affection, nudging its muzzle against Alistair's shoulder.

"It seems your brother-warden is in ill-temper this morning," Leliana said to Flora, who was healing a spot on her chin while gazing at her reflection in a cooking pot. "Is it because he is not looking forward to the prospect of Denerim?"

Flora opened her mouth to reply, and then felt a wave of nausea lap at the walls of her stomach. Leliana glanced over, watching the young healer turn distinctly green around the gills.

"'Scuse me," mumbled Flora in response, scrambling to her feet and almost losing her balance. The world spun dizzyingly around her for a moment; when the pale square of the crumbled doorway caught her eye, she fixed her stare on it and stumbled off. Alistair, attention caught by the clatter of her dropped bowl on the tile, stuck his head out from the horses' antechamber. Assuming that this was the result of inhaling the Blight from Teagan's wound; he immediately strode to his sister-warden and took her arm.

"Come on, my dear. Let's take this outside."

"Watch out for the traps," Leliana called, then flashed a little smile across at the rest of the company.

"I didn't see her drink that much last night. Did she take some of the dwarf's mead? That stuff is toxic."

Nobody responded to the bard's lighthearted statement, but Leliana's sharp eyes intercepted a significant glance between Bann Teagan and Wynne.

"Do we have any confirmation yet?" Eamon's brother asked bluntly, and the senior enchanter let out a small sigh.

"At this stage, there's little evidence to go on. She believes both nausea and the cessation of her bleeds to be a consequence of becoming a Warden; which is admittedly a logical assumption."

Leliana's head was turning back and forth between noble and mage, but the lay sister had enough awareness to remain silent.

"What about her…?"

Teagan, as a confirmed bachelor, had less experience in this particular area than his brother. He made a vague gesture towards his stomach, and Leliana dropped her fork with a clatter as realisation dawned.

"If the conception did happen during our return to Ostagar, then it would be- " Wynne did some quick calculations, mouthing to herself. "Nine weeks. Yes, it should be visible, though she is slight in build."

"I saw  _mi sirenita_ disrobed last night," Zevran piped up, and behind the surface leer, his eyes were dark and serious. "There is – something there. And the shape of it is clearly not caused by too much porridge. Her bosom is also a fraction larger."

Leliana shot Zevran the requisite glare, her mind working rapidly behind the cool exterior.

"This is no time for your lechery, Antivan."

The elf looked defensive, shrugging a shoulder.

"On the contrary, it appears as though the size of my lily's bosom is a matter of public interest," he countered, eyebrows rising.

Wynne had been doing some further rapid addition in her head, a shadow falling over her face.

"She wouldn't be due until Kingsway," the senior enchanter said at last, her lips pulled grim and tight. "Much too late for us to delay in combating the Blight. One way or another, this will all be over in the next handful of months. There's… always a chance it could come  _unstuck_."

Teagan passed a hand over his face, pulling fretfully at the two days of growth on his chin.

"When she  _does_  come to realise," he said finally, voice measured. "Will she continue the fight? I remember that Isolde shut herself away in a chamber for months during her own pregnancy. She had Eamon waiting on her hand and foot; I believe she barely moved."

" _Mi florita_ is not a noblewoman – well, she technically  _is,_ but she was not raised that way," Zevran amended, keeping his voice low and his eyes fixed on the doorway. "Somehow I doubt that the good ladies of Herring lie around all day, their feet up, when they are with child. I think she will do whatever she needs to do, whatever condition she is in."

Just then Flora crashed her way back inside, face alight with excitement.

"Seagulls!" she bellowed, shattering the sombre atmosphere. "I can see  _seagulls!"_

"Look out for the- " Leliana started, then watched in resignation as Flora charged with joyful ignorance straight into the bard's rope trap.

After un-entangling their young healer, the company set off once again into the waterlogged marshes. The sky was overcast but the rain seemed to be restraining itself; perhaps embarrassed at its excesses during the previous night. The trail they were following had been flooded by brackish water and displaced mud; but between the Tevinter tower at their backs and the village to the north, it was fairly easy to navigate.

More difficult a task was determining which areas of the waterlogged ground were safe to lead their horses on. With the path flooded, they were relying on eyes alone to determine what was solid and what was swamp. Flora, who was the slightest and leading no horse, advanced several yards ahead to test the soundness of the terrain. In places, the flooded marsh was deep enough to wash over the top of her boots; she ended up rolling her breeches up over her knees in an effort to save them from the muddy water.

After several hours the terrain began to flatten, the rolling marshes evening out into grassland. Ferelden's capital was located at the tip of a large saltwater estuary, nestled within a shallow basin on the eastern plains. Denerim had once been a tiny fishing village perched on the Amaranthine coast; but its entry into Thedas' annals was secured with the exploits of the settlement's most famous daughter – the prophet Andraste Herself.

Over the past few Ages, the fishing village had swelled into a thriving coastal town, and then into a city in its own right. Although Denerim could not rival Minrathous or Val Royeaux in size or wealth; it was the beating heart of Ferelden and a source of great national pride for its inhabitants. It was the centre of trade, had a great four-storey Chantry with a famous mural dating from the Blessed Age, and a sprawling market that even the great Marcher cities were envious of.

It was also near-invisible on approach, due to its sunken position within the great grassy basin. To the south, the Wardens and their company could see the old Tevinter highway known as the West Road, which meandered steadily for miles until it reached Lake Calenhad.

This was the route that the other party had taken; Teagan had received a message from his elder brother earlier that morning saying that they had safely arrived in Denerim, and were lodged within the Gnawed Noble tavern. A second message arriving several hours later added that both Cousland brothers had entered separately and under concealment, in case the gate guards were in the employ of Arl Howe.

Wynne called for the company to halt beside a small copse of trees; the city itself lying just out of sight in the basin ahead. They drew the horses around the senior enchanter as she rummaged in her saddlebag, muttering to herself in irritation as several notebooks fell to the grass. As Zevran slithered off the back of his saddle to retrieve them, the old mage spread out a yellowed map of the city over the back of her obliging horse's neck. Above them, the gulls wheeled and called out to one another; their plaintive, throaty cries warbling through the air.

"Denerim is surrounded by either walls, water or cliffs – see the Royal District, here," Wynne said briskly, pointing out the south-western corner of the map. "It's nearly impossible to enter the city without using one of the gates. The main gate is to the north-west, but there are smaller gates positioned along the walls."

Teagan glanced across at Alistair, knowing that Wynne's mention of the Royal District had been deliberate. Instead of flinching, Alistair cleared his throat, expression neutral.

"Couldn't we find a boat from somewhere and enter through the docks?" he suggested, gesturing towards the cluster of inked jetties bristling from the city's eastern districts.

"There'll be guards patrolling the docks," interjected Zevran, as Teagan gave a slight nod of confirmation. "Howe, like all traitors, is in a state of constant paranoia. I'd be surprised if he did not have his own men scouting every possible entrance."

"If Eamon has entered without impediment, we can assume that Teagan will also go unhindered," Wynne said, as the bann gave a slight nod. "And I – an old lady – have the dubious fortune of being near invisible to men anyway."

Oghren would enter in the guise of a dwarven trader, joining one of the trade caravans that frequently entered the city. Leliana assumed an expression of piety, going on to explain that she would resume her role as a Chantry lay-sister to gain access to the city. Wynne smiled in approval, her eyes moving across to the male Warden.

"Alistair, your status warrants you some measure of protection," continued the senior enchanter, her pale blue eyes flicking upwards briefly to meet the bastard prince's steady hazel gaze. "Although the people won't know who you are, they'll see the resemblance to Maric and whispers will start."

This did draw a small grimace from Alistair, though he tried to mask his disquiet with a flippant comment about having his autograph quill to hand.

"Still, it's best we avoid drawing attention  _too_  early. If you wear the Templar armour in your pack, you can enter with Leliana on the premise of escorting her."

Wynne's gaze then narrowed as she looked pointedly across at Flora.

"Florence, since  _you_ are the main problem here, I'm surprised that you are not listening more closely. Have you come up with any ideas as to how you can enter the city? You can be assured that Howe's men will be on the lookout for a Cousland girl."

The senior enchanter was entirely correct; Flora was not listening. The wind had suddenly shifted direction, and was now blowing westwards with increased zeal. With it came the scent of salt and seaweed, a distinct, piquant smell of the sea.

Such potency could only indicate proximity, and Flora's head swivelled as though pulled taut on a string. Dropping her staff and pack unceremoniously, she turned her face to the east and darted between the trees; ignoring Wynne's reprimand and Alistair's half-uttered question.

_At last, at last._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol Alistair woke up in a bad mood after remembering that he accidentally summoned a desire demon through shagging on an old altar, ooooops!
> 
> Harvestmere is a bit like October, i.e. harvest season.
> 
> I think there's an interesting parallel here between noble and peasant woman pregnancies – where Flora's Herring mentality will be in her favour. Zevran is right about Herring women, they work throughout their pregnancies almost up until labour – so Flora, when she does finally stop being in denial about her condition (and she will realise it before the final showdown), is going to keep… doing what she has to do. Incidentally, although I've said that, the badass Isabella of Spain (a queen regnant from the late 15th century) had a special suit of armour made to encase her pregnancy bump so she could direct her troops on the battlefield. YESSSS ROLE MODEL.
> 
> List of people who now know that Flora is pregnant: Eamon, Teagan, Leonas, Morrigan, Wynne, Zevran, and now Leliana.
> 
> List of people who are still fucking oblivious!: Alistair, Flora
> 
> Next time: FLORA REUNITES WITH THE SEA. Lol I definitely feel her on this … I grew up by the sea and now I live in London, I'm SO FAR AWAY FROM IT. Whenever I go home to the coast it's like this huge swell of relief and familiarity and a sense of belonging, kind of – haha I'll stop rambling now. And I get to see the sea every few months, Flora hasn't seen it for nearly five years!


	201. Denerim

Flora's knee throbbed as she clambered up the grassy slope, avoiding the emerging roots that sought to snare her feet. Overhead, the gulls cried out a loud portent of her arrival while the acrid tang of salt prickled on her tongue; Flora could feel the hairs on her arms slowly rising upwards as she neared the top of the low rise. Her heart was crashing almost painfully in her chest as she came to an abrupt halt at the top of the hill, clutching a nearby trunk to arrest her movement.

Below her there was a gentle descent of grey pebbles with their edges smoothed to roundness, speckled with driftwood and clumps of seaweed. This led to a narrow swathe of sand, left rippled and damp by the retreating tide, a dark gold no-man's territory between land and water.

Yet Flora's eyes were not on shore or sand, her gaze fixing immediately on the immeasurable presence that lay like silvered glass beyond the exposed beach. It did not matter that it was the Amaranthine Ocean and not the northern coast; it was still the  _sea,_ a linchpin of her childhood that she had not seen for nearly half a decade, the anchor of Herring a constant, unseen presence as she walked Ferelden's inland roads. Four years of her life had been spent climbing onto the Circle tower roof to gain a fleeting glimpse of the distant coast; and now it was spread out freely before her, in all its incomprehensible vastness. The miles, years and circumstances parting them had now been reduced to just over two dozen yards.

Flora could hear her name drifting through the trees, her companions' voices high and querying, but she was already heeding a far more potent summons. Sliding down the bank of pebbles on her rear, starting a small cascade in her wake, she began to run across the damp sand. Remnants of the retreating tide splashed up around her boots and a clump of seaweed somehow tangled itself around her ankle. Her knee was letting out sporadic yelps of discomfort, failing to draw her attention for even a heartbeat.

Then suddenly Flora was in the churning surf, the sea foam surging up joyfully around her boots. She fell forward onto her hands and knees, fingers sinking into the sand as she inhaled reflexively at the coldness. As the water slunk back in thrall to the tide, Flora's shirt was pulled from her breeches; one of her boots wedged itself in the damp mud. Putting down a palm, she felt something hard-shelled skitter away from her over the sand.

Flora sat back on her rear, submerged up to the tops of her knees in foam and water. As the breeze sent a spray of droplets into her face, she could feel her damp hair unravelling down her back. Quite suddenly, she realised that tears were rolling freely down her cheeks, adding to the saltwater taste on her tongue.

Alistair, who had been hovering at the edge of the beach uncertainly with the others, responded instinctually to his sister-warden's apparent distress.

Shoving the reins of both Bryland and the Beast into Teagan's hand, the bastard prince strode forward into the surf, grimacing as the gently lapping waves soaked through the fabric of his breeches. Bending down to retrieve Flora's boot from where it was half-buried in the sand, he started to crouch beside her. Quite suddenly, a slap of salty water was flung up into his face and he recoiled with a squawk.

" _Maker's Breath,_ that's colder than the Holy Divine's…. Well, it's  _really cold."_

Grimacing and wiping the brine from his eyes, Alistair reached down to put a hand on his sister-warden's shoulder. His exclamation had drawn her attention and she was staring up at him, momentarily quieted.

"Are you alright, my dear?"

His concern was enough to set Flora off again, and fresh floods poured down her cheeks. She pointed ineffectually at the surf, babbling something incoherent. Alistair reached down and helped his sister-warden to her feet, sliding an arm around her soaked waist.

"Come on in, sweetheart, or we'll both be swept out to Par Vollen."

Striding against the pull of the retreating tide, he guided her back towards the beach, where the others were waiting patiently. Wynne, although she tried her best to look disapproving, could not stop softness from creasing the corners of her eyes.

"I'm sure that I shall react similarly when I lay eyes on my beloved Val Royeaux again," murmured Leliana, reaching out to pluck a strand of olive-green seaweed from behind Flora's ear.

Flora sniffed, curling the toes of her bare foot into the damp sand. Alistair reached down to take her head between his hands, stroking his thumbs beneath her eyes to arrest the tears as they fell. He smiled down at her, his calm, affectionate hazel gaze searching her face.

She inhaled unsteadily, the salt water drying on her cheeks. Alistair ducked his head down impulsively to kiss her mouth, careless of the presence of the others. When he withdrew, Flora had composed herself sufficient to feel faintly embarrassed about her earlier actions.

"Sorry for running off," she muttered, wringing out the hem of her shirt onto the sand. "I just- it's been a long time since I saw the sea. I'm happy to see it again."

The sun had reached its midday peak and was just beginning the slow downwards slide towards the horizon. Retrieving the other horses from the copse of trees, the company resumed the last leg of their journey towards Denerim. Zevran was the first to reach the lip of the vast, shallow basin, within which lay the first and capital city of Ferelden. He brought his mount to a stop, gazing down at the shallow, sunlit valley.

The sea estuary snaked its way a mile inland, gleaming like a silver ribbon in the low afternoon sun. The walled city of Denerim lay beside it, spreading in a haphazard sprawl of wood and stone along its curving shore. From their elevated position, they could make out several of the capital's distinctive features – the tall Chantry dominating the central district, the rough wooden buildings clustered together that made up the city's alienage. Dozens of jetties and piers reached out into the estuary, catering to a whole range of ships; from tiny fishing vessels to Marcher trade galleons. At the southern end of the city, elevated on a low rise, lay the noble district. It housed a dozen large stone manors, built squat and square in the traditional Ferelden style.

Dominating the entire district was the Royal Palace; a sprawling mass of towers and ramparts that had the militaristic air of South Reach fortress, albeit many times larger. Maric had both reinforced and extended the castle after expelling Orlais and reclaiming the throne, and even at this distance, the scale of the Theirin's ancestral seat was impressive. The only building in the city that stood taller was the ancient Tevinter prison tower, Fort Drakon; a bone-white needle rearing up on the west side of the city. Beyond it lay the Alamarri Plains, ancestral homeland of the tribe that had founded Denerim.

Although they could make out no precise details, the standards raised on the flagpoles appeared to be embroidered in scarlet and gold.

"Loghain hasn't got his colours up yet, then," muttered Alistair, squinting down at the distant banners. "Who's he trying to fool?"

"Anora is still Queen and she is a Theirin – albeit only by virtue of a now-defunct ring on her finger," replied Wynne, distractedly. The senior enchanter was busy marking down crude directions for Oghren; who would be blending in with a caravan of dwarven traders that they had spotted approaching on the West Road.

"Theirin by name, Mac Tir by nature," Zevran added, tone light but eyes deadly serious. "The rumours about Anora suggest that she is no less ruthless than her father."

Flora, meanwhile, was staring down at the sprawling city, struck dumb by the sheer size of the settlement. Leliana smiled sideways at the young healer, reaching out to squeeze her fingers companiably.

"It's amazing to think that our blessed Andraste was born and raised here," she enthused, gesturing down at the gleaming estuary. "Every time I visit Denerim, I wonder if I am walking on the same earth that our prophetess trod, many ages ago."

"How many people live in the city?" asked Flora, squinting down at the tall ships anchored at the docks.

"Over one hundred thousand," replied the bard, showing off her exemplary knowledge of Ferelden's capital. "It's the biggest city in the country, although of course we have no accurate statistics from Orzammar. I can't believe the dwarven city could be any larger."

Flora found it difficult to envision the concept of  _one hundred thousand,_ and so changed the topic of conversation to one she was more comfortable with.

"I see lots of fishing boats," she offered instead, wondering what possible catches lurked within the sun-silvered estuary.

Leliana nodded, her tan face flushed with excitement.

"You should pay a visit to the fish market while we're there. Even Val Royeaux is envious of Denerim's proximity to the Amaranthine Ocean."

Flora, remembering the sour Amaranthine oysters she had tried during Arl Eamon's birthday celebration, pulled a little face.

Oghren soon departed to join the dwarven caravan, leaving the rest of the company to wait on the ridge above the north-western gate. From their elevated position, they could see the men patrolling the city walls and the guards stationed at the gate. Every group or individual passing beneath the stone ramparts was waylaid and questioned before being allowed to enter.

A few hours later, Teagan made his way on horseback towards the entrance, proudly wearing Guerrin scarlet. They watched with baited breath as he approached the guards, but he was but one of a stream of nobles that had arrived for the upcoming Landsmeet, and they allowed him access unimpeded.

The rest of the company continued to wait on the grassy ridge, eating the remnants of the cold pheasant for dinner. Wynne had continued to dismiss each of Flora's suggestions as to how she could enter the city, which were getting increasingly ludicrous.

"No, I  _don't_  think it's very feasible that Morrigan could teach you how to shape-shift into a fish within the next few hours; taking your  _extremely_ limited magical vocabulary into consideration," snapped the senior enchanter, disguising her staff amidst the saddlebags. "But, since I need to leave before sundown – a  _vulnerable_ old lady such as myself would never travel after dark – you need to come up with something soon."

Flora watched gloomily as the mage departed on horseback, disguising her excellent carriage on the saddle by hunching over and wrapping herself in a cloak. The dun mare soon joined the queue of travellers and traders waiting to access the city. Wynne soon proved to be a master of disassembly, passing unimpeded into Denerim's vast marketplace after the briefest bout of questioning.

"I can't think of  _nothing_ ," she said, beginning to anxiously chew at her thumbnail. "How can I be anything other than what I am?"

Alistair shot her an agonised look, his own lips folded tightly. It had taken half the afternoon for the senior enchanter to persuade him that it was too risky for him and Flora to travel in together, and that this combination would be exactly what Howe would tell his spies to watch for. The arl's nefarious plan for his sister-warden –  _Tranquilisation followed by a marriage of political advantage_ – was burned into his mind; throbbing there like a poisonous growth.

It had taken Zevran's timely intervention – the elf promising to accompany Flora in whatever guise she took – for Alistair to finally relent. Despite his multifarious misgivings, the bastard prince knew that the assassin would watch over Flora like the proverbial hawk. The elf had already sat in silence for some time, his cunning Antivan mind crafting several ideas for penetrating the city's defences.

Still, Alistair remained deeply unhappy as he strapped on the old Templar armour once scavenged from Flemeth's hut back in the Korcari Wilds. He emerged from behind the horse just in time to see Leliana stepping out of her leathers, revealing a battle-honed body taut with muscle.

" _Aah!"_  the young Warden grumbled, immediately clapping a hand over his eyes as Leliana strode over to the saddlebag to retrieve her Chantry robe. "You could have given me some warning."

"It's nothing that we did not see in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, remember?" purred Zevran, who never grew tired of admiring the bard's sinewy curves. "Leliana, you'll be the naughtiest lay sister in the city."

As the elf said this his face suddenly lit up with inspiration; a grin slowly curling the edge of his sensuous mouth. He darted a glance at the Orlesian bard, then down at the city docks, his dark eyes finally coming to rest on their inconvenient young Cousland.

" _Mi sirenita,_ I may have an idea," he murmured, rising elegantly to his feet as a gloomy Flora plaited strands of grass. "Leliana, may I rummage through your belongings?"

Leliana nodded, winding her Chantry beads around her neck and smoothing her robes down over her taut stomach. On the western horizon, the sun was just beginning to inch towards the marshes; the first fingers of twilight creeping across the sky.

"Alistair, we need to depart," she said, glancing down at the grimacing prince. "We should enter the city before the guard changes at sunset. Otherwise, the same men will see both you and Flora entering."

Alistair groaned, passing a hand unhappily over the top of his head. Letting Bryland's reins drop, he went to his sister-warden and crouched down; cupping her chin in his gloved hand.

Flora gazed up at him anxiously, Howe's threat writ clear on her face. Alistair's brought his mouth to hers and kissed her hard and purposeful, metallic fingers resting on the back of her neck.

"I'll see you in the city," he said, and she nodded with brow furrowed. Alistair gazed down at her for a moment, then let out a small groan and kissed her again, his lips lingering and desirous.

"Don't get  _too_  excited, Alistair," murmured Zevran, who was busy pulling various items from Leliana's saddlebag. "I imagine it would be quite uncomfortable within the constraints of that armour."

Alistair withdrew, staring across at the elf. Something unspoken passed between them; the prince's anxious hazel eyes meeting the assassin's dark stare. Zevran nodded slightly, canting his chin down towards where Flora sat cross-legged in the grass, gnawing what remained of her nails.

"Alistair, we need to go," called Leliana, in no way impeded by her long robe as she clambered atop the grey mare. "For these purposes, you should refer to me as Lay Sister Victoria."

Alistair nodded, stealing one last unhappy glance at his sister-warden before striding over to mount Bryland, also taking the Beast's reins in hand.

"I'll see you in a few hours, Flo," he said, forcing cheeriness into his tone. "It'll  _fly_  by."

Flora nodded mournfully, watching their horses pick their way down the sloping bank towards the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I love the sea! God it's weird not living alongside it anymore, I don't think I'll ever get used to being woken up by pigeons as opposed to seagulls. So the old battered Templar armour that Alistair is wearing, is the same set he got from Flemeth's hut in the Korcari Wilds after Ostagar! That was a loooong time ago now.
> 
> I love describing cities in narrative as well, and I can picture Denerim so well in my head (or my version of it anyway). I imagine it has lots of waterways and canals to transport goods from the main estuary into the city proper. As much as I loved the month at South Reach for my own development as a writer (basically making up lots of shit that wasn't in the game), and for the in-story consolidation of their faction… and for the fact that my save file ate itself and I had to start AGAIN!... it's so exciting to be progressing with the plot. TIME AND DARKSPAWN WAIT FOR NO MAN.


	202. The Counterfeit Courtesan

The sun slid further towards the horizon, the sky now a breath-taking vista of pale orange and rose madder. As twilight fell over the estuary, the first pinpricks of flame flared into life on the city walls. Denerim began to settle down for the evening, the last few fishing boats returning to the docks with the final catch of the day. Templar and lay sister made their way down to the city gate, she with head bowed in reverence and he with jaw tight beneath the helmet.

Flora lay on her stomach on the prow of the ridge, wishing her eyesight was as sharp as the elf's. She could just about make out her brother-warden and the bard as smudges of white and silver, talking to the armoured guards stationed at the main gate.

"Do you think they're falling for it?" she whispered across to Zevran, who was still rummaging through Leliana's possessions.

The elf allowed a grin of reluctant admiration to curl the corner of his mouth, placing an ornately carved wooden box on the grass.

" _Carina,_ Leliana could persuade them that she was the divine incarnation of Andraste if she wished. I have never met anyone so skilled at the art of disassembly – other than myself."

Flora continued to worry at her thumbnail with her teeth, fingers anxiously shredding the long grass around her. The shadows were lengthening by the minute, fingers of darkness creeping across the shallow estuary basin. Suddenly, she let out a little squeak of excitement.

"They're inside! The guards have let them through!"

She beamed, rising to her knees and squinting through the grassy bank down towards the walled gate. The guards stationed there were little more than indistinct silhouettes, blurred against the stone.

"See, I  _told_  you that bard and brother-warden had nothing to fear," murmured Zevran, taking a quick swig of Arl Bryland's imported brandy. "So now, my Rialto lily, it is our turn to  _penetrate_ Denerim's defences."

Flora beamed, relief suffusing her features now that Alistair had passed unhindered beneath the city walls.

"How good are you at swimming?" she asked impulsively, her eyes lighting up. "We could get caught in a fisherman's net and  _dragged_  into the city!"

Zevran shot Flora a look of mild horror, squatting on the grass beside her with an armful of Leliana's garments.

"I think not,  _nena._  Here, look at this."

He held up a corset cut from raw silk the vibrant crimson of pomegranate seeds, then a pair of beribboned and ruffled cream bloomers to match.

The look on Flora's face was almost comical in its disbelief as she eyed the undergarments, nostrils flaring.

"Did you steal those from an Orlesian brothel?" she asked dubiously and Zevran clapped his hands in delight, his rich cocoa-dark eyes sparkling.

" _Exactly._ Who would suspect an Orlesian whore of being the daughter of Ferelden's grandest teyrn? It is the most outlandish prospect."

When Flora merely stared at him with her mouth slack, Zevran continued triumphantly, waving the corset at her like a banner.

"I am well-accustomed with the  _dowager_ of the Pearl, Denerim's finest little dockside whorehouse. I will be an Antivan trader delivering the madame's latest acquisition, straight from the courts of Val Royeaux."

Flora thought for a moment, her brow crumpling as she gazed down at the provocative silk.

"I don't actually have to  _be_  a whore, do I?" she asked, slightly nervously.

The elf let out a bark of laughter, swooping forward to peck Flora in the centre of her forehead.

" _Mi florita,_ fret not. I shall do the talking; you just need to look alluring enough that they do not look too closely at your  _face_."

Flora perked up, reaching for the silk corset.

"I don't know what that means," she admitted cheerfully, clambering to her feet. "Can you help me put this on? It looks complicated."

"It would give me no small amount of pleasure,  _carina."_

The sun sunk inexorably beneath the horizon, the first stars emerging through a veil of twilight. Looking up at the mast star of the  _Peraquialus,_ Flora wondered what Duncan would think if he could see her; standing barefoot in the dew-damp grass in the silk corset and beribboned bloomers, lacy ruffles frothing around her knees like sea foam.

 _This is for a purpose,_ she thought firmly to herself.  _Loghain is in this city, Howe is here too. Wynne believes that half the guard are in either one or the other's pocket._

Zevran had retrieved some of the jewellery that the lovesick Bann of Calon had given to Leliana, wrapping a long string of pearls several times around Flora's neck before sliding an assortment of rings onto her fingers.

"These can be gifts from your wealthy Orlesian patrons," he declared gleefully, having readily embraced the role of brothel madam. "You were the most  _costly_ courtesan in Empress Celene's court, remember?"

" _Oui, I was vaiiiiiry expensive!"_ mewled Flora in a ridiculously exaggerated Orlesian accent; trying and failing to emulate Isolde Guerrin.  _"All ze men wanted me but I charge one 'undred fish per night, and zey were all vairy bad with their…_ rods _."_

Elf and mage cackled together juvenilely for a moment, before the corset slithered promptly down around Flora's waist. She peered at it glumly, hoisting the silk back around her breasts.

"It's a shame I'm not built like Leliana," she bemoaned, wondering if there was any way to tighten the raw silk garment any further. "I don't have the supporting structures necessary to keep this up."

Zevran rummaged within the bard's pack, retrieving a palmful of the lavender-filled pouches used to keep fabric fresh.

"Lift your arms,  _nena,"_ he murmured, before deftly slithering a hand down the front of the corset. "I promise that this is for a good cause, and not just to grope you. Well, not just  _solely_ to grope you."

A quick adjustment later and Flora was gazing down in awe at her newly elevated cleavage.

"How impractical," she breathed, doing an experimental swivel. "How do busty women get anything  _done?"_

"Adequate reinforcements," purred Zevran, retrieving the small wooden cosmetics box. "Now, keep your face still and don't move a muscle or you'll destroy my masterpiece."

Flora froze, going rigid as a board as the elf uncapped what appeared to be a pot of scarlet, using his little finger to daub it onto her mouth. Cursing the diminishing light, he stepped back to survey his work.

"Hm, it'll suffice. Did you know that I was raised in a whorehouse? The House-  _carina,_ you are allowed to breathe!"

Flora exhaled in a rush, her face pink.

"The  _House of Gilded Petals_ ," she mumbled, pressing her lips together to feel the strange stickiness coating them. "On the sunniest side of Antiva City. Ugh, this feels odd. I wish I ate something first."

Zevran smiled in approval, rubbing his thumb over her cheekbone to blend in more of the  _rouge._

"Well remembered,  _florita._ Don't blink."

Flora inhaled and held her breath as the elf leaned in close to her, his eyes narrowed in intense focus as he used a small brush to paint her eyelashes with a dark, vaguely fruit-scented substance. She gazed at the stripes decorating Zevran's cheeks, the ink not quite as black as it must once have been.

"Leliana has good taste," Zevran murmured, his breath warm on her face as he concentrated on coating each individual lower lash. "This is derived from blackberries, not charcoal. Keep still,  _nena_."

The elf circled each eye with the inky mixture until her pale grey irises stood out stark against the shading; not dissimilar to the Mabari with two-toned stares.

Stepping backwards Zevran paused to admire his work, nodding slightly to himself.

"I spent many mornings of my childhood watching women paint themselves in such a manner," he said softly, swivelling the lid back on the small jar. "Transformations have always fascinated me. Here, drag this backwards through your hair."

He passed Flora a fine-toothed ivory comb, returning to Leliana's saddlebag.

Flora dutifully pulled loose her braid and began to tug the comb against her hair's natural flow, teasing it gradually into a frothy, chaotic mass around her shoulders until it curled like a cluster of tangled scarlet vines in the Brecilian Forest.

Zevran nodded in approval as he turned back towards her, clutching something in his hands.

"Now for the real  _pièce de résistance_ of this particular guise."

He held it up for Flora to see: a black velvet half-mask, decorated with finely embroidered silver thread in the traditional Orlesian style.

"Keep still,  _querida._ "

Carefully, Zevran slid the pearled combs into Flora's wildly teased hair, fixing the mask in place over the upper part of her face. Stepping back, he surveyed her from head to toe, a pleased smile curling the corner of his mouth.

"Perfect. You could not look _less_  like a Fereldan teyrn's daughter if you tried, my lily. Are you comfortable?"

Flora shook her head, gloomily. She was desperate to rub her eyes and scratch her nose, the corset was squeezing her ribcage together and the thin silk provided no protection against the rapidly dropping night-time temperature.

"I don't know why anyone would want to dress up like this," she complained, recalling Satinalia costume balls held in the Circle. "I was happy being a lemon."

Together they rode down the grassy slope beneath an ink-black, star-studded sky, towards the heavily guarded north-western gate dividing the city wall. Vast cauldrons of flame blazed at regular intervals on the ramparts; even at this distance, they could see the shadows of a half-dozen guards stationed at the entrance.

"I would be a compete _joke_  in Herring if they could see me now," Flora muttered, trying not to envision her dad's disapproving stare as she sat on the saddle behind Zevran. "Do I look as strange as I feel?"

"You look like a pretty little whore,  _querida,"_ the elf replied, keeping his gaze fixed on the heavily guarded gate ahead. "Any man would pay a hefty fee to lie between your thighs for a night. I know  _I_ would."

Flora eyed the back of his head for a moment, dubiously. There was a brief pause and then the elf let out a little laugh, reaching back to pat her thigh.

"Relax,  _carina,_ nobody shall lay a finger upon you. Come on, chin up."

" _Deep breath, chin up, eyes straight,"_ she chanted, cheered.

"Hm?"

"Nothing."

Several soldiers beside the gate were chatting amongst themselves, warming their hands over a brazier and passing around a bottle of ale. There were six men in total, clad in the nondescript scarlet garb of the city guard. Above them, additional men had been stationed on the higher ramparts; little more than heavily armed silhouettes against the torchlight.

Zevran had deftly steered the horse down onto the West Road, and they were now approaching the gate as would any other traveller. As they drew nearer, Flora wondered how many of the guards were in the employ of Arl Howe. Swallowing, she forced herself to sit up straight, chin raised.

 _You're not a mage,_ she told herself sternly as Zevran slid off the saddle to lead the horse by its reins.  _You're not a Warden, or a Cousland. Or a fisherman's daughter. You are an Orlesian courtesan._

Flora had never wanted to rub her eyes so badly in her life, but she was grateful for the layer of anonymity loaned by the mask.

Zevran had assumed a figurative mask of his own, a wide and glittering smile spreading over his face as he strode towards the guards. One at a time, they abandoned the ale and brazier and turned towards the approaching pair; visibly perking with interest as they caught sight of Flora perched on the saddle.

"Halt, elf," the captain called, clearing his throat and stepping forward. "What's your business in the city?"

Zevran smiled brilliantly once again, bowing his head in impeccably feigned subservience.

"I am escorting  _Madame du Poisson_ to the Pearl," he explained, face open and earnest. "Sanga is eagerly awaiting this lovely Orlesian export."

The Pearl was well-known within Denerim for being a whorehouse with a reasonably good reputation. The captain stepped forward to eye Flora up and down, stroking his moustache.

"The lass is Orlesian, you say?"

"'Alooooooooo," said Flora obediently, trying her best. 

"We've come straight from Val Royeaux.  _La petite Madame_ was the toast of the court," Zevran continued, his eyes alight with conviction. "She has a most  _formidable_ reputation. She has  _personally_ pleasured the members of Celene's privy council!"

One lieutenant, who had a rather shameful secretive interest in Orlesian politics, also gazed up at Flora.

"Which ones?" he asked her directly, eyes boring into her own through the mask.

" _...All of zem,"_ Flora simpered, batting her lashes and hoping that her accent was relatively convincing.  _"At once."_

"All sixty-eight of them?"

" _Oui,"_ breathed Flora, doing her best to emulate Leliana while inwardly wishing that the portcullis would plummet down and squash a grinning Zevran. " _Eet was_ …  _a_ group discount.  _Two for ze price of one."_

She smiled down at the lieutenant in what she hoped was a precocious and charming manner. It must have worked; since he went pink beneath the stubble and muttered something incoherent.

"And now,  _Madame du Poisson_  is eager to showcase her talents within Denerim," purred Zevran, his voice heavy with promise. "She will be a star attraction at the Pearl, I assure you."

Flora blew a kiss in the direction of the captain, batting her eyelashes behind the black velvet mask. Her smile went slightly rigid as she realised that one of the lavender pouches boosting her cleavage was slipping.

Fortunately, the captain cleared his throat and waved them through; the guards standing to either side to allow them safe passage. Zevran bowed once more, before gripping the horse's reins and leading them triumphantly beneath the ramparts.

"My wages wouldn't stretch to the Pearl," Flora heard one guard mutter to his colleague as they passed. "I got to stick to the  _Pink Posy_."

"Ah, you'd best watch yourself," replied his companion, in ominous tones. "Fentan got somethin' nasty from the  _Posy_. Had to pay a week's coin for ointment to reduce the swelling."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Aah it was good fun to go back and edit this chapter, since the bit that I'm currently writing is all kidnap and torture and Tevinter manacles, grim grim grim… lol this chapter is so self-indulgent BUT I LOVE IT. I LOVE A GOOD DRESS-UP CHAPTER!
> 
> So I know in game that you can just waltz into Denerim with nary a problem, but I thought it would be a bit more dramatic if the Wardens and company had to sneak in – and since it's a city controlled by arch-enemies Loghain and Howe, I thought it's not too far from the realm of possibility that they'd want to be cautious and keep their heads down!
> 
> Zevran was of course raised in a whorehouse for most of his childhood, so it's all very familiar territory to him. I remember I had to do a thing for work years ago where I basically just researched Venetian courtesans for about six months and it was SO FASCINATING. Definitely chanelling a burlesquely, Lady Marmalade vibe with Flo's Orlesian whore outfit here, lol
> 
> Also Madame du Poisson = MRS FISH!


	203. The Pearl

They passed beneath the city wall and emerged into a shadowed, sprawling marketplace with stalls closed and goods cleared for the night. Torches blazed from brackets on the walls; voices, music and laughter spilled from the open doors of several nearby taverns. Flora was struck by the size of the square, which was several times larger than even the one in Redcliffe. The thought of it bustling with crowds, produce spread out for sale on every visible surface, was somewhat intimidating. Suddenly, Flora was grateful that they had arrived at night, when the city streets were quiet and not thronged with people.

Zevran led the horse through the market, then down a twisting side-alley lined on both sides with smithies. Here, it was darker and quieter, the craftsmen having already retired to their own dwellings above the shopfronts.

Only once they had left the large square far behind did he speak, patting her bare thigh and smiling up at her.

"Well done,  _Madame du Poisson._ A group discount. I  _adore_  it."

Flora gazed down at him, adjusting the position of the lavender pouch in her corset. They could still hear the raucous laughter drifting from the taverns in the distance.

"Your idea was good," she replied grudgingly, recalling how the guards had been so preoccupied with her scantily-clad body that they had not looked too closely at her masked face. "Are we really going to the Pearl?"

"Yes,  _nena._ You requested discretion for our arrival in the city, and what dwelling could be more discreet than a  _whorehouse?_  I know the proprietor well, and she will gladly lend us a room for a few nights. Long enough to test the waters, at least."

Flora nodded, listening to the elf's explanation as they crossed over a small stone bridge; traversing one of the many waterways that branched throughout the city. These channels splintered out from the main saltwater estuary, allowing for the easy transportation of goods from docks to market.

They entered what appeared to be a residential district, the houses several stories tall and clustered together. Many were leaning against their neighbour, as though propped up for mutual support. Flora was awed at the sheer size of the Ferelden capital – they had been travelling for over ten minutes and were still in the same city district.

_If you walked for ten minutes in Herring, you could cross the village five times,_ she thought to herself, feeling a pang of homesickness.

Just then, as Zevran led the horse through a small square containing several wilted trees and a water cistern, Flora spotted something on a nearby wall. It appeared to be a square of parchment, daubed in black-inked words; she thought she recognised part of the title.

"Wait," she called to Zevran, and he obligingly paused, clutching the reins and stroking the horse's soft muzzle with slender fingers.

"What is it,  _querida?"_

Leaning out from the saddle, Flora stared at the poster affixed on the stone wall.

"Grey Wardens," she read, confirming her suspicions. "F-r-fri- _friends_ of the Grey Wardens…"

The style of calligraphy used on the poster was difficult for her to interpret, and so she begged Zevran for assistance. The elf gazed at the parchment, his brow creasing faintly.

" _Don't believe Loghain's lies! Friends of the Grey Wardens assemble. The hidden pearl holds the key to resistance. The griffons will rise again,"_ he read in his heavily inflected accent, one white-blond eyebrow slowly rising. "Hm. Curious."

Flora stared down at him, perplexed. The elf thought for a moment, then reached out to tear the poster from the wall. Folding the square of parchment into quarters, he tucked it away within his tunic.

"I will make some enquiries _,"_ he murmured, patting her strapped knee gently. "Ready to continue,  _Madame du Poisson?"_

She nodded, and Zevran began to lead the horse once more down cobbled alleyways that snaked between crowded, lopsided dwellings. They crossed over another waterway, filled with empty boats tethered to stakes driven deep into the mud.

"This horrible corset is strangling my  _entire body,_ " Flora whispered to the elf as they emerged out onto the docks, the reflected moonlight gleaming off the still surface of the water. "I don't know how Leliana tolerates it."

The shallower west end of the marina was home to smaller vessels, fishing boats and trade barges, their contents covered with cloth and strapped down. At the east end, half a dozen larger galleons were moored closer to the mouth of the estuary. Flora recognised some of their limp flags as Marcher banners, having watched the tall ships traversing the Waking Sea for years.

There was movement on the docks; a handful of night fishermen were dredging for crabs in the stagnant water at the shallow end of the marina. Flora's head spun longingly towards them as Zevran led her past; desperate to ask about the catch but unsure if  _Madame du Poisson_ would deign to speak with humble fishermen.

They came to a stop outside a narrow, three storey wooden structure perched on the edge of the dock. It looked innocuous enough, front door closed tight and windows shuttered against the gloom. A heavily varnished wooden sign hung from the first floor, bearing a single inlaid enamel pearl instead of any written legend. Heavy lanterns hung to either side of the door, casting shifting pools of light over the stone. A moment later, a slender stable-boy emerged from the shadows at the side of the building, keeping eyes averted discretely as he reached to take the reins from Zevran.

"My dad found a pearl inside an oyster once," Flora said conversationally, hooking her leg up in preparation to dismount. "Some  _crabpot_  robbed it from him, though."

The fleet-footed Zevran was at her side in an instant, reaching up to help her slither down from the saddle.

"Careful,  _nena,"_ he murmured, eyeing the treacherous drop to the cobbles below. "We don't want you to fall in your  _condi-…_  well. You aren't the most  _graceful_ little flower."

"The  _Pearl_ is a funny name for a brothel," Flora continued blithely as the stable-lad led away the horse into the gloom. "I wonder why it's called that?"

Zevran cleared his throat, shouldering his own pack before handing Flora hers.

"It's the nickname for… ah. Part of the  _female anatomy_."

Coming to a halt Flora gazed at him, visibly confused. The elf could almost see the wheels turning in her mind as she puzzled over the possible connotations.

"Eyeball?" she ventured after a moment, with a little shrug.

Zevran snorted, then leaned across to whisper delicately in Flora's ear, brushing affectionate fingers over her hair.

Flora's mouth dropped open and she gaped at him, eyes wide.

"No! _"_

"Yes,  _cara."_

" _Really?"_

"I swear on Andraste's corset ribbons."

The foyer of the whorehouse was dimly lit, and had a distinctly nautical theme. Rope netting hung from the ceiling, decorated with trailing vines and flowers clearly imported from more exotic climes. A rusting anchor, six foot and barnacle-encrusted, was used to suspend an elegantly crafted price list. Even the worn velvet chaises and carved benches appeared to have been dredged up from some half-submerged shipwreck, their upholstery long faded. The entire room was lit with a series of ship's lanterns, glass blurred and warped with age. They hung from the ceiling and rested on every available surface; casting a soft, mutable glow over the faded room.

A slender elven girl, not far from Flora's age, was singing a pretty melody in her native tongue in one corner; while a pair of attentive nobles were perched on a nearby bench. Two other men, clad in the garb of wealthy merchants, were busy perusing the price list.

"What does  _'surprise me'_ mean?" one asked the other, dubiously. His companion shrugged, distracted by the new arrivals.

A yawning Nevarran woman with skin the colour of steeped tea was leaning behind a counter, framed by two vases filled with flowers. She wore a ruffled peasant's blouse, cut low at the front to reveal an impressive cleavage.

Zevran patted Flora's shoulder reassuringly before sidling across to the Nevarran, leaning his elbows on the polished wood. The young woman was soon blushing and agreeing to show Zevran through to Sanga's office.

"Stay here,  _querida,"_ he murmured to Flora, who was shifting from foot to foot hungrily. "I won't be long."

On a nearby pedestal rested a silver bowl in the shape of a ship's keel, filled to the brim with sugared fruits. Flora was desperate to stuff her face with candied orange peel, but was uncomfortably aware of the red stickiness coating her lips. She didn't know whether it was even  _possible_ to eat with a painted mouth. Her right eye was itching and she was trying to decide whether to risk scratching it.

"How much, girl?"

Flora's head shot around to locate the source of the question. A middle aged man sporting forest-green velvet and an air of haughtiness was eyeing her like a ripe peach at market, fingers pulling thoughtfully at a dark beard. For a moment she froze, forgetting whether she was supposed to be Orlesian or Antivan; or whether she was even still meant to keep up the guise now that they had successfully infiltrated the city.

"Um," she said, mentally flailing.  _"One 'undred feesh."_

Both the man and Flora herself looked surprised at the mangled accent that emerged from between her crimson lips, which seemed to be Navarre by way of Val Royeaux.

"One hundred… fish?" asked the noble, dubiously.

Flora nodded, miserably.

To her vast relief, Zevran emerged from behind the counter, dangling a weighty key from a pink silk ribbon.

Seeing through the velvet mask to Flora's agonised expression, the elf immediately surmised the situation. Ignoring the noble, he strode straight across the weathered floorboards and slung his arm around her shoulders.

"The price is paid, my beauty," he murmured, curling a strand of her artificially teased hair around his finger. "Shall we retire to a room?"

"You paid  _one hundred fish_ for this girl?" the noble demanded, his bristling eyebrows rising in incredulity.

Zevran glanced between the hovering man and Flora's imploring stare; before giving a solemn nod.

"Aye, one hundred fish," he confirmed, stroking his fingers light and possessive over her earlobe. "I even threw in a few crabs. Now,  _nena_ , let's find somewhere more private and I can show you the  _eel_  I've brought with me."

Flora had to bite her tongue to stop herself from laughing, instead plunging her fingers into the bowl of dried fruit and stuffing a handful into her mouth.

Zevran steered her across the floorboards, towards a rear passageway hidden by a thick velvet curtain. Two solidly built men stood stoically at either side of the entrance, bare-chested and arms crossed.

After admiring the brawny musculature on display, the elf held up the dangling key. The man on the right gave a slight nod and Zevran ducked behind the curtain, pulling Flora in his wake.

The rear passage was narrow and shadowed, lit only in sporadic patches by suspended lanterns. Wooden doors branched off on either side, some solid and impenetrable and others decorated with a single glass porthole.

"Why do some doors have windows in them?" asked Flora, catching a glimpse of a naked man sprawled on a four poster bed. A slender elven youth was in the process of approaching, holding something dark and leathery in his hand.

Zevran, intimate with the anatomy of whorehouses, guided her towards a narrow flight of steps.

"To observe new customers, make sure that they do not overstep the bounds of their contract," he replied, winking at a rosy-cheeked dwarven maid who passed them while leading a nervous noblewoman by the hand. "Familiar clients gain the privilege of privacy – unless, of course, they desire otherwise. Many rooms are set up with secret viewing annexes, for those who like to watch, or  _be_  watched."

An open doorway, the view beyond shaded by a fall of sea-glass beads, spilled out music and laughter. The clink of tankards echoed like an additional layer of harmony; a woman gave a deep, throaty chuckle. Zevran glanced towards the lounge for a moment, before nudging Flora towards the staircase.

"After you,  _florita,"_

The upper floor of the whorehouse was built along similar lines to its lower counterpart. The foyer had been replaced by a dimly lit lounge, where a fireplace belched perfumed smoke and every surface had been made soft and inviting.

Several of the chaises appeared to be occupied, and Zevran quickly placed slender fingers over Flora's eyes.

"Why can't I see?" she asked, allowing him to guide her down the passageway. "What are those  _noises?_ Is someone being hurt?"

" _Querida,_ some of what goes on here may be too much for a country girl from Herring," the elf murmured, steering her deftly away from a couple copulating against a wall. "Keep your eyes closed,  _nena."_

Stopping outside a wooden doorway with no porthole, Zevran kept one hand over a fidgeting Flora's eyes while sliding the key into the lock.

Nudging her into the dimly-lit room, he let the door close in their wake. The moment that he had thrust the latch home, the elf exhaled; a momentary flash of relief crossing his face. Despite his outer blasé nonchalance, Zevran had been well aware of the inherent risk of their deception. Letting go of Flora's hand, he strode over to a bottle of wine placed on a low table, pouring himself a large glass.

The room itself was medium sized, and decorated in shades of blushing rose. A large bed sat squarely in the centre of the floorboards, its cerise velvet hangings tied back with matching ribbons. A long gilt-edged mirror had been affixed to the wall adjacent to the bed; presumably so the occupants could look over and see their reflected counterparts also engaging in amorous congress. Painted shutters were drawn over a bay window, and a small hearth smoked quietly in one corner.

Downing the glass in two large gulps, Zevran turned to see that Flora was still standing in the centre of the room, her eyes dutifully shut. Unable to stop himself from smiling, he crept up stealthily behind her; tapping one shoulder so that she turned her head, before pecking the cheek inadvertently presented to him.

She opened her eyes and Zevran grinned at her, ducking into an elaborate bow.

"May I present your esteemed quarters,  _Madame du Poisson,"_ he purred, spreading his arms.  _"_ If Arl Howe's men come looking for you  _here,_  well then - I'm not an Antivan."

Flora looked around with slight trepidation, as though expecting naked dwarves to erupt cackling from the wardrobe.

Once it was established that the room was empty, she let out a long breath that she had not realised she had been holding.

"I'm still a secret?"

"Yes,  _mi sirenita."_

To the elf's great surprise, Flora proceeded to drop to her knees before him, touching her nose to the floorboards.

"Thank you," she mumbled, having not yet left behind the deference ingrained from ten years as a peasant. "For getting us inside the city safely. Well,  _me._ I know I'm a – a  _liability_."

Zevran sighed, reaching down to draw Flora gently back to her feet.

"As pleasurable as the sight of you kneeling before me is, my Rialto lily, it is unnecessary," he murmured, giving her elbow an affectionate squeeze. They were so like in height – he stood only two inches the taller – that she could look him in the eye without tilting her head.

Impulsively, Flora threw her arms around Zevran's neck and hugged him with a juvenile lack of inhibition. The elf allowed himself a single inhalation against her tousled hair before gently extracting himself.

"Now, I'm going to lock you in. Don't reply if anybody knocks," he said, adjusting the dagger strapped to his forearm. "I won't be long."

Flora shot him a look of almost comical alarm.

"What? You're  _leaving_ me?"

"Unless you want your brother-warden to spend the night in a Chantry trying to explain himself to the Templars," Zevran replied, drawing his leather hood low over his head.

Flora let out a startled squeal, gazing at him with open delight.

"You're going to fetch Alistair?"

" _Si, mi corazon._ I'd wager that he also needs to be guided through this place with his eyes shut."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So I know that the Pearl is located on the docks for all the passing sailor trade, but I liked to recreate it with faded nautical glamour as a decorative theme – salt-stained furniture, glass ship's lanterns, shells scattered over random surfaces… it gives it a bit more personality!
> 
> Lol Flora doesn't know that you can eat with lipstick on (albeit not comfortably)


	204. Meeting The Pirate Queen

With a bow and a blown kiss, the assassin took his leave; the lock clicking into place in his wake. She heard the gilded knob rattle as he double- and triple- checked that the door was secured. Then he had vanished into the depths of the whorehouse, leaving Flora alone in the rose-hued chamber.

She removed the Orlesian mask and dropped it on the rug, rubbing furiously at her itching eyes. When she brought her fingers away, they were coated in the inky black substance that had previously decorated her lashes. Beyond the point of caring, Flora bounced down onto the oversized bed and began to eat the last of the candied fruit.

Suddenly, from one corner of the room, there came a loud and unmistakable moan of desire.

Flora shot upright as though she had been scalded, head spinning around to locate the source of the intrusive sound. Snatching up the only weapon to hand – an ornate candlestick – she crept towards the wall.

Yanking aside the velvet bed curtain she thrust the candlestick forward; only to encounter nothing but the shadows and a terrified spider.

Confused, Flora stared down at the empty space between bed and wall. The next moment, she heard a man's grunt of satisfaction; followed by the percussive rhythm of a pelvis moving against a pallet mattress.

She looked over her shoulder at the bed, which lay still and empty. Scowling but determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, Flora dropped to hands and knees and squinted at the base of the wall.

Sure enough, just above the skirting board was a bronze grid, set into the wall. Flora recognised it as a heating vent, allowing warm air from the hearth to circulate between the different rooms; several of them could be found in the most coveted bedchambers in the Circle Tower.

Flora put her ear to the metal, and heard the distinctive sound of a woman giving a low, husky chuckle. Satisfied that she had discerned the source of the noises; Flora returned upright and sat back on the bed.

The cedar-scented air was pleasant but muggy, and she soon felt her limbs growing inevitably heavy. Before long Flora had fallen asleep, sprawled back on the rose-dyed merino blankets.

She was woken some time later by the click of lock, and a Templar appearing menacingly in the doorway.

Flora let out a reflexive squawk of alarm, sitting bolt upright. The Templar, seeing a skimpily dressed, wild haired creature with smeared lips and hollowed black eyes rear up from the bed, also issued a yelp of alarm.

"Hush, or you'll disturb the Pearl's clientele," chided Leliana, an incongruous sight in her Chantry robes as she sidled past the gaping Templar. "Our aim is to draw the _least_ amount of attention to ourselves, no?"

Alistair took off his helmet and gaped at Flora in astonishment.

"Maker's Breath," he exhaled, placing the helm on a side table. "What's on your  _face?!"_

Flora turned to gaze at her reflection in the mirror. The scarlet on her lips had smeared across the sides of her mouth, and careless fingers had turned her eyes into two great smudges. Despite herself she giggled, turning back to Alistair.

"Zevran turned me into  _Madame du Poisson,_ the famous Orlesian courtesan," she informed her brother-warden, earnestly. "It was a very clever disguise. My price is one hundred fish."

"Well, I'm not sure about the gunk on your face," replied Alistair, unstrapping his breastplate. "But I wouldn't be…  _devastated_ if, say, you wanted to wear that outfit again."

Flora looked down at the crimson corset and matching ruffled knickers, then gazed back up at her brother-warden in surprise. He kept sneaking little glances at her as he removed each piece of the Templar armour, a slight flush colouring his cheeks.

" _Really?"_

"I'm only human, Flo," Alistair muttered darkly, taking far longer than usual to unbuckle his belt as he tried not to stare at her corset-enhanced cleavage.

Flora peered at him curiously for a few moments more, before crossing to the jug and ewer on a nearby dresser. Pouring out a quantity of water, she set about scrubbing her face free of Leliana's smeared cosmetics.

"I wager this place is shocking for you, lay sister Leliana," teased Zevran from the doorway, twirling the key around his finger on its long silken ribbon. "Will you spend half the night praying for the souls of the reprobate sinners surrounding us?"

Leliana shook her head with a little laugh, nostrils flaring. With a slightly pitying expression, she watched Flora remove the artificial padding from her corset and show it to Alistair, who looked duly fascinated.

"Actually, I used to work in a similar establishment in Orlais. Serving  _tea,"_ she clarified, as Zevran's eyes lit up. "I have no issue with the services provided by those working here. All are equally loved by the Maker, whether prostitute or prince."

The elf smirked, lounging in the doorframe and folding his arms across his chest; watching as Alistair exchanged cumbersome Templar armour for cambric tunic and breeches. Flora had borrowed one of Alistair's shirts and was wearing it over the Orlesian corset. She had knotted her hair on top of her head in a vague attempt to tame its teased wildness.

"Why is the bed so big?" she asked suddenly, eyeing the near six-foot width frame.

"It's built for Qunari?" offered Alistair gamely, unsure whether he meant it as a joke or as a genuine suggestion. On the way up to the pink bedchamber, they had run into a giggling, blindfolded nobleman being led down the corridor by a male dwarf in a fetching primrose gown. After seeing this, Alistair decided not to dismiss any possibility too readily.

Zevran snorted, shaking his head with a supercilious smile.

"It is designed for three people,  _querida,"_ he purred, watching her closely from the doorway. "Or even  _four_."

Flora thought on this for a moment, then gave a little shrug and went over to adjust her hair in the mirror.

"Families often share beds in Herring," she replied blithely, quite spectacularly missing the point. "If you had two beds, you were practically  _gentry._ The day I got my own pallet to sleep on, people started calling me  _Lady Flora_."

She let out a snicker at the irony, winding a loose tendril of hair around her topknot.

Alistair groaned, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed to pull on his leather boots.

"I'm not sure that's what he meant, my dear. There's no escaping your lechery in a place like this," he complained, narrowing his eyes at the elf. "This is your natural habitat."

Zevran sauntered across the room to finger the velvet drapes hanging around the bed.

"You sound almost as sanctimonious as the senior enchanter," the Antivan murmured in a low undertone. "Don't tell me you haven't fantasised about having  _both_  of our lovely redheads at once; not with all the times you've shared a tent."

"I haven't, actually," retorted Alistair indignantly, watching his sister-warden attempt to flatten errant strands of hair back into place. "Flo is all the girl I need."

"Perhaps your fantasies involve  _just_  the two redheads, then," Zevran continued, watching as an ensuing flush slowly crept up from the collar of the bastard prince's tunic.

"I don't –  _wh_ \- what are you talking about," blustered Alistair, almost colliding with the dresser. Zevran grinned, mentally storing this knowledge away for future usage.

As Alistair continued to mumble incoherently, the elf took pity on him.

"Let us find something to eat in the downstairs lounge," he purred, watching Flora's head whip round at the prospect of food. "There's an old friend of mine that I'd like you to meet."

To Alistair's relief, the couple copulating on the chaise had retired to a bedroom. Zevran seemed to greet half of the workers by name, the elf in his element as he led the way down the upper passageway. Leliana followed, enthusing about the infamous  _Lily Doré,_ a brothel in Val Royeaux that catered to the Orlesian elite.

The Wardens followed in their wake, Alistair reluctant to let go of Flora's hand for a multitude of reasons. As they paused at the top of the stairs to allow a pair of cackling dwarves past, he squeezed her fingers, hard.

"I'm glad we're together again," he murmured in her ear, eyes moving over his sister-warden's slight frame. With his shirt falling to her knees, hair in a dishevelled braid over one shoulder and face washed clean of artifice; she could not have looked more different from her  _Madame du Poisson_ guise.

Flora smiled sideways at him, clutching his palm tightly.

"Me too."

Alistair grinned at her, proud to be holding her hand even in their current strange circumstances.

On the Pearl's lowest floor, the entertainment was still in full swing despite it being past midnight. Music filtered out from the doorway covered by a beaded curtain, accompanied by laughter and the occasional squeal. The bard swept off to inspect the perimeter of the brothel, seeking to prove Zevran's bold claim that Howe's finger would not think to settle on a lowly dockside whorehouse.

Zevran led them through into a chamber decorated in similar nautical style to the foyer; large clam shells hanging on the wood-panelled wall in place of portraits. Ships' lanterns hung from the ceiling at varying heights, casting a kaleidoscope of filtered light across the room. An elven girl leaned against a bar constructed from an overturned hull, flecks of paint still clinging to the water-stained wood.

Several patrons were gathered around velvet-draped tables, accompanied by their preferred choice of companion. Bottles of ale were clustered within easy reach; some had dedicated themselves to drinking, while others watched a matronly dwarven woman on a small platform tell increasingly bawdy jokes. A handful of guests were also indulging in a gamble; Wicked Grace being the game of choice.

It was towards one such card game that Zevran led them, his eyes alighting on a table tucked away in a dark corner. On the way he scooped up a tankard of ale from the bar, flashing a wink at the elven barmaid.

"You  _cheated!"_ came an indignant male voice, loud and outraged. "You Rivaini cat!"

The source was a man clad in a mulberry velvet tunic, rising indignantly to his feet behind the table. He appeared to be speaking to a woman with her back to the room, her only discernible feature being a shock of glossy dark curls.

"Of course I cheated, darling," replied the woman airily, as the noble's face turned puce. "We were playing  _Wicked_ Grace, no? If you're looking for honesty, I suggest you leave the whorehouse and find a Chantry."

The noble looked about to protest further as his hand slid out of sight. Leliana shifted from foot to foot, her natural chivalry prompting her to intervene. Zevran held out a hand to stop the bard, a smile curling the corners of his mouth.

"Isabela can handle herself," he murmured, in a tone that suggested long familiarity. "Watch."

The next moment, the dark-haired woman withdrew a dagger the length of her forearm from beneath the table, the blade wickedly curved and polished to a sheen. At the same time, a man emerged from the shadows with arms folded, his vest cut to reveal bulging, tattooed muscle.

The man rapidly reconsidered whatever threat he had been about to make and stalked out with scarlet cheeks, assiduously avoiding the curious stares.

"My favourite pirate," purred Zevran, sauntering towards the corner table. "It is good to see you again."

The dark-haired woman laughed without turning around, addressing her reply to the large clam nailed to the wall.

"Please, pirate  _queen._  Have you brought me a husband to replace the one that you killed?"

"The one whose death you profited so handsomely from?" Zevran retorted, quick as a whip. "No, Isabela, but I have brought you a drink, and some new faces."

"You're making friends with  _Fereldens_  now? This I  _must_ see."

Isabela turned around, her ink-black eyes focusing on them with interest. Heavy gold jewellery stood out against skin the colour of steeped tea, and a patterned headscarf was barely restraining an abundance of gleaming dark curls. Full brown breasts were displayed proudly within a low cut white tunic, and her faded leather boots rose nearly to her thighs. Rather than classical beauty, her face bore a raw and earthy sensuality.

Immediately, her eyes darted past Zevran; taking in a nervous Alistair and a distracted Flora, whose attention had been caught by a sudden waft of smoked fish.

"Are you  _sure_ you haven't brought me a new husband?" the Rivaini purred, her gaze settling on Alistair. The handsome young man was staring at the clam on the wall, manfully keeping his eyes fixed above the busty pirate's chin. "This one looks rather promising."

Zevran cackled, dark irises sparkling.

"Let me introduce you to my friends," he murmured, taking Flora's hand and nudging her forward. "This is Alistair, and this is Flora."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Isabelaaaaa! I've not actually played DA 2 properly but I went and looked up a bunch of clips from it as extra research into the character and I'm glad I did! DA2 Isabela has a lot more personality and a much better look than in Origins.
> 
> Why yes I am still going with the faded nautical glamour theme for my version of the Pearl! I love places that have a THEME. Whenever I go to Disney I spend half the time just wandering around the different zones and areas looking at the aesthetic!
> 
> Awww I'm all for sexual awakenings at the ripe old age of nearly twenty one; Alistair is discovering that he doesn't mind seeing his best friend dressed in unsuitable skimpy clothing, and that he also would quite like to see her getting to second base with Leliana (lol)


	205. Pearls, Petals and Madame Du Poisson

Alistair muttered a greeting under his breath, raising his eyes to the lounge ceiling as Isabela watched him with eyebrow quirked. The other guests of the Pearl were preoccupied with their own amusements; paying little attention to the odd little group in the corner.

Flora gave a distracted smile, wondering if she had heard Zevran correctly when he had addressed the woman as ' _pirate'._ As a child of Herring, pirates had vied with Qunari for the most frequently featured  _villains_  in village folklore. There had even been a period of time when a younger Flora had dreamt repeatedly that pirates had landed on Herring's coast and set fire to all the lobster pots.

"Hello, petal," purred Isabella, eyeing the girl with igniting interest. "And what a pretty little thing  _you_ are. Can I keep her?"

This last remark was directed to Zevran, who laughed and slid out a chair. Alistair swallowed, plucking at the collar of his tunic as the elf gestured for them to sit.

" _Down,_ Bela," Zevran instructed, ordering another round of drinks with a flick of his slender fingers. "What brings you to Denerim, anyway? The last I heard, you were terrorising the shores of Llomerryn."

"Just a spot of business," replied Isabela, draining her tankard with a series of throaty gulps.

"What  _kind_ of business, may I ask?"

"Can't a girl engage in a bit of honest commerce without being  _interrogated?"_ Isabela retorted, and then let out a throaty chuckle.

As the Rivaini cackled Flora looked up, her eyes widening. She recognised the distinctive laughter as belonging to the mysterious neighbour whose moans had disturbed Flora earlier that evening.

"Are you really a pirate?" she asked suspiciously, less cowed then Alistair by the woman's overt sexuality.

Isabela looked over at Flora, the ship's lantern light glinting from a gold stud embedded in her chin.

"Petal, I simply  _adore_  your peasant's accent," she murmured, leaning across the narrow table and twirling a strand of the redhead's hair around her finger. "It contrasts so  _beautifully_  with that fancy face. Zevran, where did you find such a little novelty?"

"The village of Herring, on the northern coast," replied the elf, smiling at Alistair's expression. "You must have sailed past it. It's almost directly across the water from Kirkwall."

Isabela narrowed her eyes, summoning an intangible nautical chart to the forefront of her mind.

"There's a nasty reef there," she murmured, slowly. "We almost got blown onto it once."

Flora beamed, forgetting about the finger still entwined in her hair and nodding excitedly.

"The Hag's Teeth," she enthused, delighted by any reference to her home, however minor. "I used to pick barnacles off those rocks."

Alistair smiled sideways at his sister-warden, glad to see her happy in any context.

Isabela's eyes moved from one to the other, curiously; then deftly extracted her finger from the loose strand of hair.

"What a coincidence."

The Rivaini and the elf struck up a conversation based around the Antivan Crows, and Zevran's defection from the guild. Isabela laughed loud and often, especially when the subject matter took a turn for the more serious. Every so often, she snuck a deliberate glance towards Alistair beneath her eyelashes; relishing every subsequent blush.

The second round of drinks arrived, along with a serving of apple slices paired with cheese. Although the servant placed the plate before Zevran, the elf proceeded to nudge it across the table towards Flora.

"Thank you!" She beamed at him, delighted.

"You are most welcome,  _mi sirenita,"_ the elf replied, squeezing her knee under the table while flashing a white-toothed smile.

Isabela's dark gaze slid curiously from Zevran to Flora, then back again.

"You know, petal, if you grew up on the Waking Sea, you might have seen  _my_  ship sailing past while you were collecting barnacles."

Flora gazed at her, eyes widening.

"You have a ship? Your  _own_  ship?"

Isabela nodded, leaning her elbows on the table and fixing the redheaded girl firmly in her sights.

"I do, sweet thing. The  _Siren's Call,_ the true love of my life."

Flora immediately looked part forlorn, and part envious.

"I've never seen a tall ship up close," she confessed, expression wistful. "Well, not a  _whole_ one. Sometimes they get washed up in Herring, once the Teeth have chewed them up and spat them out. But then they're in bits."

"Ah, but you have your own ship too,  _florita,"_ countered Zevran, his black eyes flashing with amusement. "Why don't you show our captain?"

Flora obediently rose to her feet and turned her back towards Alistair, lifting her hair away from her neck. Swallowing, her brother-warden reached out to loosen the strings at the back of her shirt, letting the canvas hang open.

Clutching the linen to her chest to prevent it from falling, Flora shuffled around to show the slender curve of her bare back; the  _Peraquialus_ freckles dotted across her shoulder blades.

Isabela leaned forward, using her finger to lightly trace the ship's pattern; lingering on each tan freckle.

"They call the  _Peraquialus_  the sailor's compass," she murmured, her tone thoughtful and more serious than it had been all evening. "The star of the bow is aligned perfectly to the east. It's invaluable for navigation."

Flora beamed, recalling that her Herring-father had once told her the same fact many years prior. Alistair took a slow gulp of ale, hoping that if he positioned the tankard at the correct angle in front of his face, it would hide the flush that had spread upwards from his neck. His cheeks felt warm and his head somewhat light; he did not think that alcohol was the sole cause.

"Well, petal," said Isabela at last, fingers now resting on the back of Flora's neck. "If you like, some evening I will show you – and your friends – the joy of my life, my beloved  _Siren's Call._ How would you like that?"

Flora let out an involuntary squeal of excitement, almost letting the shirt drop around her waist. Instead, she nudged Alistair excitedly; and he smiled back affectionately at her.

"Yes, please!"

Soon after that, Leliana came to break up the party, casting an appraising look at Isabela before strongly advising that both Wardens have an early night. The bard informed them that she had received a message from Eamon, which instructed that Teagan would be visiting them the next morning with an update on their situation.

Flora and Alistair retired to the rose-hued chamber, while Zevran and the pirate with laughing, dark eyes disappeared further along the passageway. Although it was now past midnight, the sound of soft conversation and sighs of pleasure still rang throughout the Pearl's water-stained wooden halls.

Once he and his sister-warden were safely ensconced within their bedchamber, Alistair wandered over to the shutters and pulled one open. The docks outside were quiet, moonlight reflecting from the surface of the saltwater estuary. Further down, he could see the silhouettes of the tall ships anchored in the deeper part of the harbour. Their pennants hung limp against the masts; it was a still and windless night. Despite the fact that both Loghain and Rendon Howe might be lurking somewhere within Denerim's walls; Alistair felt oddly at peace, surveying the city that his father had ruled for over twenty years.

Turning back, he saw Flora lying face down on the bed. Her feet waved in the air as she pored over  _Exotic Fish of Thedas,_ using the soft glow coming from beneath her fingernails to illuminate the page. As she read, she mouthed each word to herself; hesitating over the more complex phrases.

Alistair smiled at her, leaving one shutter open to allow a shaft of moonlight inside the room.

"What are you reading about, my dear?"

"The Denerim mackerel," replied Flora, squinting down at an inked illustration. "I don't know this word. P-E-L-A- "

Alistair frowned, crossing to the bed and glancing over her shoulder.

"It says  _pelagic,_ whatever that means. Sounds like a disease you might catch if you frequent places like this too often."

"Oh," said his sister-warden, recognising the term once it had been enunciated. "It means a fish that lives in the middle of the water. As opposed to on the bottom, or in a reef."

"You're a fount of marine-based knowledge, darling," Alistair murmured, leaning down to kiss the top of her head with familial affection.

As Flora regaled him with what she had learnt; Zevran and Isabella were secreted in the small viewing annex hidden behind the two-way mirror. A chaise had been placed there to provide a more comfortable viewing experience for its occupants.

However, not even Zevran's hand down the front of her shirt could stop Isabela from complaining.

"Surely  _this_  can't be what you brought me to see," the pirate whined, shooting the elf a reproachful look as his fingers caressed her nipple. "She's  _reading,_ and his trousers are still on. I've never been so bored."

"Patience, Bela," murmured Zevran, skilfully coaxing the dark nipple to stiffness. "It's dark, and they're alone – well,  _somewhat._  If I know them at all, it won't be long."

Isabela shot him an arch look, one eyebrow drawn up as neatly as though it were being pulled by a string.

"And how well  _do_  you know them?"

Zevran let out a little sigh, his eyes returning to the bed. Alistair had moved over to the door, checking for a third time that it was locked tightly. Flora was lying on her back with the book resting on her chest, biting absentmindedly at her thumbnail.

"Tragically," he murmured, sliding his fingers down to cup the pirate's heavy breast. " _Watching_ their intimacy is as close as I have come."

"The master of seduction falls short!" crowed Isabela, then squealed as the elf covered her mouth with a hand.

" _Ssh,_  Bela. You know sound carries in this place."

Then, when the dark-eyed Rivaini shot him a reproachful look, Zevran relented somewhat.

"Here, my pirate queen. Let me distract you while we wait."

Isabel beamed, patting her thighs to allow his fingers easier access.

Meanwhile, back in the pink chamber Flora had abandoned the fish book and was gazing at the ceiling. Although she had previously noticed the rope netting affixed to the beams, she had not spotted the adjacent dust-covered mirror and spent the next few minutes eyeing herself dubiously.

"Alistair?"

Alistair looked over from the door, fingers pausing on his shirt buttons.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Why is there a mirror on the ceiling? It's too far away to paint your face. What are you supposed to look at?"

Alistair paused a moment, a sudden hard beat of desire pulsing deep in his belly. Returning to the bed, his eyes moved over Flora as she lay sprawled on her back with a thoughtful expression.

"Are you still wearing Leliana's Orlesian stuff under that shirt?" he asked, voice thickening.

Flora rolled over and nodded, eyeing him curiously. The surface gentility of her brother-warden was visibly draining away; raw want writ clear in the hard planes and angles of his face. The expression was oddly familiar, and she tried to remember where she had seen it before.

_Cailan,_ she recalled suddenly, the memory of the dead King rising.  _When we'd killed a Darkspawn pack out on patrol at Ostagar. His face would go hard and blazing, almost feverish. Triumphant, but not yet wholly sated._

She was so lost in her reverie that she didn't notice Alistair undoing her buttons until the shirt was fully unfastened. Once the fabric of the Orlesian bodice had been revealed, he let out a soft, visceral groan of desire. Reaching out, he pressed his thumb against the small swell of breast visible above the crimson silk.

Alistair's breath caught and congealed in his throat, his fingers going slack as the blood rushed from his brain to pool elsewhere.

Flora sat up and eyed him solemnly, her grave expression at odds with the provocative silk wrappings on her body.

" _Madame du Poisson_ costs one hundred fish," she told him sternly, amused by the glazed look in her brother-warden's eyes. "There's a dock outside."

She slithered to the end of the bed and stood up, wandering towards the open shutters.

Alistair groaned, not in the mood for her teasing. He reached out to intercept Flora as she passed, gripping her wrists and pulling her onto his lap. Without hesitation he pressed his mouth to her neck, lips parting hungrily against her skin.

"You haven't paid my  _fee,"_  mumbled Flora indignantly, tilting her head as he kissed a meandering trail towards her ear. "Zevran paid one hundred fish  _and_ some crabs for me when we arrived."

" _Did_  he now," growled Alistair against Flora's neck, gripping her thighs to position her against his straining breeches. She grinned at him, her teeth very white in the darkness, and then reached up to cradle his face in her hands.

"Alistair," she whispered and he kissed her with an intensity that stole Flora's breath and left her lightheaded. His tongue sought to claim her mouth, establishing a Theirin dominance that seemed to broach the surface more and more frequently in recent weeks.

As he pulled away, eyes heavy-lidded with desire; Flora felt the unexpected bitterness of the Blight under her tongue.

_Did I just draw more of the taint from him?_ she wondered hazily, through a blur of desire.  _Am I reversing the Joining?_

_Is that why he couldn't sense the Darkspawn in the marshes?_

Alistair blinked at her, confused by her peculiar expression.

Fortunately, Flora was becoming rather adept at the art of denial. She thrust the thought to the back of her mind alongside other growing concerns; distracting both herself and Alistair by sliding off his lap and dropping to her knees before him.

She smiled up at her brother-warden, surreptitiously swallowing the taste of Blight while reaching for his breeches.

" _Yes,"_ murmured Alistair, fingers colliding with hers in his haste to undo the fastenings.

In the small annexing chamber, Isabela nudged the top of Zevran's head impatiently, leaning forward to stare through the glass.

" _Finally,"_  she breathed as the elf returned to the chaise. "They've put that Maker-damned fish book down!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Kirkwall is pretty much geographically opposite Herring (which itself is just to the west of Highever) , right across the Waking Sea estuary.
> 
> In huge contrast, I'm editing this while watching 2012… aka stupidest film in the world hahaha
> 
> Also ha ha at Zevran and Isabela settling down in the voyeur's annex to watch some hot WARDEN ON WARDEN ACTION, only to be subjected to two hours of Flora's painfully slow reading of Exotic Fish of Thedas, lol


	206. A Morning Fantasy

Isabela gazed through the mirror into the adjacent chamber, her eyes trained on the male Warden; who stood at a handful of inches over six feet. In Isabela's experience – and she had lain with her fair share of lofty men –  _the size of the manhood did not always correspond to the size of the-_

The next moment the pirate's eyes widened and she pressed her face against the glass with a sharp inhalation of excitement.

"Oh, my," she breathed, her dark eyes focusing on Alistair. "That's quite…  _something_. What's that old saying about Templars and their longswords?"

Zevran snorted, allowing his own hand to drop leisurely to his crotch. They could hear Alistair's ragged breathing; the sounds of pleasure catching in his throat as he tilted his burnished head back. Strong fingers tangled themselves in his sister-warden's hair as he savoured each clumsy pass of her lips.

"Enthusiastic, but amateurish," murmured Isabela critically, almost wishing that she had a quill and parchment to note down her suggestions. "I could show her a trick or two."

" _I_ taught you many of those tricks," retorted Zevran, his eyes focused on the teyrn's daughter as she knelt on the floorboards like a true Herring girl. It took only a small leap of the imagination to envision her kneeling before  _him_ , with head moving back and forth as her tongue explored every inch of  _his_  length. The soft, wet sounds that came from her mouth as she pleasured Alistair, were enough to test even Zevran's well-honed self-control.

The next moment, the panting prince had hauled his sister-warden to her feet. One fist roughly gripped himself as he used the other hand to pull the too-large bodice down; his pupils swollen with lust as her small breasts were exposed. Next he yanked the ruffled bloomers down around Flora's knees, reaching around to give her buttocks a firm spank with the flat of his calloused palm. The corner of his mouth twisted upwards even as his eyes darkened with desire, and he used his hand twice more in quick succession.

"Mm, that's a lovely little body," admired Isabela, shooting a wicked glance sideways at Zevran. "I wouldn't mind keeping the redhead in my cabin for some stress relief at the end of a long day."

The elf was breathing quick but controlled; his own hand in motion beneath his leathers.

"Told you it would be worth suffering through the endless conversation about fish," he murmured, smiling at her without taking his eyes from the Wardens.

Alistair had clearly issued an instruction; Flora stood before him while he leaned back on the bed, stroking himself with a loose, practised grip.

At his nod, she hesitantly began to touch herself in the same way that she had done on the desire demon's altar; one hand cupping a bare breast and the other venturing tentatively between her thighs. Alistair groaned, the motions of his own fist quickening as he watched his sister-warden fondling herself, cautiously at first but then with growing confidence.

After a few minutes he issued another command, voice thick and throaty. Flora, who had always done what she was told, obeyed dutifully; using her fingers on herself as he had instructed. Before long she was trembling, dampness gleaming between her breasts as she stood on quivering legs. The leather strap around her knee stood out in stark contrast against her pale, sweaty skin.

As Flora let out an involuntary whimper of shocked pleasure, Alistair rose to his feet and strode forward. Lifting her up in a seamless motion, he bore her back against the wall; keeping her pinned there as he angled his length between her thighs. Sinking fully inside with a single, penetrative thrust, he immediately began to roll his pelvis against her, bracing his legs. He took her hard and fast, driven solely by his baser instincts, testing the limits of his stamina.

By now Isabela had mounted Zevran's lap, aroused by the sight of the couple copulating in the next chamber. He knew from her closed eyes and dreamy expression that she was picturing herself straddling the muscular thighs of the blond Warden; which was fine by Zevran, currently imagining Flora gasping out his name as he coaxed her inexorably towards climax.

Sometime later, Isabela was slumped on the chaise beside Zevran with her curly head on his shoulder. They were both watching sleepily as the two Wardens writhed naked on the bed, showing no signs of abating their activities.

"He has impressive endurance," she murmured in reluctant admiration, eyebrows rising. "If he refines his technique, he'd be quite the desirable lover."

"That's a big  _if,"_ retorted Zevran, filled with the melancholy that often struck him after spying on the object of his desire. "It's not as though she knows any different."

The next morning, Flora woke up in a cold sweat, aware that she had been in the throes of a nightmare but unable to remember the exact details. Her heart was thudding against her ribcage and she took several deep gulps of air; taking comfort both from Alistair's fingers entwined with her own, and from the fact that her stomach seemed relatively calm. As Flora looked around the half-lit chamber, she felt a small lurch of alarm.

Weak shafts of early sunlight filtered through the open shutters, illuminating the pink bedchamber in a pale, watery glow. Everywhere Flora's eyes went seemed to be in a state of dishevelment and disarray. Her brother-warden was sprawled naked beside her on a similarly bare pallet mattress, the sheets and blankets strewn haphazardly across the bedchamber.

Part of the bed hangings had been pulled down, rose-coloured silk pooling forlornly on the floor. One of the window shutters was hanging from a single bracket, accounting for the sunlight spilling across the room. The ewer and basin, along with other personal effects on the dresser, had been swept to the floor; including an ornate candlestick that – for some reason - brought a blush to Flora's cheeks. Finally, there were handprints covering the large mirror that corresponded to the size and shape of her own palms.

Flora's mouth dropped open and she gazed, rather stupidly, at the aftermath of their prolonged lovemaking. Reaching out, she was about to shake Alistair awake; but then her eyes settled on his face and her hand stopped mid-air. Her brother-warden was sound asleep, gilded hair and olive skin backlit by the sunrise, his expression serene. Instead of waking him, she leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, her lips barely touching the skin.

After retying the strap on her knee, Flora began to scuttle around the chamber, doing her best to rectify the consequences of their over-enthusiastic coupling. She replaced the items on the dresser and wiped her palm prints from the mirror with Alistair's shirt. Balancing on the edge of the mattress, she rehung the bed curtain back onto the pole; blushing slightly as she recalled gripping the material with both fists the previous night. The loose shutter was too heavy for Flora to lift, so she carefully leaned it against the wall.

Her attention was caught by the mournful cries of a seagull; a sound that – until the previous day – she had not heard for over four years. Feeling a lump of homesickness swell in her throat, she undid the window catch and swung the frame open. The fishermen were swarming over the docks, calling out greetings to each other as they unwound the nets. Several little boats had already set off down the green-glass estuary towards the sea, bobbing into the yawning red mouth of the rising sun. When Flora inhaled, the salt air filled her lungs; the sensation more satisfying than any number of hours spent in Chantry prayer.

Finding one of Alistair's shirts and pairing it with her own breeches and boots, Flora tied her untidy hair in a loose knot on top of her head. Avoiding the creaking floorboard before the door, she opened it without a noise and crept down the corridor. The Pearl was blessedly quiet and still – though as Flora descended the steps, she overheard soft, quickly muffled laughter from behind one wooden door. Nobody challenged her as she sidled through the foyer; carefully stepping around a snoring nobleman slumped around the dwarven entertainer from the previous night.

The door had a series of locks and bolts, but Flora managed to unfasten them after some experimentation. Stepping out onto the docks, she took another deep breath of the brine-edged air.

Closing her eyes, she let herself sink into her own memory, remembering how Herring smelt, and sounded; how the northern air tasted on her tongue, like salt and bleached wood and fresh-caught fish. The recollection was so potent that when she opened her eyes, she almost expected to see the Hag's Teeth rising up from the churning grey maelstrom of the Storm Coast.

The calm green water of Denerim's estuary spread out before her came as a slight shock, and she felt an irrational throb of disappointment. Then, inwardly girding herself, Flora headed off towards where several fishermen were loading their nets into a much-patched boat.

"Blasted Ewan ain't here, Maker damn him."

"Prob'ly propping up a bar in the old town."

The cluster of men looked up as she approached the dock, their muttered conversation coming to a halt. The oldest, a man with a full salt-and-pepper beard, looked her up and down derisively.

"Yeh get lost finding yeh way back to the Pearl, lassie?"

"That patching on your washboard won't last the next storm," she replied, slipping easily into Herring vernacular. "Did you use black tar?"

"Ain't many storms in this part o' the Amaranthine," replied the next-eldest, gazing at her curiously. "But aye, I did. Yeh know aught better?"

Flora nodded, stepping deftly between them to crouch beside the hull, pressing her finger to the sticky substance.

"My dad fishes the Waking Sea," she replied, her eyes moving expertly over the patched wood. "All the boats on the Storm Coast use stone grit in their tar. Makes repairs last twice as long."

Flora could now see the collection of nets and woven baskets gathered in the bottom of the fishing boat, including a contraption attached to a hook and pulley.

"What are you hoping to catch?" she asked, a note of wistfulness in her tone.

"Baskin' sharks, if we've any luck," replied another, slinging the final lobster pot into the keel.

"Here," said the eldest, impatient to be off and sensing an opportunity. "Yeh clearly know your stuff, and our bait boy is lyin' drunk in a gutter somewhere. Want to come on our crab run? Won't be long."

Flora hesitated, knowing that she _should_  decline; that the sun was almost risen and her companions would soon be up with it. However, the pull of the sea was stronger than her reservations; and soon she was clambering over the wooden hull, heart beating almost painfully in her chest.

As one fisherman unslung the rope from the mooring post, the breeze picked up and blew Flora's hair about her ears. She beamed, unable to stop happiness from spreading visibly across her face. Allowing herself only a moment to savour the feeling of being on the boat, she sank to her knees and began to untangle the fishing lines; knowing exactly what to do to make herself useful.

While Flora was sorting out equipment in the bottom of the fishing boat; her intangible twin was in rather different circumstances.

" _Let's see this Peraquialus of yours, petal."_

_Alistair and Flora were sitting in the Pearl's downstairs lounge, just as they had done the previous evening; and for some reason, the chamber was devoid of any other patrons. Alistair could have sworn that Zevran had been there a moment ago, but now there was no-one in the shadowed room except for the Wardens, and the dark-haired Rivaini pirate._

_As she had done previously, Flora reached up to unfasten her shirt, letting it fall open to reveal her bare back._

_However, instead of tracing the pattern of the celestial ship with her finger; Isabela leaned forward and kissed the back of the girl's neck, very softly. Flora blinked in vague curiosity, but made no sound of protest. Isabela pressed another kiss just beneath her ear, whispering something incoherent._

_Flora made no reply as the Rivaini woman trailed her tongue down the hollow of the redhead's throat. She exhaled unsteadily, and Alistair noticed that his sister-warden's small nipples were stiff against the linen of her shirt. Isabela let out a throaty moan of desire in the young healer's ear, pressing her full, tan breasts against Flora's back._

_Alistair's sister-warden twisted around, her lips parting as her mouth sought out Isabela's. A moment later, their tongues were moving softly together, the rhythm coming as natural as breathing._

_Within minutes, fingers were pulling impatiently at shirt buttons; Isabela freeing her own rounded breasts before exposing Flora's smaller cleavage. They embraced for a moment, their kissing increasing in tempo and desire; and then Isabela leaned forward to seal her lips around the girl's nipple. Flora let out a whimper of helpless desire, reaching for the pirate's hand and guiding it deftly down the front of her Orlesian smalls._

_As the Rivaini's ringed fingers began to move in gentle caresses, she looked up and gazed heavy-lidded at Alistair._

" _This is your dream," Isabela purred, as Flora squirmed helplessly beneath her fingers. "What shall I do next?"_

Alistair woke with a start, naked and tangled in sweaty bedclothes. It took a few moments for his eyes to acclimatise to the weak sunlight; for some reason, the shutters across the east-facing window had not been properly closed. With a slight throb of embarrassment, Alistair realised that he had spent himself in his sleep; the flush only growing deeper when he remembered the subject material of the dream that he had been immersed in.

"Hey, Flo," he began, rolling over impulsively. "Would you ever want to- "

The mattress beside him was bare, holding a nest of uprooted sheets and devoid of his sister-warden.

Alistair frowned and sat up against the headboard, all thoughts of sapphic indulgence immediately vanished from his mind. Assuming that Flora had gone to the wash-chamber, he waited for several minutes; anxiety growing with each passing moment that she did not appear in the doorway.

When she failed to materialise after a count of two hundred, Alistair felt a cold worm of dread squirm its way into the back of his mind. Quashing it roughly, he went to retrieve his tunic and breeches, barely paying attention to the process of dressing. As he was about to leave, he spotted Flora's staff still leaning against the window seat.

In the upper passageway, Alistair ran into a grinning Zevran and a fresh-faced Leliana.

"Morning, my prince," purred the elf, his dark eyes flashing wickedly. "If you don't mind me saying, you look a little  _weary_ this morning. Did we have a strenuous night?"

"Have you seen Flo?" Alistair interrupted abruptly, in no mood for the elf's innuendo. "She's not in the room."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol why not top and tail a chapter with PORN? So the name of this chapter is named after two separate fantasies – Flora getting to channel her Herring morning routine with the fishermen, and Alistair with his continued sexual awakening- all part of my version of his 'hardening' process, aka Alistair grows up/his balls drop
> 
> I finished playing through the Pearl bit in game (my game is bugged so everyone is naked? It's so fcking funny I'm not even bothered, but it slightly takes away from dramatic tension, lol). My evidence for Isabela being impressed with Alistair's physique is that she asks the Warden if she can borrow him on a seasonal basis, haha
> 
> So I'm slightly torn about Flora's actions in this chapter – on the one hand, I think it's sweet that she's going to help out the fishermen in the same way that she did when she was a child; on the other, why would you get into a boat with a group of strangers? Either way, she's an idiot for not telling anyone where she's going!


	207. Repercussions

On hearing that their redheaded healer had absconded, Zevran's smirk slid into a scowl. The elf's dark eyes flickered past Alistair, as though Flora might be lurking behind the topless wooden figurehead halfway down the passage. Leliana reached out to put a reassuring hand on Alistair's arm, her voice soothing. She could see the strain in the bastard prince's eyes, worry carving lines in his strong jaw.

"I'm sure she's not far," the bard murmured, as Alistair shifted from foot to foot. "Have you tried in the kitchens? She's probably eating.  _Again._ I've never met a slender girl with such a gargantuan appetite."

Together, the three searched the Pearl from top to bottom. Zevran had no qualms about poking his head into various bedchambers, murmuring insincere apologies to the occupants. They ran into Bann Teagan on the lower floor, who was bringing news from Eamon about the preparations for the upcoming Landsmeet. When Alistair –who was now pale beneath his tan - told Teagan of Flora's absence; the bann joined in the search.

Having scoured the whorehouse, they spilled out onto the docks. The vast saltwater estuary spread out green and still before them; those who worked in Denerim's seaport were already bustling around. The tall ships were clustered in the deeper end of the harbour, while fishing boats and transport barges were moored in the shallows. Traders bellowed the assets of their wares, fishermen hauled nets and stray cats stalked the jetties, competing with the gulls overhead for any scraps.

"Alistair, calm down, she won't have gone far. We've established that Howe is still in Highever."

Teagan's reassurance made little headway with Alistair, whose eyes were swivelling back and forth like a nervous thoroughbred in the Redcliffe stables.

" _Anything_ could have happened to her," he hissed, fingers twisting fretfully in the hem of his shirt. "Flo's not used to cities, Uncle. She's so naïve, anyone could have taken advantage of her!"

" _Mi florita_ is perfectly capable of defending herself, Alistair," reminded Zevran, smoothing over any anxiety in his own voice. "She's not as vulnerable as you allege."

Alistair groaned; Leliana interrupted the bastard prince before he could launch into another nervous rant.

"Let's split up to cover more ground," she stated bluntly, her pale blue eyes sweeping across the docks. "Alistair, come with me to the warehouses, Zevran to the fish-market. Teagan, if you look around the jetties."

The plan agreed they split off in their various directions; agreeing to meet back up in an hour at the Pearl.

Meanwhile, Flora had been making herself invaluable in the hull of the tar-patched fishing boat; happily doing all of the tedious tasks that she had once done for her own dad. Her slender fingers deftly untangled fishing lines, sorted out bait and repaired a hole in one of the older nets with needle and thread.

As the fishermen had promised, the crabbing run was a short one; before long, they were slinging the rope back over the mooring post and bringing the boat alongside the wooden jetty. They had just finished unloading the lobster pots when there came a call across the boardwalk.

" _Flora!"_

Flora, who had just been folding the last of the nets over her knees, looked up in surprise. Teagan was striding over the jetty towards her, the fishermen scattering before the bann's velvet tunic and fine-bred accent.

She beamed up at him, only for the smile to slip from her face as she saw the anxiety writ plain across his features.

"Sorry, gentlemen," he murmured, holding out a hand to the boat. "I hope my  _daughter_ hasn't been causing you too much bother."

Although Flora did not require assistance in clambering onto the dock, she took the bann's hand anyway, somewhat bemused.

"Nah, she's been proper useful," muttered one fisherman, clearly uncomfortable in the presence of a noble. "Thanks, lassie. Yeh never said you was a  _noble_."

"I'm  _not,"_ bleated Flora, wondering why Teagan had not yet let go of her hand. "Well, not  _really_. I'm - "

"Come on, child," interrupted Teagan, guiding her gently but firmly back towards the cluster of buildings constructed on the dockside.

"Yes, Papa," replied Flora dutifully, now thoroughly confused. She supposed that there  _was_ a faint resemblance between herself and Teagan – they both had similar shades of dark red hair – but where did this put  _Madame du Poisson?_

"Thank the Maker you're alright," Teagan murmured as he steered her back into the innocuous doorway of the Pearl. Not yet officially open, the whorehouse was relatively quiet; the workers lounging on the furniture and chatting quietly to each other.

"Why wouldn't I be alright?" Flora asked in perplexion as they headed down the wooden passageway towards the stairs. "I was in a  _boat."_

Teagan, realising that he was still clutching her hand, dropped it hastily.

"We have to be cautious," he replied, following her along the upper corridor towards the pink bedchamber. "Loghain must know that you're in the city, now that Eamon and Leonas have made their presence known. Flora, just to  _warn_  you- "

Flora stopped outside the door, turning to eye him warily. Teagan let out a sigh, affording her a half-smile.

"Alistair's anger is born from worry," he murmured, as she gazed at him with mild trepidation. "Don't take it to heart. He was frightened by your absence."

"He's  _angry_ with me?!"

Flora stared at him for a moment, then grimaced. Rather tentatively, she took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

" _Maker's Breath!"_

Alistair shot across the room and enveloped her in a crashing embrace, his arms clamping down on her like a vice.

_He's not cross,_ Flora thought with relief, as a relieved Zevran blew her a kiss from beside the window. Then Alistair's voice broke into her thoughts, high and indignant.

"Flora, how  _could_ you just go off like that? On your  _own?!"_

Alistair let her go abruptly, stepping back to allow his anger more room to expand. Flora stared at him, her eyes slowly widening into round silver coins of surprise.

"I was only with the fishermen," she replied, nonplussed. "Why are you angry?"

" _Why am I-_  this is  _Howe's_ city, Flora! Have you forgotten what he intends to  _do_ to you?!"

A gloomy Flora sat down on the end of the bed as Alistair paced back and forth across the rug.

"No-oo," she replied miserably, her eyes dropping to her feet. "But Bann Teagan said that he wasn't here."

"It doesn't matter!" interrupted Alistair, his words thundering over her own. "You didn't know that. You can't just… wander around on by yourself."

"Alistair is right," chimed in Leliana and Flora hunched further in on herself, now feeling like a naughty child being reprimanded by both parents. "Florence, this isn't Herring, or the Circle. This is a  _city,_ dangerous in its own right."

Flora frowned, looking up. "What do you mean?"

Leliana let out a little sigh, looking for a moment as though she wanted to sit on the bed beside their confused young healer. However, the bard remained standing beside Alistair, her lips folded tightly together.

"You're naïve,  _ma crevette,_ through the sheltered nature of your upbringing; and you're used to the great dangers, the grand betrayals and the threat of invading armies," she murmured, her eyes drifting towards the window. "Yet there exist a thousand smaller dangers within the hearts of men; and cities tend to attract the criminal and the desperate."

"You went with those strangers in the boat without knowing who they were," Teagan added, and Flora narrowed her eyes at him. "They could have been  _anyone_ , child. Slavers work these docks too, unseen by the guards."

"They were _fishermen_ ," she mumbled belligerently; feeling so under attack that she was almost tempted to bring up her shield and block them out. "They had  _nets._ Anyway, if men are all so bad at heart, why don't we just let the Darkspawn take over and kill everyone?"

"Don't be  _juvenile,_ Florence," countered Leliana and Flora groaned, sinking back onto the bed and pulling a pillow over her face.

When she peered out from behind the stuffed cushion a few moments later, Alistair and Leliana were conversing in low tones with the bann beside the doorway. Zevran was sprawled on the bed beside her, hands tucked behind his head. Sensing her pale grey gaze, he turned his face in her direction; close enough that she could see the fine lines creasing at the corners of his eyes.

"You're a naughty girl,  _nena,"_ he murmured, shooting her a tense little smile. "We were all fretting over you."

"Everyone is cross," she replied dolefully, chewing on the end of her thumbnail. "Alistair looks like he wants to murder me."

The elf laughed, patting her cheek.

"As endearing as these adolescent dramatics are, I fear that you are mistaken. He loves you,  _carina,_ and is wholly terrified of losing you."

Flora sat up and gazed at her brother-warden. Even as he listened to Teagan, nodding absently, she could see the lingering signs of residual strain. His fingers were still clamped in tight fists, his lips tightly folded together; his brow creased in lines that added a decade to his age. She felt a throb of guilt, deep in her belly, and let out a heavy sigh.

Once the bann had left, Leliana cleared her throat, unable to stop a gleam of excitement from igniting in the back of her pale blue stare. As much as the bard tolerated the journeying and the sleeping under canvas; politicking was where her heart truly lay.

"Eamon has formally begun the process of initiating the Landsmeet," she informed them, her voice carefully controlled. "Loghain refuses to open it officially until the return of Arl Howe from Highever, which is expected to happen within the week."

Flora sat up and opened her mouth; Leliana saw her and pre-empted the question.

"Your brothers are both safely lodged within the noble district, in Eamon's own halls," the bard assured her, soothingly. "Their appearance is causing quite the stir. All of our company have found safe accommodation within the city."

"I wish we could just march up to the palace door and confront Loghain right now," muttered Alistair, frustrated both at the proximity of his arch-enemy and his own inability to act. "No, don't explain – I know why we can't. It's just… infuriating."

"So, we bide our time, then. At least Howe is out of the city," murmured Zevran, idly fingering the hilt of his blade.

"I don't want to stay in this room for a week," Flora pleaded, shooting the bard an entreating look. "It's worse than being in the Circle."

Leliana relented, flashing her a small smile.

"I suppose, as long as you draw no attention to yourself and are accompanied at all times," the bard said at last, reluctantly. "And you stay _far_  away from the noble district or the palace. Keep to the busier areas."

Flora clapped her hands together in delight, eyes lighting up.

"I want to go to the market," she said, immediately. "And try to find a  _monkey_. I still don't think they're real."

"You'll need to cover that hair, first," retorted Leliana, and the young healer put a hand to her dark red head in alarm. "It's like a Cousland banner."

After a few minutes of searching the other chambers, Zevran managed to procure a woollen cap. Together, they managed to wrestle Flora's hair into a topknot before jamming the cap over the top of her head.

"Ooh," she said, gazing at herself in the long mirror alongside the bed. "My ears stick out a lot in this hat. Hm, this glass looks odd."

"You look like a delicious young stable boy,  _mi florita_ ," said Zevran hastily, wanting to distract her before she began to inspect the mirror too closely.

"I could be Alistair's friend from when he was working for Arl Eamon," Flora chirped.

Alistair started to smile at her, before remembering that he was still in a sulk.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: One of Flora's faults is that she is very naïve and sheltered – first being brought up in Highever, then in the reclusive enclave of Herring, and finally in the Circle Tower. Even when she became a Warden, she experienced grand betrayal and high treason – not the minor, petty dangers of everyday life. So she's far more vulnerable to being scammed, overcharged for goods, and – more sinister – being lured off by BAD PEOPLE. Fortunately, she's got the best defences in Ferelden! I think that most mages should be written this way at least at first – most had been in the Circle since they were children, so going out into the world should be an intimidating prospect.
> 
> Alistair's anxiety and anger is totally warranted, in my opinion! Oh well, time to visit Denerim Market and find a monkey!


	208. The Denerim Marketplace

Once Leliana had strapped on a fifth and final dagger beneath her Chantry robes, they left the faded nautical glamour of the Pearl and ventured into the increasingly busy streets. Denerim had several waterways snaking westwards from the sea estuary; the largest of these being the Drakon River. It was this that the Wardens and their companions followed, blending with varying degrees of success amidst the crowds of the city residents.

Shops and stalls had opened their shutters, taverns were already doing roaring business and street-sellers advertised their wares in strident tones. Retainers clad in the livery of their respective masters milled about on errands, chatting to the guards and exchanging gossip with the locals. The occasional stray dog ran past, clutching some pilfered item of food between its jaws. The salt-air tang of the sea mingled with a myriad of different scents; the acrid smoke rising from a blacksmith's forge blurring with the smell of roasting meat and fresh-baked bread.

Yet a strange undercurrent ran beneath the usual bustle of the city, like rot lingering under the skin of a ripe apple. Refugees huddled in alleyways, sad-eyed and forlorn; guarding their few remaining possessions like a dragon hoarding its treasure. Tight knots of townspeople gathered on street corners and outside taverns, their conversation low and their expressions grim. The atmosphere thrummed with anxiety like an over-tightened lute string.

"Do you feel it?" Leliana murmured to Zevran in an undertone as they stood aside to let a trader's wagon pass. "The city is restless. The rumours of the Blight have become more solid than spectral."

The elf nodded, his dark eyes moving over the crowds spread before them.

"I'd wager also that Loghain's assumption of the throne sits ill with many," he murmured in quiet response. "As you said, Denerim has always been loyal to the Theirins."

The eyes of both bard and elf swung towards the rigid Alistair. The bastard prince was standing several yards away, grim-faced and clutching Flora's fingers tightly within his own. As soon as they had left the relative safety of the Pearl, he had reached out to take his sister-warden's hand; desire to see her safe overcoming his lingering frustration.

Although Flora had protested at first, the deeper they went into Denerim's heart, the more grateful she was for the warmth of Alistair's calloused palm against her own. When she and Zevran had traversed the districts the previous evening, the streets had been near-empty, with shops and taverns closed up tight.

Now, in broad daylight, the sheer scale of the city was making itself fully apparent. Flora had never heard so much  _noise_  outside of the field of battle; had never been in the presence of such a sprawling hive of people. It was so vastly different from Herring that she felt irrationally nervous, her heart knocking against her ribs in a little staccato rhythm of alarm.

Alistair felt her palm sweaty against his own, and glanced down just in time to see a flicker of doubt cross his sister-warden's face as Leliana plunged back into the crowds. Despite still being very much annoyed with her, he drew Flora closer and pressed a reassuring kiss to the top of her head.

"This is the main wayfare through the city," he muttered, trying not to meet her earnest grey gaze as she turned her face up to his. "It's always busy. The market should be more spread out."

Flora gave a little nod, and together they stepped back into the maelstrom of people; trailing in Leliana's wake as she strode ahead purposefully. Zevran followed behind, his ears constantly pricked for any hint of possible danger. Both he and the bard were alert for retainers sporting the sign of the bear or the dragon – the emblems of Howe and Mac Tir respectively.

They entered the large market square from its south-western entrance, just as a tavern disgorged what seemed like half of the Royal Army out of its doors. The sudden surge of laughing, rowdy men with beer on their breaths cut a swathe through the crowd; parting Alistair and Flora in a mass of stale-smelling bodies.

Flora recoiled as someone trod on the back of her heel, then collided with a solid tunic-clad belly. A muttered  _sorry, lad_ was followed by a loud belch directly into her ear. She stood on her toes, trying to discern Leliana's white Chantry robe or her brother-warden's tall blond head.

A dwarf barged into her with a grunt; Flora fell onto her hands and knees on the flagstones. Mud splattered over her tunic, and she snatched her fingers out of the way of another booted foot.

"Watch yourselves, clumsy oafs," she heard Zevran snarl from somewhere behind her. "She's with  _ch -_  "

Abruptly the elf cut himself off, elbowing the dwarf aside as he helped haul a sulking Flora to her feet.

"Come on,  _nena_ ," he breathed, brushing the worst of the mud from her. Sliding his arm around Flora's waist, he guided her through the dispersing crowd towards where Leliana and an anxious Alistair were waiting.

"I don't  _like_  cities," Flora complained, her eyes wide with indignation as Alistair's face twisted in distress at seeing the mud. "I  _hate_  them. Why would anyone want to live here? No-one even said sorry for knocking me over."

"Wait until you see the trade-stalls,  _mi florita,"_ murmured Zevran, watching a grim-faced Alistair clamp his sister-warden's hand even more tightly in his own. "The best of the world can be found in a marketplace."

True to the elf's word, Flora soon forgot her complaints when they arrived in Denerim's main market square. The stalls were laid out in a dizzying array of rows and groupings, clustered vaguely according to the type of goods sold. In one corner, jewellers wielded strings of pearls and golden brackets like weaponry; using the sun's brilliant light to advertise their goods. Opposite were the ateliers, displaying a rainbow spectrum of silks and velvets.

Towards the centre of the marketplace were the armour dealers and weapon-smiths. They alone were content with the air of restlessness in the city, since it meant that everybody wanted to ensure that they were well armed. A dwarven ax-merchant glowered across at a ginger-haired human, who was loudly declaring the virtues of the greatswords available for purchase at his own stall.

Scattered around the edges of the square were a variety of other merchants and tradesmen from all corners of Thedas – Antivan leatherworkers resided beside Orlesian perfumers, nearby Free Marchers attempted to lure customers with free samples of their renowned distilled mead.

Leliana paused for a moment, clearly torn between her duty to remain with the Wardens, and her own desire to peruse the Orlesian silks. Zevran, with a solemn assurance that he would keep a watchful eye out, hared off towards the Antivan leatherworker.

"Don't leave the square," Leliana instructed finally, her pale blue eyes moving from Alistair's face down to Flora's. "And don't draw attention to yourself."

This part was directed to Flora, who immediately assumed a plaintive expression.

"Oh! but I was  _planning_ to cause a public disturbance," she said innocently; prompting a scowl from the bard, who was unsure whether or not Flora was joking.

"Just be  _discreet,"_ Leliana threw over her shoulder, before making a beeline for the dressmaker.

Flora was left standing at the edge of the square, still gripping Alistair's hand. She looked up at her brother-warden, who did not appear ready to let go at any point in the immediate future.

"I'm sorry for going off without telling you," she said, knowing that she had indeed been thoughtless in her actions that morning. "I didn't think."

Alistair let out a low sigh, letting his eyes settle on her earnest, apologetic face. The combination of woollen cap and mud smeared on her nose made her look like a grubby street urchin with unusually refined features. Reaching down, he wiped the end of her Cousland nose gently with his thumb.

"I love you in ways that I'm not intelligent enough to properly articulate," he said frankly, fingers lingering on her cheek. "The thought of losing you, Flo – I can't even begin to comprehend it. I never thought of the world as  _that_ dangerous of a place – Darkspawn and all– until I began to care for you. Now I see threats everywhere."

Forgetting Leliana's instruction to be discreet, Flora stood on her toes and planted her lips impulsively on her brother-warden's mouth. When she went to pull away, Alistair cupped the back of her head and deepened the kiss; drawing her body against his own.

It was the murmurs of people nearby that drew Flora's attention when he finally released her. She thought at first that her masculine garb was attracting odd looks, but then one of the muffled whispers became suddenly audible.

"… _. Maric?"_

" _Aye…. old king…uncanny."_

Noticing that Alistair had gone momentarily rigid, Flora reached for his hand and pulled insistently; guiding him behind her as she headed off towards an Orlesian dressmaker's stall on the far side of the square.

"Let's look at these… fancy dresses!"

"But you hate dresses, my dear."

Flora opened her mouth to reply, when the piercing retort of a young woman rose over the general babble of the crowd.

"If you drop my new gown in the mud, I'll have my father dock your wages for the next six months!"

The outraged voice came from a young woman with glossy dark hair and a supercilious expression, finely clad in pink velvet. She was perhaps a handful of years younger than Flora herself; though they were of identical height and build. The cringing servant on the receiving end of her wrath sported the familiar livery of a green portcullis embroidered on a black background.

"That's the South Reach badge," murmured Alistair, recognising it from the banners that hung from the fortress walls.

"Habren, if you continue to spend my money and speak to my servants in such an uncouth manner, I shall send you straight to a convent."

Sure enough, the Arl of South Reach himself materialised from the crowds a moment later, sporting an expression of disapproval. The arlina pouted, crossing her arms as she glowered up at her father.

"All you've done is  _nag_ me since you arrived in the city, Papa."

Leonas opened his mouth to growl a response, when he caught sight of Alistair. Relief suffused his features, although he was careful not to draw public attention with too fervid a response.

"It's good to see you, Alistair," he murmured, allowing the corner of his mouth to twist upwards a fraction. "I take it that you've heard the news about Howe being still resident in Highever."

Habren's eyes lit up at the sight of such a handsome young man, and she nudged her father frantically for a formal introduction. Leonas ignored her, his eyes sliding expectantly past Alistair.

"Where's your sis- " he began, then cut himself off abruptly as he saw the distinctive Cousland features beneath the cap and mud-smeared cheeks.

" _Andraste's Sword,_  child. I thought you were a street urchin."

Flora smiled toothily at him, shoving a tell-tale strand of dark red hair back underneath the cap.

"It  _looks_  like a street urchin," offered the dark-haired girl bluntly, smoothing down her own pink velvet skirts.

"This is my daughter and heir, Habren," the arl said after a moment, tiring of the arlina's insistent nudges. "She delights in tormenting both my retainers and myself. Get along back to the house, girl; I'll have no coin left if you spend any longer here."

Habren tossed her hair, shooting a heavy look at an oblivious Alistair as she stalked off in the company of a hapless retainer.

Flora was so horrified at the idea that she might have become stepmother to that ornery little madam; that she didn't realise that Arl Leonas was talking for several moments.

"… The Pearl may be unorthodox, but it's also the last place anyone would look for a Theirin or a Cousland," he was saying, while Alistair nodded dutifully. "Better safe than sorry."

"Are my brothers  _safe?"_  Flora asked, shuffling forward as a small procession of dwarven traders moved past.

"Under tighter watch than the Empress Celene's jewellery chest," replied Leonas immediately, shooting her his best attempt at a reassuring look. "I've got my best men keeping guard on their chambers."

"Make sure you keep some to watch over you, too," replied Flora, kindly. Arl Bryland opened his mouth to respond, and then there came a sudden commotion from the centre of the market square behind them.

" _Don't listen to Loghain's lies!"_

A man in his middle years, sporting the ragged remains of what must once have been a uniform, had clambered onto the speaker's platform. The people in the square were shifting, turning towards him slowly as whispers trickled like hot tar through the crowd.

"Loghain betrayed Cailan! Loghain has betrayed all of  _Ferelden._ He let our King die at Ostagar to claim the throne for himself."

Flora glanced sideways at Alistair, who was staring at the man with eyes ablaze. Guards were shoving their way towards the speaker's platform, with weapons readied as ripples of interest flickered through the crowd.

"Teyrn Mac Tir is a  _hero!"_ came a challenging bellow, which was met with a sudden surge of answering yells.

"He's a traitor!"

"Mac Tir has usurped the throne. The son of a  _farmer!"_

"I would leave," murmured Arl Leonas urgently from behind them, and Flora nodded, reaching to pull at Alistair's shirtsleeve. Her brother-warden's face was fixed on the speaking man; seemingly not hearing her.

The mood in the square was rapidly descending into open hostility. Flora could see both Zevran and Leliana wending their way quickly through the crowd towards them. A pair of guards emerged from the alleyway just to their right; and the crowds began to surge and shove. Market traders were hastily drawing down shutters and covers over their stalls, their faces resigned.

"Alistair," Flora hissed, nearly losing her balance as another guard barged past her with his sword fully drawn. Leonas Bryland put a hand on her shoulder, his own retainers moving into place around them in a defensive shell.

This awoke Alistair from his preoccupation; he glanced around as though awoken from a dream and caught sight of his alarmed sister-warden's face. It was clear that she felt vulnerable, unable to use her magic for fear of drawing unwanted attention. He reached out and gripped Flora's hand once more, pulling her against his side.

Just then, Zevran and Leliana reached them, the bard clutching a ream of newly purchased peach-hued silk over one arm.

"Didn't even have time to wrap this up," she complained, her lip curling in disapproval. "Come on, let's get out of here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So we finally get to meet the arlina, whose room Flora and Alistair resided in (with an assortment of motley companions) during their month at South Reach. Some might say the room that they repeatedly debauched, hahaha. I didn't invent her being a total cow though, she's a snidey little madam in game and her father does threaten to send her into the Chantry!
> 
> It's interesting to think that that might have been how Flora turned out, had she been raised as a teyrn's daughter. I think that Herring definitely made her humble and a lot more hardworking than she would have been.
> 
> I added the stuff about Denerim feeling restless because I think it'd be pretty authentic – surely lots of refugees would be arriving, fleeing from the south (WHY YES, LOGHAIN, THERE'S DEFINITELY NO BLIGHT, JUST THOUSANDS OF REFUGEES FLEEING FOR NOOOO REASON!) , and rumours would be spreading… not to mention that Denerim is loyal to the Theirins, and they've just been usurped!
> 
> No monkeys found yet lol


	209. The Denerim Alienage

There was no time for goodbyes, Arl Bryland managed to nod at them before being swept away by his own men. Leliana led them down a side street, then off into a branching alleyway; the shouts coming from the square growing fainter behind them. Traders were closing their doors and pulling across shutters, tavern-keepers hastily expelling patrons onto the street in order to do the same. There were crowds everywhere, angry and resentful; the air humming taut as an over-taut lute string.

Leliana's eyes swivelled hawk-like from side to side, until she spotted a wooden gate embedded in a high stone wall. Touching Alistair's arm she gave a little nod, darting across the cobbles towards the unobtrusive entrance. Fortunately, the gate was unlocked and the bard gestured them quickly inside.

They emerged, breathing hard, in what appeared to be a different world. The city of Denerim was conspicuous in its wealth – the buildings were tall and constructed from stone – but this district was so markedly different that it seemed out of place.

Surrounded by a high wall, dozens of ramshackle wooden dwellings were clustered together, as though for warmth- or protection. A single waterway, narrow and filthy, snaked its way through dirtied cobbles. An air of combined melancholy and poverty hung over the shadowed buildings, reflected in the slumped shoulders and miserable expressions of the inhabitants. Beggars were huddled beside doorways, too weak to actively engage with passers-by, their cups resting empty before them.

The only thing of beauty in the entire district seemed to be a single tree, winding its way up from a central courtyard. It was clearly very old, its emerging roots breaking through the cobbles; and its branches were decorated with ribbons and trailing strips of handwritten parchment.

It reminded Flora of Orzammar's Dust Town; with the same distinct air of poverty and neglect. She glanced sideways at Leliana, who was attracting unwanted stares in her Chantry garb.

"Where is this?" Flora asked, appalled that such a place could be allowed to exist within such an obviously prosperous city. A rueful half-smile twisted at the corner of Zevran's mouth as his eyes swivelled around; gazing at the circumstances that he might have inherited had he not been recruited by the Crows.

Leliana shot Flora a surprised look, quickly checking that her daggers were still in place.

"Why, this is the alienage, of course," she replied, eyebrows shooting upwards. "They had one in Highever, don't you recall?"

Flora cast around in her newly uncovered memories for a moment, and then shook her head.

"I don't think I ever left the castle grounds," she breathed, her pale gaze taking in a pair of elven children scampering past, barefoot and scrawny. "Why is this place so horrible compared to the rest of the city? It's not  _fair."_

Leliana let out a little snort, reaching out to place her fingers on Flora's arm.

"You're very naïve, as I suppose must be expected," she said kindly, as the excited elven children whispered to one another. "This is just the way that it  _is._ Zevran, can I trust you to take them back to the Pearl? I'm going to return to the square."

The elf inclined his head silently, for once offering no witty rejoinder.

Alistair, who knew of alienages but had not been in one before, could not stop a reluctant grimace from spreading over his face.

"This is – pretty bad," he said reluctantly after a moment, and Flora shot him a slightly incredulous look.

"No, it's  _awful_ ," she replied, indignantly, glancing over to Zevran for support. A beggar slumped near them gave an unhealthy-sounding cough, shoulders trembling.

"It's the way the world is,  _mi corazon,"_ replied the elf quietly, his fingers moving in mindless repetitive motions over the hilt of his blade.

"Well, it's not right," Flora replied indignantly, with the wide-eyed outrage of youth. The next moment, a flicker of remembrance passed over her face and she let out a sudden yelp.

"Oh!"

Zevran and Alistair both watched in slight perplexion as Flora strode off determinedly towards the children. Sharing a confused glance, they followed in her wake.

"Excuse me," Flora was saying to the elven girl, crouching down with some difficulty on her poor knee. "I'm looking for someone called  _Meina._ Does she live here?"

The boy and girl peered up at her with matching dubious expressions, wary eyes wide-set in grubby faces.

"Why d'you want to know?" asked the girl, suspicion embedded in each word. "She in trouble?"

Flora shook her head rapidly, her own expression earnest.

"No!" she replied hastily. "She's not in trouble, I promise."

The children gazed at her, distrust of  _shems_  distilled into them from a young age. Flora impulsively reached out her palm, allowing golden tendrils of mist to curl upwards from beneath her fingernails. The shimmering particles hung in the air, more insubstantial than a breath, casting light over their faces.

The two elf children inhaled, gazing up at her with wide eyes. By revealing herself as a mage, Flora had shown that she too was part of a group marginalised within Ferelden's strict hierarchy.

"Meina lives near the old orphanage," piped up the girl suddenly, watching as Flora clambered ungracefully to her feet. "Want us to show you,  _sanna_?"

"Yes, please," replied Flora, feeling a twinge of protest from her knee.

"Don't know if she'll want to see you, though," added the boy solemnly over his shoulder. "Delan is very sick."

"That's our friend," continued the girl, leading them over a narrow bridge deeper into the maze of clustered buildings. "We used to play together, until he got ill."

"He's not well?" ventured Flora, although she had already been made privy to this information.

"No, he's been sick for ages. A lot of people are ill."

They passed between a series of increasingly rickety old shacks, their windows boarded up to prevent entry. A kneeling beggar reached out an entreating hand to Zevran, having learnt not to expect charity from any  _shems_.

Contrary to expectation, it was the kind-hearted Alistair who delved in a pocket to retrieve a few silver coins won from a past game of Wicked Grace. He paused for a moment to place them directly in the palm of the old elf, with jaw taut and expression unreadable.

" _Ma serannas,_ my lord," muttered the beggar, eyes moving curiously over the bastard prince's face.

The alienage streets were oddly quiet, considering the number of inhabitants that the district was rumoured to contain. The occasional beggar raised their hands entreatingly from the side of the road, and every so often they caught sight of a fleeting shadow at a window; but the place on the whole appeared stale and stagnant. When Alistair mentioned this to the little boy, the child gave an evasive answer, muttering that sickness stalked the streets and that people were  _afraid._

Finally, the elven children stopped before a narrow doorway, squinting warily once more at Flora. She smiled at them hopefully; after exchanging a glance, they nudged the door open.

The entrance led immediately to a narrow flight of steps, which the girl ventured up first. The architecture was clearly designed for the shorter, slighter build of the elves; Alistair hit his head several times before adopting a semi-hunched position. The steps led to a short corridor, the wooden walls marred by dust and neglect. Three doors branched off from the upper hallway, each labelled with a scrawled label. The whole building smelt of mildew and neglect; an air of misery hanging over it like a miasma.

The elven girl stepped over to the third door, avoiding a rotted floorboard in the centre of the landing. She knocked on the wood, calling out a greeting in her native tongue.

"Meina, there are some  _shems_ here to see you," the child continued, earnestly.

There was a long pause, before a strained voice replied from the other side of the door.

"What do the  _shems_ want with me? I pay the rent and I never cause no trouble. Tell them to go away; they have  _no right to be here!"_

Although the words were fierce, it was clear that the woman was frightened. Flora stepped forward, bringing her face close to the wood.

"Symon told me about your son," she said, summoning the memory of the sad man from Skingle who had perished in the cells of South Reach. "He said that he was paying for medicine."

Alistair startled at the name, a flicker of recognition passing across his face. After a moment, he recalled that Symon was the assassin who had warned them that more hired killers were being sent by Arl Howe. Zevran glanced sideways at him; the elf's dark irises meeting the Warden's own clear hazel gaze.

Slowly, the door creaked open an inch and Flora stepped back hastily. The pinched, hollow-eyed face of an elven woman appeared, brown hair shorn close and functional around her pointed ears.

"I don't want to hear that  _meglan's_ name again," the woman hissed, her voice full of venom. "He promised he'd send money for the boy's medicine every fortnight, and he's missed two payments now. Uncaring  _shem."_

"Symon is dead," Flora said abruptly, not knowing how to phrase it any more delicately. "I'm sorry, but that's why he hasn't been sending it."

The woman inhaled sharply, and there was a brief flash of fear across her face as she glanced over her shoulder to where her son lay.

"How?" she said at last, her voice now small and bitter.

Flora opened her mouth and then closed it again, uncertain how to proceed. She did not want to say that the man from her neighbouring village had turned assassin to pay for his child's medicine; and that Symon had then paid the ultimate price for failing to complete his contract.

Fortunately, the quick-tongued Zevran cut across her silent mouthing with a convenient lie.

"There was a riding accident, and he was thrown from his horse," he explained smoothly, and Flora shot him a grateful little glance.

Meina let out a sigh, defeat ageing her a decade in seconds.

"That's it, then. I'll never raise the money for his medicine," she said bleakly, in the hollow tone of a mother finally accepting that her child was past saving.

"Can I see your son?" ventured Flora, tentatively. "I'm a healer."

The elven woman raised her eyebrows, no humour in the twisted little smile that followed.

"Don't let the Templars hear you say that," she murmured, lip curling. "And you think that our own healer hasn't already tried? The infection has taken too deep."

"She's a spirit healer _, falon._ The  _elgar_ favour her."

Meina's leaf-green eyes swivelled towards Zevran, whose expression was uncharacteristically serious. Whether because of his words, or because he was an elf; something gave way in her face and she opened the door wider, wordless.

The room was small and shadowed, and smelt of illness. The single window had been covered with shutters, with cobwebs covering the slatted wood. A single pallet mattress lay in one corner, stained and lumpen. It was a desolate and miserable dwelling and Meina gazed at the visitors fiercely, as though daring them to say anything.

Flora paid no heed to her surroundings, the room not being much smaller than the single-room fisherman's hut that she had been raised in. She crossed straight to the pallet, kneeling down on the wooden floorboards beside the child.

To her surprise, he resembled a human boy, round-eared and tall. It appeared that he had once also been stocky in build, but illness had wasted the fat and muscle from his skeleton. The sunken cheeks made him appear almost an old man, his eyes blurred with mist and his lips cracked from lack of moisture. Every time he exhaled, the bones in his ribcage rattled; the air coming out in staggered croaks.

"They don't know what it is," Meina said, her voice tight and sad. "I've watched him waste away for months. They think it might be the Frost-cough…"

Alistair, seeming too large for the low-ceilinged room, tried to make himself inconspicuous beside the door. Zevran, who managed to appear elegant in every setting, lounged against the wall; face serene but eyes watchful.

Flora put a hand on the boy's bare chest, then tilted her head to rest her face against his skin. She could feel the protruding bones of his ribs pressing into her cheek, and hear the dry rattle of his lungs as he struggled to breathe. Allowing her eyes to lose focus, she let her gaze slip beneath the papery skin.

_**It's not the Frost-cough.** _

"It's not the Frost-cough," she whispered, her sight probing further within the channels and cavernous spaces of the boy's body.

_**See the congestion? Look at where it lies.** _

_I see it,_ she thought, blinking to clear her vision. The room reformed around her, Meina's anxious face hovering at the periphery of her gaze.

"There's an infection," Flora said, feeling energy prickling beneath her fingernails. "It's blocking his lungs, so he can't breathe; and his stomach, so he can't get nourishment properly."

"Can you heal it?" the boy's mother asked, a sliver of raw hope breaking through her distraught expression.

_**Easily.** _

"Yes," said Flora thickly, swallowing an over-eager mouthful of golden energy as it rose premature in her throat. "It won't take long."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So this is the first time (of several) that the Wardens will be visiting Denerim's alienage! Remember the assassin Symon, all the way back in the South Reach chapters? The one who originated from Skingle, the village just down the coast from Herring? He explained to Flora that he had turned assassin to pay for his child's medicine – well, this is the child!


	210. The Antivan Crow

Meina let out a ragged gasp, but Flora had already bowed her face back over the boy, her fingers working silently in strange little motions taught in no Circle classroom. Her eyes were vague and distant; focused on the infection coagulating in the boy's lungs.

Alistair watched his sister-warden as she worked, an odd mixture of fascination and pride mingling in his stomach. As he gazed down at her he could see the golden light following the lines of the veins beneath her skin. There was a faint glow illuminating her cheeks, as though a candle had been lit inside her skull.

"Who was Symon?" murmured Zevran quietly, not wanting to cause any distraction.

"The assassin that attacked us on the way to South Reach," replied Alistair in an undertone. "Apparently he's from a village near Herring. I knew she went to speak with him on a few occasions, but I didn't know about…  _this."_

After a half-candle length the boy sat bolt upright with a little yelp of alarm. Taken by surprise, Flora inelegantly fell back onto her rear. The thick golden energy congealed beneath her tongue and she coughed, covering her mouth with her hand.

" _Mamae,_ who are all these people?" the child asked, his voice high and clear as the chiming of a bell. The ruddy colour had returned to his face, and the clouding had vanished from his pupils. "I'm  _starving."_

Meina stared at her son, then went to embrace him with a sob of relief. The little boy hugged her back, with arms that were thin but full of renewed strength.

" _Ma serannas, Sylaise,"_ moaned the woman over and over, pressing the words into her son's neck.

Meanwhile, Flora had clambered back to her feet awkwardly, feeling her knee give a sudden twinge of protest. Careful not to disturb the weeping mother and squirming child, she sidled across the floorboards and deftly slithered between Alistair and Zevran.

"Where are you going?" hissed Zevran, a slightly odd tone to his voice as he stared at the embracing mother and child.

Flora shot him a reproachful look over her shoulder, heading past the two gaping children to the stairs. Tendrils of hair were slipping defiantly out from beneath the cap, and she shoved them back with little patience.

"This is the bit when they're crying and offer to  _pay_ , and I always feel awkward," she muttered, listening to the women sobbing in relief behind her. "It's not  _me_ that's even done anything. I'm just the… conduit."

She made her way down the steps one at a time, feeling her knee throb painfully at each little descent. Her brother-warden and the elf caught up with her outside; the alienage seemingly made even drearier by the drizzle that had begun to fall. The temperature had dropped several degrees as cloud drew veil-like over the sun, casting the huddled buildings in a well of bruised shadow.

Flora, the rain reminding her of the northern coast and home, beamed. Just then she felt strong, slender fingers on her elbow and turned around to see Zevran gazing at her.

"It might be the spirits that do the actual  _healing_ ," he said, dark eyes near-black with solemnity. "But it was your choice to seek out the child of an assassin in order to do so. His father tried to  _kill_  you, remember?"

Flora scowled for a moment, recalling how Symon had feigned injury in order to get close to her before lunging, dagger-drawn. She had launched him across the road with her expanding shield, sending him headfirst into a haystack.

"I remember," she confirmed, then gave a little shrug. "It don't matter-  _doesn't_ matter. I'm starving."

Zevran gazed at Flora a moment longer, then reached out and took her hand; pressing his mouth to her fingers in a gesture that would have been gallant if he had accompanied it with some grandiose statement. Instead, his silence only made the gesture seem more sincere and without artifice.

Flora smiled at him, slightly bemused, and then turned to Alistair.

"Can we go back now? I'm  _so_  hungry."

Alistair patted the top of her woollen hat with easy affection, reaching out easily to take her hand. His earlier irritation had melted away during the healing of the child; and now he desired only to make amends.

"I think that sounds like an excellent idea, my dear," he said cheerfully, the afterglow of pride still brightening his fine-hewn face. "Although I'd not usually be in such a hurry to return to a  _whorehouse,_  there were some excellent smells coming from its kitchens this morning."

The three of them had just started back towards the narrow bridge, when the shutters of the building behind them were flung wide open.

" _Ma serennas!"_ called out Meina, framed in the upper window beside her son.

Flora turned and bowed, gritting her teeth as she felt her knee throbbing beneath her.

"Flo," murmured Alistair a few moments later, as they crossed the bridge over the polluted waterway.

She glanced over at her brother-warden, somewhat preoccupied with the rumbling of her stomach. Alistair reached out to finger a strand of hair that had dropped from beneath her cap, studying the contrast of the dark red against his olive skin.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, in a calm and measured tone. Flora shot him a slightly odd look, stopping in the middle of the street. When she flicked her eyes sideways towards Zevran, he gave a little shrug; his own dark gaze sliding away.

"If you like," she replied carefully, confused as to why he was asking her for permission.

Alistair gazed down at her for several beats, before stepping forward and taking her face between his hands. Then, his mouth was on hers with gentle tenderness, shoulders stooping as he bent his own head downwards.

"I'm so accustomed to your magic that I almost forget the difference it can make to ordinary people," he said wonderingly, after drawing back. "No wonder Duncan chose you to join the Wardens."

"It was the first time anybody chose me for anything," Flora replied, with a little self-effacing shrug. "I don't know who was more stunned, me or First Enchanter Irving."

Alistair smiled down at his sister-warden, reaching out to adjust the angle of the cap on her head.

The two Wardens and the elf drew more curious stares as they made their way back through the alienage's twisting alleyways, finally emerging into the square with the great tree rooted in its centre. A redheaded female elf watched them suspiciously as she drew up a bucket of water from a freestanding cistern, her nostrils flaring with distrust. The way that they had entered the alienage was now barred by a locked and guarded gate. The sentry shot them an odd look as he fumbled for the keys; but was too preoccupied by the strange familiarity of Alistair's features to enquire too strongly about what the purpose of their visit had been.

"It's strange how little kinship I feel with my elven brothers and sisters," murmured Zevran as they made their way through a quiet residential district back towards the docks. Although neither he nor Alistair were that familiar with the city; they were following a waterway that presumably led out into the estuary. It was little more than a slender ribbon of green water, barely wide enough for two goods barges to pass side by side.

"Because you were taken by the Crows?" asked Flora, following an old superstition and avoiding the cracks between flagstones. The elf nodded, pausing as their path ended abruptly with a barred gate.

" _Sí, mi límonita._ The guild prefers to mould your identity from fresh-made clay."

Flora shot him a side-long glance as Alistair decided on a suitable detour. The elf and the mage followed the bastard prince down another slender alleyway, into an area populated by seemingly abandoned warehouses.

"When you first said that you had been raised by Crows," Flora informed the elf as Alistair came to a halt and squinted around in perplexion. "I hadn't heard of the assassins' guild, and I thought you meant  _actual_ crows."

Zevran shot her an incredulous look.

"Wait – as in the winged creatures? You thought that I had been raised by literal  _birds?!"_

She nodded and the elf let out a sharp bark of laughter.

" _Carina,_ you know I adore you, but you aren't – how should I put it - the  _sharpest_ dagger in the armoury. How long were you under this misguided impression?"

"Ages," confessed Flora, pausing near a stack of crates to rummage in her pocket for an apple. "A really long time."

Alistair had ventured ahead to peer down another alleyway, scratching his head as he gazed in confusion at a second locked gate.

"We can't get through," he said, perplexed. "I don't understand, I remember this being a route back to the docks. But it's a dead end."

The smile on Zevran's face suddenly turned very stiff, as rictus as a corpse's grin. He turned around, catching sight of Flora several yards behind him. She was still rummaging in her pocket for the elusive apple, scowling and distracted. In a macabre vision borrowed straight from a nightmare, a protruding beaklike shadow was elongating against the wall behind her.

The elf opened his mouth to yell, but the Crows were renowned for their swiftness of movement. Four men melted from the shadows, flanking the deserted square with expertise borne of long practise. One of them, face hidden beneath the characteristic beaked mask of the legendary assassins' guild, slung a leather strap around Flora's neck with deft fingers. She let out a squawk of alarm that was quickly cut off by the tightening of the garrotte.

"Well met, Zevran," murmured their leader, his tan complexion and mahogany hair hinting at Tevinter ancestry. "It's been a while."

There were many layers of meaning implicit in the greeting; none of which were lost on the elf.

Alistair, vulnerable without armour, let out a wordless bellow of anger on seeing Flora snared by the neck. He started forward, only to come to an abrupt halt as the needle-tip of a dagger was inserted deftly against his reddening sister-warden's gut.

"Let the girl go, Taliesin," Zevran murmured, his calm tone belying the incandescent anger in his eyes. "You have no quarrel with her."

"No? But she is a  _Warden_ , and a contract has been taken out with the Crows for her death," the man replied, his pale eyes flickering amusedly at Alistair's barely restrained rage. "Apparently, the man sent to do the job failed utterly."

Zevran remained silent, his gaze moving between the four assassins, knowing better than to reach for his own blade. For a moment, the only sounds came from Flora, who was wheezing like an old man choking on tobacco fumes.

The assassin Taliesin - the one who had addressed Zevran with such familiarity - spoke first; gesturing carelessly towards where his colleague had Flora in his clutches.

"Do you think I have not been watching you? I know that this creature is a mage, one who can summon shields stronger than dragonsteel. But if she cannot  _breathe,_ she cannot cast. No, Zevran, there will be no barriers between us."

"Were there ever any?" the elf replied, strain now creeping into the edge of his tone as he glanced over at the gasping Flora. Alistair had his head in his hands, wild-eyed with despair and disbelief at the horrendous turn that their journey had taken.

"It can be that way again," purred Taliesin, fingers stroking the hilt of his blade. "Come back with me. We will find a way to convince the master that you had remained loyal to the Crows."

"But I am no longer loyal to the Crows," replied Zevran, evenly. "I serve whomever I choose. And I'm sorry, old friend, but I will not be returning with you."

The elf looked over towards Flora once more, reluctant to make a move with the tip of the dagger still wedged against her gut.

"I'm giving you a final chance to come back!"

Taliesin's voice rose high and dangerous, his eyes flashing across the square. "The Crows are your  _family_ , Zevran."

"Family?" hissed the elf, a flicker of anger breaking through his composure.  _"Family_ does not do what you and I did to Rinna. Let her go, Taliesin."

The elf, however, was in no position to make demands. He was caught between the other assassins, their daggers drawn; each of them possessing Crow-honed deadliness.

Flora, meanwhile, was starting to lose her peripheral vision. She felt herself sagging back against the masked man behind her, knees buckling as the pressure around her neck increased. Lights were exploding in the corners of her eyes, little red and green flashes; and she wondered vaguely if this was what it was like to _drown_. Her lungs felt shrivelled, every part of her body  _screaming_  for her to take a breath. Not since the Tower of Ishal at Ostagar, had she felt so horribly helpless.

" _Karata!"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Flora's talents for healing went pretty unnoticed at the Circle, since there weren't many grievous wounds that required attention! Irving was literally like WTF when she was chosen by Duncan – she went entirely under his radar for the four years she was at the Circle.
> 
> HERE IS FLORA'S FATAL FLAW: she requires air to summon her magic! So if she can't breathe, she's as useless as a chocolate teapot lol!


	211. Don't Say It

For one long, horrible moment, the scene seemed frozen in paralysed tableau. Zevran, impotent with several assassins poised to strike; a mouthing Alistair stuck on the far side of the warehouse square; Flora's vision shrinking as the leather garrotte around her neck tightened.

Then suddenly something vast and unstoppable ploughed into the Crow at her back. Flora felt the assassin swept away, easily as a shipwrecked sailor plucked from the Hag's Teeth by the merciless tide.

She felt to her hands and knees, sucking a ragged, delicious gulp of air into her lungs. Then - even before her vision had returned - Flora thrust out a hand towards Zevran, feeling the golden energy surging joyfully from her fingertips.

The shield expanded around the elf like something unfolding and organic; thus protected, he leapt forward with both swords drawn. The flung daggers of the two other assassins hit the shield and fell away, their tips blunted and useless. The other Crows drew swords and advanced forward with angry shouts, only for one to be immediately engaged by an enraged Alistair. Despite the fact he had no shield or armour, the Warden drove his attack forward with an anger-fuelled relentlessness; wielding his short blade like a broadsword.

With his actions no longer curtailed by Flora's predicament, the elf was able to put his guild-taught skills to full use. He moved like a flicker of pale light through the shadows, fleet-footed and lithe, the swords moving in relentless, mesmerising patterns. Blood blossomed in their wake and one man fell in pieces onto the flagstones. Alistair helped to dispatch the other, shoving his short-sword with a single anger-fuelled thrust into the assassin's gut.

Taliesin was the last to fall, gaping in wide-eyed disbelief as the blade drew across his throat. Zevran stepped back, a myriad of emotions brewing on his face, dripping sword in hand. The shield disappeared around him, fading away back into the ether in a shiver of golden light.

Meanwhile a red-faced Flora was still wheezing on hands and knees, the woollen cap fallen to the cobbles beside her. Her vision was returning in small increments, the world a mass of gradually lightening shadow.

"Drink, slowly," instructed a familiar, impassive voice.

An ashen-skinned hand thrust a water pouch before Flora and she sat back on the flagstones, groping for it blindly. Fingers steadied the pouch at her chin and she gulped down several large mouthfuls. As her damaged throat muscles contracted, she coughed and spluttered half of the water back out; tears springing to her eyes at the pain.

Alistair had crossed the courtyard with a fleetness rivalled only by the elf; both companions crouching down beside her.

"Stop this crowding," instructed the Qunari, his lip curling. "The Warden will not die. Give her space to mend."

Flora inhaled, every small movement of her lungs sending throbs of pain up through her oesophagus. Raising her fingers to her neck, she could feel the ugly bruising left in the wake of the assassin's leather garrotte. The golden energy seeped from her fingernails as she tentatively stroked her own throat, repairing the damage caused by the Crow's attempt to deprive her of air. In truth, she was frightened at how impotent she had felt when her magic failed to materialise; barred by her inability to breathe.

Elf and bastard prince crouched to either side of their injured healer, watching the mottled skin slowly fade away beneath her coaxing fingers. Zevran's eyes slid across to Sten, who was returning  _Asala_ to his back.

"A timely intervention, Qunari," he murmured, reaching out to wrap a strand of Flora's loose hair around his finger. "How long have you been following us? I did not think that one of your…  _bulk_ could be so stealthy."

Sten shot him an unimpressed stare, his ashen red eyes contemptuous.

"Since you decided to wander freely around enemy territory,  _qalaba._ I suggest you return to your safe-house immediately to avoid further provocation.  _"_

His deigned purpose fulfilled, the Qunari turned to leave without further discussion.

"Thank you," croaked Flora, only half-finished with the process of mending.

The Qunari raised his chin a fraction in acknowledgement, before vanishing in the shadows between two warehouses.

There was silence for a long moment, Alistair grey and trembling with unhappiness; while a tight-lipped Zevran continued to wind his finger around a strand of Flora's hair, exaggerating the natural curl. She continued to move her fingers across her neck in small, instinctual motions, methodically mending the damaged flesh. The four dead assassins lay sprawled across the flagstones, blood leaking from myriad wounds.

"I apologise to the both of you," the elf said eventually, his voice low and uncharacteristically solemn. "I suppose that this was inevitable. The Crows have made their attempt to reclaim me; as long as I keep my head down now, I doubt that there will be further repercussions."

"Was he once your friend?"

Flora's voice had returned to its usual soft, slightly hoarse tone; the repairing of her throat completed. Alistair, who had been twitching impatiently for the past few minutes, at once reached for his sister-warden's hand.

Clutching her fingers almost painfully tight, he pressed his face into her shoulder and exhaled unsteadily. Flora could feel him shivering as though it were the middle of a bitterly cold Haring night. She ran her hand up and down his back, feeling the taut muscle beneath the material of his shirt. She could feel his fear, sour and sharp; the bulk of his body trembling like a child.

"More than a friend,  _carina,"_ the elf murmured quietly, pulling his finger free and watching the ringlet he had crafted spiral free. "But it was a dangerous call that he answered. Taliesin should have known better than to hunt me down."

His eyes slid reluctantly towards the crumpled heap of flesh and bone lying in the centre of the courtyard; then glanced off again as though burnt. Flora saw him flinch, a minute shudder that would have been undetectable to anybody not looking directly into his eyes.

Touching the back of her brother-warden's neck briefly; she reached out and put her arms around Zevran with the impulsive, ready affection of a girl from the countryside, unburdened by pretension or societal niceties.

"I'm sorry," she said kindly, resting her chin on his shoulder. The elf had gone rigid when she first embraced him, but in slow increments he relaxed against her, letting out a low and long exhalation.

" _Mi corazon."_

Alistair courteously allowed them several moments, acknowledging his sister-warden's natural compassion and the elf's reluctant grief. He was grateful for the time to compose himself; the sight of Flora- for once – being unable to defend herself had shaken him badly. For the first time in months, he had glimpsed how vulnerable his best friend was without her magic; seen her as a slight-framed girl not quite out of adolescence, with no weapon skills and pitiful means of defence.

"Probably not a good idea to be found next to four dead bodies," he murmured after a minute, glancing at the lowering sun in the sky overhead. "Guards'll be on their night rounds soon."

Flora withdrew her arms from Zevran, grimacing slightly as she took in the leaking corpses spread around the square. The abandoned warehouses surrounding them seemed to gaze down censoriously; their boarded up windows like reproving eyes.

The next moment, Alistair reached out and gripped her hand tightly, entwining her fingers with his in a grip more practical than romantic.

"I'm not letting go till we get back to the Pearl," he informed her tightly, in a tone that brokered no argument.

His words triggered a slight sense of déjà vu for Flora, a flickering of recognition in the back of her skull. She stared up at her brother-warden, trying to remember when she had heard him say something similar before.

"In the Deep Roads," she said suddenly, the memory rising. "You said the same thing after we were attacked by the Darkspawn in the Deep Roads. Remember the ones with the net?"

Alistair grunted, helping her clamber to her feet.

"I… don't remember," he lied, not wanting think about what the Darkspawn did to unfortunate women wandering into their clutches. "But don't even  _think_ about letting go."

Retracing their steps, the Wardens and the elf made their way down back alleys and minor canals; taking a deliberately meandering route towards the whorehouse. At last the green saltwater estuary spread out before them, dotted with boats of all sizes, their masts and sails casting elongated shadows over the still surface. The sun was just probing the western horizon, dusk creeping smoky fingers over Ferelden's ancient capital.

The docks themselves were somewhat busy, mostly filled with traders directing the passage of goods, and fishermen hauling ashore the day's catch. Nobody paid any attention to Flora or her companions, far too preoccupied with their own dealings.

Zevran fell behind several feet, keeping an eye on the Wardens' backs as they entered the thinly dispersed crowd. Alistair gripped Flora's hand almost painfully tight as they avoided a Navarren trader with a covered handcart.

When the faded nautical glamour of the Pearl rose up before them, the bastard prince had never been so pleased to see a brothel in his life. Even the sight of two scantily clad women dressed as Qunari  _tamassran_ in the doorway did not throw him; he strode through without sparing them a glance.

As they passed the kitchens in the lower passageway, Flora looked as though she might make a bid to escape. Alistair shot her an entreating stare, even as his fingers tightened around her own.

" _Please_ , Flo," he said, very quietly, even as she shot him a mutinous glower. "How can you even  _think_  of food?"

"I shall procure us something to eat, my Rialto lily," offered the elf, inclining his head towards Flora as she beamed, nodding eagerly.

Fortunately, it was still early enough that the Pearl was relatively quiet; the journey to their room only interrupted by a couple writhing half-naked on the upper landing chaise. Alistair gritted his teeth and hauled his sister-warden past as she gawked openly at the kissing pair.

"How  _inappropriate_ ," she sniffed, conveniently forgetting that she and Alistair had been intimate in a range of South Reach's more obscure nooks and crannies.

Not listening, Alistair fumbled with the key, jabbing it ineffectually towards the lock with shaking hands. Flora took it gently from him; and after several attempts, managed to open the door.

Without a moment's pause, Alistair strode across to the window and pulled closed the shutters; plunging the blush-shaded chamber into artificial twilight. His face was pulled taut, a muscle quivering along the edge of his jaw. Slightly confused, Flora watched him head back over to the entrance, turning the key in the lock before testing the door's soundness with a shove of his shoulder.

Once Alistair had established that the room was secured, he took his sister-warden by the hand and led her over to the bed. Sitting Flora down on the pallet mattress, he leaned forward to grip her chin in his fingers. The bastard prince tipped her head first one way and then the other, carefully inspecting her throat. He ran his thumb over the smooth flesh; the creamy, unblemished skin which had formerly been mottled with ugly bruising.

"Can you breathe alright?" he asked abruptly and she nodded, eyeing him with some perplexion.

"Don't you think I healed it well enough?" she asked, somewhat indignant. Alistair groaned, shaking his own head helplessly.

"It's not that," he muttered, withdrawing his hand from her neck to curl his fingers within his own lap. "I just wanted to- make sure."

Flora considered turning her nose up, then remembered the botched healing job she had done on her own knee; resulting in permanent damage. She therefore remained silent, wondering if he was going to continue.

After a minute of staring bleakly at the wall, Alistair turned to her once again.

"Flo," he said, genuine distress ringing a clear note through each word. "I don't think I can stand this anymore."

She eyed him warily, seeing the sadness writ raw on his handsome, fine-hewn features.

"Stand what?"

"Seeing you in these… situations," he said after a moment, unsure how to explain himself.  _"_ Getting yourself in danger. Flora, I don't think you should- "

Flora reached out and put her fingers over his mouth, physically stopping her brother-warden from finishing the thought.

"Don't say it," she breathed, staring at him, appalled. "You  _mustn't_ , Alistair."

"But, Flo- "

He spoke through her fingers, voice muffled.

" _Don't!"_

"I don't want you to fight the Archdemon."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Flora is really crap at opening locks and using keys because she's never really lived in a place with locks that she's had to open! No locks in Herring, and an apprentice mage in the Circle wouldn't have anything to lock.
> 
> So Alistair has allowed himself to do what he and Flora said they would never do, even when their relationship became intimate- get distracted. He doesn't want her to fight against the Archdemon or participate in any further bouts against the Darkspawn; which is ridiculous, considering she has the best shield in the business!


	212. Orlesian Night At The Pearl

The words, once Alistair had uttered them, hung in the air like a dark cloud. Flora groaned under her breath, letting her hand fall loosely into her lap. Out of the corner of one eye, she could see her pack leaning against the dresser; inside which were the crumpled and travel-stained Warden treaties.

"Alistair," she said again, feeling horribly helpless for a second time that afternoon. "I  _have_ to fight. That's why Duncan recruited me. We have to kill the Archdemon and end the Blight."

It was a familiar mantra, but from the incredulous way that Alistair was gazing at her; it was as though he were hearing it for the first time.

"I know," he said after a moment, bitterly. "It's selfish of me. But I… I can't bear the thought of you being hurt. Do you have any idea how scared I was earlier?"

_You're the important one out of the two of us,_ Flora thought grimly, watching the bastard prince bow his head to hide a sudden bright gleam in his eyes.  _You're the one who has to live, not me._

_I promised your half-brother at the ruins of Ostagar; I swore on the Waking Sea. I can't break my oath, or the tide will take my bones and bleach them._

Alistair brushed a hand roughly over his face, hunching his shoulders to try and stop them from trembling. Flora shuffled closer to him on the bed, her heart beating a quick, frightened staccato within her chest.

"Alistair," she said again, reaching out tentatively to stroke her hand over the top of his tousled, gilded hair. "Don't be upset."

Her brother-warden's shoulders remained defiantly rigid, his face hard and stern as if carved from stone, remaining angled away from her. Flora thought for a moment, and then twisted around to drop her head back onto Alistair's thighs, gazing earnestly up at him from his lap.

"Don't be upset," she repeated, stretching her fingers up to touch his cheek. The day's stubble prickled against her skin, the skin below flushed with unhappiness.

Alistair reached out to intercept her hand, bringing her fingers to his mouth and kissing them feverishly. As he did so, he caught sight of her nails, reduced to small, anxiously chewed nubs.

"I never see you bite your nails," he said, realising the implication of this even as the words emerged. "Wait, do you do it at night? When I'm asleep?"

The self-conscious Flora nodded, reluctantly; curling her fingers towards her palms to hide them.

Turning over the thought of his sister-warden lying awake in the darkness while gnawing worriedly away at her fingers; Alistair let out a groan, shoving his own fears and worries to the back of his mind.

"Flo," he breathed, pressing his mouth once more against the back of her hand. "Please wake me when you feel like that. It's not fair that you should be worried on your own. I'm your brother-warden. We share everything."

"Everything?"

"Yes, sweetheart."

"From horses, to bedrolls," intoned Flora, solemnly. "From shirts to snacks. The Grey Wardens must always try and economise."

Alistair smiled down at her, warmth seeping gradually back over his features as his sister-warden's relentless cheerfulness broke through his melancholy.

"I especially like the part about sharing bedrolls," he murmured, ducking his head to drop a peck on her mouth.

The peck soon turned into something more involved. Flora smiled up into her brother-warden's lips as he worked them alongside her own, relieved that he seemed to have become distracted from his earlier brooding. She could feel him stiffening through his breeches, pressing determinedly against the back of her head.

With a quickness borne of frequent practise, Alistair had soon unfastened sufficient buttons to expose his sister-warden's small, high breasts. Lowering his mouth to her nipple; he simultaneously slid a hand down the front of her smalls and began to caress her between the legs.

"Good girl," he murmured thickly in her ear, his fingers deftly coaxing forth her arousal. "Let's slide these down a little."

Alistair had just begun to draw her trousers down around her thighs when Zevran waltzed in with a tray, having let himself in with his own key.

Immediately he took in Flora's displaced shirt, and Alistair's hand between her thighs; a grin of delight spreading over his tan face.

"Please don't mind me," he purred, setting the tray down on the dresser as Alistair let out a groan of frustration. "I'm  _very_  unobtrusive. I'll even keep my back turned, see?"

"You're incorrigible, Antivan," hissed Alistair, withdrawing his hand and helping a grinning Flora with her shirt buttons. "Privacy just isn't in your vocabulary, is it?"

"Nor is it in yours," retorted Zevran, winking at Flora as she tried not to laugh. "As the explicit version of  _Warden Flora_ would suggest."

Alistair groaned, sitting upright and exhaling with slow deliberateness in an attempt to settle himself.

"I'm going to the washroom," he muttered, rising to his feet. "Hopefully there won't be the same debauchery going on in there that I witnessed yesterday."

As her brother-warden left the room, Flora wandered barefoot over to the tray. The silver platter was covered in an array of fruit, salted meat and thin slivers of cheese. Hoping that nobody was watching her gluttony, she picked up an entire bunch of grapes before scuttling across to the window; clutching her prize close to her chest. Reaching out with her free hand, Flora opened one of the shutters that Alistair had so assiduously closed earlier.

The sun was just setting, emitting a muted amber glow that turned the sea estuary into shades of molten bronze and copper. The docks were quiet, their occupants returned home or answering the Chantry bell's call to prayer. In the distance, a tall ship sailed sedately eastwards into the encroaching twilight; its sails unfurled to take advantage of the evening breeze.

The sight was beautiful and oddly hypnotic; a slightly mesmerised Flora watched the ship crawl towards the horizon, methodologically inserting grapes into her mouth one by one.

After a while, she became aware of someone standing behind her.

"I'm not very adept at apologies,  _mi sirenita,"_ murmured the elf as Flora turned to face him. Zevran's face was near as solemn as her own, the usual wicked sparkle in his gaze somewhat dulled.

"What do you mean?" replied Flora, stupidly.

He sighed, gazing over her shoulder towards where the tall ship was shrinking on the horizon.

"That was my business to deal with earlier; yet you and Alistair were caught up in it. I put you both in danger."

His voice shifted slightly, a new note of melancholy running through the words.

"And you were hurt,  _nena."_

"Barely," countered Flora, anxious at seeing this uncharacteristic forlornness. "Besides, assassins come for me and Alistair all the time, and you get caught up in that. It's no different."

Zevran let out a bark of humourless laughter, shaking his head as the tall ship was engulfed within the setting sun. Several emotions chased each other across his face like flapping gulls; the amber hues of sunset reflected in his dark irises.

"I am still sorry,  _carina,"_ he said finally, and if this was not what he had originally intended to say, he made no show of it. "Here, give me a hug. I shall endeavour most strongly to stop my hands from going anywhere they shouldn't."

Flora crossed her eyes at him and he laughed with more warmth, extending his arms like a benevolent Chantry mother. She embraced him without reservation, resting her chin on his shoulder; while the elf struggled manfully to keep his baser urges under control. He could feel her chin moving against his shoulder as she continued to consume the grape. Flora chewed away absentmindedly as she gazed out of the window, patting the elf's back with her free hand.

Zevran managed to maintain his composure for several breaths, and then was unable to stop his own fingers from sliding downwards and giving her rear a brief squeeze. Lacking trust in further restraint he withdrew rapidly; raising his hands innocently as she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Is that how a good Ferelden lady should behave?" the elf enquired evilly, watching with some fascination as her features contorted.

"Well if you  _see_  one, you should ask her," retorted Flora, returning her tongue to her mouth and inserting another grape.

The elf spun away from her and launched himself onto the bed with an elegance that Flora could only dream of possessing. Without a single hair out of place, he gestured towards her; one knee propped up against the pallet mattress.

"Come to the bed,  _mi sirenita,_ and we can make passionate love for hours," he declared, reaching out a palm gallantly towards her. "I will happily pay  _Madame du Poisson's_  fee of one hundred fish."

Then, when Flora shot him a dubious look, the elf delved his hand beneath the cushions and brought out a familiar leather tome.

"Or instead we could endure another chapter of this," he offered with a charming smile, wielding  _Exotic Fish of Thedas._ "Thanks to you,  _mi corazon,_ I now know more about the creatures of sea than I ever thought possible."

By late evening, the Pearl was in full raucous swing. It was Friday night and patrons had convened on the little dockside whorehouse from all corners of Denerim. Music and laughter rang out through the lower windows, scattered light from a myriad of candles and lanterns spilling over the cobbles. The proprietor had organised an Orlesian themed night, after the resounding success of their Ancient Tevinter evening the previous month. These events tended to attract more wealthy patrons, who always relished the chance to show off amongst their peers.

The salt-stained wooden surfaces of the Pearl had been varnished to a slick gleam; large silk  _rosettes_ in blue and gold had been tied to the netting on the walls; and hyacinths – the national flower of Orlais – burst forth from every vase and pedestal. The whores themselves had been dressed up as Orlesian courtesans, the women clad in silken lingerie and the men oiled until they shone.

Flora, despite being under strict orders from Leliana to stay in the rose-coloured chamber, was peering out of the shutters to watch the guests as they arrived. The sight of their gaudy Orlesian costume was so offensive to her lowborn Herring sensibilities that she felt herself becoming irrationally upset.

Alistair was reading a note from Eamon, dropped off earlier by a Guerrin raven. The arl suggested that they would be ready to make their move within days, arriving at the Royal Palace as a united faction during the opening formalities of the Landsmeet. The note also suggested that Arl Howe was on his way back from Highever, after dealing with yet another protest from the local population. It seemed that the residents of Ferelden's wealthiest town had not taken kindly to the murder of their teyrn, and were none too willing to be lorded over by his traitorous usurper.

"Ah, I do love Antivan poetry," murmured Zevran from the bed, where he was reclining against the cushions and perusing a slender tome. "Such crude desires, wrapped up in such eloquence. How many delicate, sugar-coated ways there are to articulate the act of  _fuc- "_

Alistair narrowed his eyes at Zevran, and the elf caught his tongue, curling the corner of his mouth wickedly towards the bastard prince.

"Apologies, my lord," he purred, arching a fine, platinum brow. "I did not realise that you were still in possession of such  _delicate_  sensibilities; especially not after what I've seen you do with your lovely sister-warden."

At that moment Flora turned away from the window, genuine distress on her features. Alistair dropped the letter on the floorboards, rising hastily to his feet and crossing the chamber towards her.

"Flo?"

"I don't understand," Flora continued, almost tearfully. "It's all – just- so  _ugly!"_

The elf let out a chortle of delight, his long fingers dancing over the book's leather cover.

"The Orlesians do have a rather  _unique_ sense of fashion."

Even Alistair couldn't help but grin, leaning back against the window frame and peering down at the crowd of fancified Fereldans below as they entered the whorehouse. They wore a variety of masks, mostly full-faced to protect their identities; beneath which a clashing multitude of patterns and colours whirled in dizzying array.

Alistair followed Flora's indignant finger as she returned her gaze to the faux-Orlesian parade. She was pointing at a man dressed in a shocking pink and green chequered outfit, topped with a matching hat that ballooned upwards in two magnificent peaks.

"Why?!" Flora demanded, eyes huge with affront.  _"Why?!"_

The look of outrage on her face was almost comical and Alistair laughed, drawing her against his chest and kissing the top of her head fiercely.

"It's just the Orlesian custom of dressing," he replied, rubbing his thumb tenderly over the crest of her ear. "I suppose they like to be colourful."

"And let us not forget,  _nena,_ that you once went to a Circle ball dressed as a plaidweave lemon," Zevran reminded her, flashing a wicked little grin. "I'm not sure that you are the authority on elegance."

Flora shot him a rather indignant look in response.

"But lemons are beautiful," she replied, nonplussed. "Whereas  _that - "_ here, she jabbed a finger out of the window – "looks like something out of a Fade nightmare. If anyone arrived in Herring wearing such an outfit, they'd be torn up and used as  _bait_."

Just then Leliana entered, her cheeks pink and her face animated. Even in her excitement, she made sure to lock the door behind her. The bard was resplendent in a flame-coloured dress that she must have purchased at the market that morning, her short hair wound into a variety of snaking braids.

"It's  _far_  too hot downstairs," she proclaimed, collapsing into a velvet-padded chair and fanning her face with an elegant hand. "Flora, stop staring out of the window. Half of the noble district has relocated here tonight."

"I wonder who put that blush on your face, my reddest of roses?" Zevran purred, steepling his fingers together as he leaned against the dresser.

"A lady never kisses and tells," retorted Leliana smoothly, although she could not help a smile from crossing her face. "Ooh, I'm boiling up."

The courteous Alistair went to pour her a flagon of white wine, a half-bottle of which had been provided by the elf earlier. As he handed it to the bard, she smiled up at him, gratefully.

" _Merci, chérie."_

Leliana took a long sip, her pale throat moving delicately as she imbibed a crisp, floral mouthful.

"Did you see Arl Eamon's note?" she asked after a moment, lowering the flagon to her lap. "It should have arrived this evening."

Nodding, Alistair went to retrieve the crumpled square of parchment from where it had fallen. He offered it to the bard and she gave a little laugh, shaking her head.

"Naturally, I have already read it," Leliana murmured, dusting a few invisible specks from her velvet skirts. "Exciting, no? The day when we shall confront Loghain draws ever nearer."

From the dockside below, there came a sudden shout and the sound of a horse drawing to a halt, hooves clattering against the salt-stained wood.

"Howe!  _Howe_ is here," came a delighted cry from a slightly inebriated voice. "Now the real party can begin."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol, if Alistair finds out that Flora is carrying his BABY, he'll never ever let her fight in a million, billion years!
> 
> Omg Orlesians have such amazing outfits, they are SO HIDEOUS. I started to play DA: Inquisition while replaying Origins to get back up to my original save point, and that Marquis who claims to own Haven…. WTF? With the giant yellow and black chequered popped collar… ahahaha. Poor Flora – who wears plain and utilitarian boy's clothing most of the time – is deeply distressed by it all.
> 
> I imagine that the more upmarket brothels/whorehouses would definitely have themed nights! When the husbo and I went to Venice in the summer, we saw a Renaissance-era brothel museum that hosted Oriental themed nights, which I think must have been such amazing events! Of course Venice was the gateway to the Far East at the time, so they had lots of resources to call upon.


	213. A Kiss From The Pirate Queen

 

The atmosphere in the room suddenly became electric, as blood curdled to ice and hearts paused in simultaneous, momentary shock.

_Howe! Howe is here!_

Then there was a surge of movement from all those present. Flora recoiled from the window as though the Archdemon itself had appeared on the other side; nearly colliding with Alistair as he lunged across the chamber to retrieve his sword.

"At last," the Theirin prince breathed in a snarl that was wholly unlike his normal light, clipped tone. "I've been waiting for months to run this Maker-damned whoreson through."

"Alistair," hissed Leliana, who was already at the door and shoving yet another knife into a hidden holster at her knee. "Zevran and I will go and investigate. Stay here with her. Couslands are his target, remember?"

Alistair gritted his teeth, torn between wanting to end Howe's life himself, and remaining alongside his sister-warden.

Flora had sat down on the edge of the bed and was fiddling with the hem of her shirt; the scattered freckles standing out stark against her paling cheeks. Despite her attempt to convey nonchalance, Howe's threat of Tranquillisation and forced marriage loomed large in her mind and she swallowed, miserably.

In the end, there was barely a choice – Alistair's instinctual urge to protect his best friend and lover was far stronger than his desire for revenge. The bastard prince gave a little nod, keeping a loose grip on the handle of the sword as he returned to stand beside Flora.

"I will return with the traitor's head," Zevran assured them, retrieving the black velvet mask that Flora had worn in her  _Madame du Poisson_ guise and settling it over his bronzed Antivan features. "And also his manhood."

"Good luck finding it," Flora whispered back in a small voice, shooting the elf a wan smile. Zevran winked back at her, though his lips were bloodless from being drawn over-tight.

Leliana rolled her eyes, replacing her own half-mask and smoothing a hand over her hair in preparation.

"Alright," she murmured, hawk-like concentration settling over her fine-carved features. "Don't open the door unless you know who is behind it. Zevran, shall we?"

The elven assassin gave a nod of affirmation, his own blades hidden beneath his sleeves. Together they departed the bedchamber, the lock clicking twice in their wake.

Alistair strode to the window and closed the shutter, then opened it again in case they needed to make a quick escape. Unsure of the best solution, he settled on leaving it ajar. Crossing back to the door, he tested the handle with a soft rattle, and then nearly jumped out of his skin as a giggling couple lurched down the corridor on the other side. He brought up his sword reflexively, then exhaled; lowering it with a soft grunt of frustration.

Flora was trying not to watch her brother-warden, whose restless, constant motion was unnerving her. Instead she sat cross-legged on the bed, feeling the reassuring prickle of golden mist beneath her nails. Looking down at her hand, she watched the filmy barrier expand between her fingers; the shield blossoming outwards before collapsing delicately back into her skin. It grew and shrank in a soft pulse around her outstretched hand, keeping pace with her measured breathing.

_**Peace, child.** _

The sight of the barrier expanding and contracting between her fingers was oddly reassuring, and Flora felt her heartbeat settle back into its regular, languid tempo.

"Alistair," she said, watching him stalk the length and breadth of the chamber like a caged Mabari. "You're making me nervous."

Her brother-warden stopped his pacing, raising his hand to his head and letting out a groan. Flora stretched out her fingers and Alistair went to her, sitting on the mattress with a sigh.

"Sorry, my dear. I just… "

He trailed off, unsure how to properly articulate the tangled mixture of thought and emotion chasing around his skull.

"I know," whispered Flora, and then they both jumped as a soft rap sounded on the door. Alistair reacted first, tightening the grip on his sword as he advanced.

"It is I, Zevran," came a familiar Antivan-accented whisper from the other side.

Alistair paused, and then turned the key in the lock. Zevran sidled inside, the black velvet mask clutched in his hand. He was followed by the Rivaini pirate with skin the shade of rich coffee, the fine lines at the corners of her dark eyes wrinkled with amusement.

"It's not Rendon Howe," Zevran said the moment that the door had shut behind them, seeing the tension writ clear on both Wardens' faces. "It's his one of his sons, Thomas. Apparently while Papa is away, the heir will play."

Flora exhaled, while Alistair loosed his grip on the hilt a fraction, not entirely willing to let go quite yet.

"He's only just out of boyhood," the elf added, with a wicked roll of the eyes. "Seems clueless as a babe. I highly doubt he has any nefarious intentions. Leliana is waylaying him now; though I wouldn't mind taking over from her later on. I might be able to spoil him on women forever."

The elf grinned, watching Alistair slide the sword back into its sheath with a slight easing of tension in his broad shoulders.

"You handle a sword  _masterfully,"_  purred Isabela, whilst peering at the handsome young man from beneath a pigmented fringe of eyelashes. "I wonder what  _else_  those strong hands are capable of?"

Naturally, after observing the bastard prince through the mirror the previous night; the Rivaini woman was fully aware of the capabilities of his hands. Clearing his throat, Alistair proceeded to drop the sheath twice as he attempted to return it to his pack.

"So this Thomas Howe hasn't come here to capture me?" Flora clarified, her anxious grey gaze still fixed on the blond elf. "You're sure?"

Zevran snorted, shaking his head definitively.

"He had a difficult enough time navigating from the front door to the bar," he murmured, reaching up to settle the mask back over his features. "I'm not sure there are enough brains to fill a teaspoon within that noble young skull. I'm going to see if our bard requires any assistance; but Bela here has volunteered to keep you both company. With no  _ulterior_ motive, I'm sure."

The elf disappeared in a whirl of dark velvet and sandalwood, the door shutting behind him.

Isabela folded her arms across her chest and surveyed the elf's two Fereldan friends; wondering at the strange company that Zevran kept since he had left the Crows. He had not told her much about either of them; except that they were both noble-born and the sworn enemies of Loghain Mac Tir. Isabela, who had collected more than her fair share of powerful enemies during her near-three decades of life, was able to sympathise.

At the present moment, both the handsome blond man and the girl with dark-red hair wore identical gloomy expressions. This did not suit Isabela, who preferred sly grins and chortles of laughter; and so she set herself the task of coaxing a smile from at least one- but preferably  _both_.

"Let's play a game," she announced, withdrawing a pack of cards from the billowing silk sleeve of her shirt. "I assume that you both know how to play Wicked Grace."

Flora nodded eagerly, grateful for the distraction. She slithered down from the bed to sit cross-legged on the floorboards, smiling hopefully up at Alistair.

"Come and play," she implored her brother-warden, who was clearly still on edge from the mention of the dreaded  _Howe._ "Please?"

Alistair glanced down at his sister-warden, who was gazing up at him entreatingly whilst Isabela knelt beside her; the pirate displaying an impressive amount of tan cleavage as she leaned forward to shuffle the cards.

"Fine," he said at last, lowering himself to complete the triangle. "But we can't play for coin, since neither of us have any. We're as poor as Chantry mice."

Isabela shook her head of glossy dark curls, flashing very white teeth as she grinned.

"Doesn't matter, sweet thing," she murmured, deftly doling the cards out into three even piles. "I have an alternate idea."

"Does it involve taking off clothes?" asked Alistair suspiciously, narrowing his hazel eyes. When the pirate chortled throatily and shook her head, the bastard prince was unsure whether he felt relieved or disappointed.

"No," Isabela replied, sitting back and crossing her legs; a pair of finely carved Antivan boots rising up around her thighs. "I propose instead these terms: that the winner may demand a kiss from the loser.  _One whole minute_. How does that sound?"

Alistair coughed, willing himself furiously not to blush as a furtive throb of excitement pulsed in his gut. He glanced quickly across at Flora, who seemed to be more preoccupied with extracting the last few grapes from the near-empty stem.

"We-ell," he muttered, inwardly cursing the hoarseness of his voice. "I- what do  _you_  think, Flo?"

Flora looked up, swivelled her eyes across to Isabela appraisingly; then gave a little shrug.

"It's fine," she replied amiably, popping another grape in her mouth. "Let's play."

Alistair could feel a tell-tale flush creeping upwards from his collar and thought desperately of all the  _least_  arousing things he had witnessed in the two decades of his life. Picturing the Deep Roads Broodmother was sufficient to halt the redness before it reached his face.

"Alright then," he croaked back, shifting slightly against the floorboards. "You only live once, eh?"

Isabela dealt the first hand and they began to play, the muffled sound of laughter and Orlesian music drifting up through the floorboards.

Flora, who had no sleight of hand and was incapable of maintaining a poker face, lost quite spectacularly in the second round. After displaying mismatched suits; she then made a painfully clumsy attempt to cheat and was immediately found out. Unable to escape defeat, she threw her cards down with a cackle and resigned herself to her fate.

Mostly by luck and a convenient pair of Angels, Alistair won the third round. His victory was short-lived; the dark haired Rivaini won the following match decisively with a card that seemed to materialise from the depths of her cleavage.

The game thus came down to a tiebreak round; bastard prince and pirate facing off over their respective hands.

Alistair looked down at the suits available to him; he had three Knights and a Dagger. The furtive throb of desire pulsed deep inside his gut once again, his insides seeming to turn momentarily hot and liquidous.

Not quite able to meet anyone else's eyes, Alistair swallowed and offered forth a losing hand of one Dagger, and one Knight.

The pirate let out a little giggle of glee, eyebrows shooting into her glossy hairline as she displayed a pair of Songs.

"Ha!" she breathed, triumphantly; her irises sparkling like twin onyx stones. "I win."

"Sorry, Flo," breathed Alistair somewhat unsteadily, shoving his cards back into the pile with clumsy fingers. His sister-warden gave an amiable shrug, swallowing the last few grapes.

"It doesn't matter," she replied cheerfully, lowering the empty plate. "You did well in the third game."

Isabela meanwhile had taken a deep gulp of wine, her dark eyes settling on where Flora was sitting several feet away.

"Ready, sweet thing?" she purred, dragging the tip of her tongue around her full mouth. "If your gentleman friend wouldn't mind counting the time? Of course, there is the risk he may lose track."

"Just to warn you, I've never kissed another girl before," Flora informed them both solemnly, her grey eyes earnest as Alistair almost choked on his hasty gulp of wine. "Is it any different from kissing a  _ma_ -"

She was interrupted by the dark-haired pirate lunging across the space between them; bearing a gaping Flora back down onto the floorboards and manoeuvring herself on top.

Isabela's mouth landed against hers, the Rivaini's lips working insistently even as her tongue probed at the startled healer's mouth. Flora hesitated only a brief moment before allowing her own lips to part, her tongue tentatively nudging against Isabela's. The pirate smiled, bringing up her fingers to stroke Flora's pale cheek.

Alistair's erection crashed almost painfully into his breeches, and for the span of a dozen heartbeats he neglected to breathe. He was so focused on watching the Rivaini woman's mouth pressing against his sister-warden's yielding lips, their tongues moving together in delicate motion; that he entirely forgot to count down the minute.

When Isabela's daring fingers slipped down to stroke Flora's small cotton-covered breast, she was met with no resistance from either Flora or Alistair, who was now surreptitiously gripping himself through his breeches. The pirate grinned, discovering that it did not take much stimulation to coax Flora's nipple to stiffness through the thin material. Isabela lifted her mouth a moment to appreciate the girl's flushed, open mouthed face; then pressed her lips eagerly once more against Flora's own.

"Underneath," ordered the Theirin prince in a thick voice that barely sounded like his usual tone. "Touch her."

The Rivaini smiled into the young redhead's mouth, needing no further persuasion. Exploratory tan fingers slid inside the cotton shirt, curling against the firm skin to cup a naked breast. Her fingers found the small, hard nipple and began to tease it further, prompting a little gasping breath to slip from Flora's mouth into her own. For several minutes the pirate kissed the fisherman's daughter whilst fondling her bare breasts beneath the shirt; moving from one to the other with practised caresses.

Giving the ripe flesh a final, gentle squeeze, Isabela withdrew with a wicked little smile, noticing Alistair reluctantly removing his hand from his breeches. Flora lay sprawled on her back, hair dishevelled and with a stunned expression on her flushed face.

"That was an  _enjoyable_  prize to claim, sweet thing. I'm sure your lover appreciates that soft mouth," purred the pirate, rising to her feet in an elegant motion. "I'm looking forward to showing you  _both_ around my ship."

"Oh," breathed Flora, awoken from her daze by the prospect of venturing on board one of the fabled vessels that she had only ever seen from a distance – or smashed to pieces on the Hag's Teeth. She sat upright, impatiently flattening her hair against her head with a palm.

"I want to see the mast. How big are the sails? Do you carry fishing nets? What kind of fish have you caught? I bet you could carry  _huge_ nets on a ship like that. Shark nets?!"

The pirate looked somewhat nonplussed as she fastened the top button of her shirt, before stooping to retrieve the cards.

"You'll have to wait and see," Isabela replied at last, offering a faint curling smile as she ventured towards the doorway. "Have a delightful night, sweet things."

"I'd  _love_ to catch a shark," murmured Flora dreamily as the lock clicked shut in the pirate's wake. "I'd go down in the history of Herring if I did that."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Thomas Howe does actually exist in canon – he's the youngest son of Rendon Howe (although not important enough to deserve his own DA Wiki page, poor sod). I know that Nathaniel and his father aren't close – in any sense of the word – at this point; so I thought it would be a little OH SHIT moment to have Howe's other son accidentally stumble across the whorehouse where Cousland and bastard prince are hiding. In my headcanon, Thomas is your typical spoilt young nobleman, and enjoys spending his father's money in Denerim's multifarious whorehouses and taverns.
> 
> Flora is a pretty open-minded young lady – in a later chapter, Isabela will tell Zevran that she loves country girls because they're so enthusiastic and uncomplicated in their desires.
> 
> Alistair DEFINITELY threw that game, lol


	214. Flora Asks For Trouble

Flora's musings were interrupted by Alistair reaching out for her across the floorboards; his eyes dark and thirsty as his calloused palms gripped her knees. They were alone in the rose-hued chamber, the soft noises of the Orlesian-themed evening drifting up from the floor below

"Lie back and part your legs," her brother-warden instructed, his voice thick with unspent desire.

"Wha-?"

"I want you.  _Now."_

Flora stared at Alistair in mild surprise, and then caught sight of the arousal tenting his breeches. The next moment she found herself on her back for a second time that evening, her brother-warden yanking down her woollen trousers with a combination of Theirin dominance and lust-fuelled haste. She caught a glimpse of his eyes as he knelt in the part of her legs; the usual kindness scorched away by the raw, primal heat of desire.

Within seconds Alistair had buried his face between her thighs, gripping her knees with calloused hands to keep them apart. Flora arched her hips against him, stifling an inappropriate giggle as he delved eagerly into her with his tongue. When her lover discovered that she was already aroused from the earlier attentions of the Rivaini pirate, it took a masterful effort to stop himself from spending in his own breeches.

Flora could feel the rough wood of the floorboards against her rear; and the unrelenting pressure of Alistair's fingers on her leather-strapped knee as he kept her thighs spread for him. It should have been uncomfortable, but Flora was aware of nothing but the gradually increasing waves of stimulation. She felt as though she were standing knee-deep in the Waking Sea, the incoming tide sending increasingly forceful laps against her thighs. Before long she felt her legs weaken beneath her, pleasure surging relentlessly upwards until she knew that she would soon drown in it.

Soon after Alistair focused his attentions on the part of her anatomy that the Pearl was named for, he felt his sister-warden's entire body shiver as her shuddering thighs clamped around his head. She was still gasping like a landed fish when he slid his length into her, delivering several hard thrusts before spending himself uncontrollably with a soft grunt.

Alistair collapsed against her, groggy but courteous enough to keep the majority of his weight propped up on an elbow. Flora, once again dazed and dishevelled, opened her eyes and stared at him. He was flushed beneath his olive skin, eyes bleary and unfocused.

"I love you," she said impulsively, reaching up to touch his ruddy cheek.

Alistair groaned, rolling over and pulling Flora onto his chest before stroking his hands up and down her back. His fingers meandered over her shoulder-blades, able to trace a line between each Peraquialus freckle from memory.

"Maker's Breath, there don't exist  _words_ to describe how much I love you," he breathed, almost reverently. "You're  _perfect_."

Flora, who had grown up irrevocably flawed in society's eyes due to her magic, was oddly touched. She reached up to bring Alistair's face down to hers, and he kissed her softly and with great tenderness.

It was in this compromising position that their assassin companions found them in some time later. Zevran immediately let out a squeal of delight, noting Flora's trousers bunched around her thighs.

"I _adore_  your youthful lust," he crowed as Leliana tutted in disapproval, eyeing their young healer beadily as she fumbled to fasten the buttons on her shirt. "Please, don't let us interrupt."

" _Florence,_ remember that you're  _Lady_   _Cousland_  now. Ladies don't let men grope them - half-naked! - on the floor."

Flora listened to Leliana's lecturing with dutiful obedience, while her brother-warden shot her small, adoring smiles from the corner of his mouth. He slid a hand across the floor to cover hers, his calloused palm resting possessively over the top of her fingers.

The bard had just begun to talk about the Howe retainers that had accompanied the arl's son to the Pearl; when Flora suddenly became aware of the sour taste of  _Blight_  congealing beneath her tongue.

_Where did that come from?_ she thought in confusion, putting her fingers to her lips.  _I didn't taste it rising in my throat._

"Well, Thomas Howe has left now none the wiser, so hopefully the danger is over for the evening," Alistair was saying, his voice steady and even. "Thank you for keeping a watch on him."

Flora stared at her handsome companion as he spoke, aware that her heart was beating very loud against her ribcage.

_How much of the taint have I accidentally withdrawn from you? We've been kissing since Satinalia, months ago._

_How much of the taint do you even have left in you, brother-warden? Will I be the only Warden left in Ferelden at some point?_

Feeling a lurch of sudden fear, Flora scrambled to her feet and went to the bottle of brandy on the dresser. To Leliana's slight distress, she lifted the glass stem to her lips and took several long gulps; feeling the alcohol distil into water as it slid down her prickling throat.

Alistair glanced up at her curiously, but then his attention was caught by the loathsome name of  _Rendon Howe_  forming on Leliana's lips.

"He's made a brief diversion to Amaranthine, according to Thomas," she was saying, peeling off her gloves a delicate silk finger at a time. "So our timings may be elongated slightly. Loghain won't begin proceedings until his main ally is present."

The bastard prince let out a soft huff of frustration under his breath, impatient at any delay – no matter how minor – to the initiation of the Landsmeet.

Leliana, whose sharp eyes had spotted the flicker of chagrin across Alistair's face, hid a smile. She, who had known the Wardens since Lothering, could remember a time when the young man had physically put his hands over his ears and chanted to block out any mention of either nobility, the Landsmeet or the succession.

"Well, if Howe knew that  _Couslands_ were present in the city, I imagine that he'd hurry back more quickly," the bard continued, resting the gloves on top of the dresser. "So we have that to be grateful for, at least. Flora, there is a perfectly  _adequate_ cup just beside you."

Alistair nodded, glancing towards his sister-warden. Flora had necked the entire bottle of brandy, the alcohol transforming on her tongue into a watery residue with the faint aftertaste of caramel.

The elf had meandered over to the window, peering around the half-ajar shutter into the evening. While the bard had been talking, he had detected the sounds of steadily rising voices from the docks below.

" _General Mac Tir is a traitor!"_

The indignant cry rose up over the rest of the babble, cutting through the mild evening air like an Antivan blade.

Immediately there was an outpouring of responses, outrage blurring with howled agreement. A curious Flora sidled over towards the window, only for Zevran to restrain her with a gentle arm.

"Not so close,  _nena,"_ he murmured, leaning back to stare through the two-inch gap between shutter and window. "You cannot risk being spotted."

The bard and the elf arranged themselves to peer out of the gap, while the Wardens had to be content with pressing their faces to the shutter and trying to guess what was happening based on sound alone.

"The Mac Tirs have royal blood on their hands!"

"Loghain is a  _hero!"_ came the raucous response, as more people spilled from the sweaty depths of the Pearl; curious to see the cause of the commotion.

"Loghain's closest ally is a traitor who _murdered_ the Couslands and usurped their seat!"

Alistair felt Flora tensing beside him. He reached out and placed a hand on the back of her neck, caressing her hairline softly with his thumb.

"Ssh, darling."

"The Couslands were murdered by their own dissatisfied retainers!" came the belligerent response. "Arl Howe stepped in to take charge. He was the teyrn's closest friend!"

" _Lies!_ Howe killed them for his own personal ambition!"

"The residents of Highever begged him to take over! The old teyrn ruled like a tyrant, thinking himself  _king in the north!_ "

Mouth opening, Flora made a little indignant lunge for the shutter; her eyes darkening rapidly as storm clouds gathering over the Waking Sea. Alistair intercepted his sister-warden just as her fingers clutched the wood, grabbing her none too gently. Flora squirmed against him with surprising strength for her slight frame, attempting to break free from the confines of Alistair's muscular arms. If it had been anyone else other than her brother-warden restraining her, she would have expanded her shield and launched them across the room.

When she failed to make him yield even an inch, Flora turned her face towards the shutter and took a deep breath; summoning air into her lungs. Alistair clamped his hand over her mouth, muffling the ensuing yowl of denial. Flora squirmed against him in frustration, wriggling in his arms like a particularly slippery fish.

Then all of a sudden she went limp and compliant, and Alistair peered down at her suspiciously for several moments. Flora gazed back up at him, her pale grey eyes gleaming and sad. Feeling his heart give a painful throb in his chest, Alistair loosened his grip fractionally.

This very quickly proved to be a mistake. Flora took advantage of the slight slackness of his arms to lunge towards the window, yanking back the shutter.

" _LIES! HOW DARE YOU- "_ she started, and then Alistair grabbed her with no gentility whatsoever; covering half her face with his calloused palm as he wrestled her over to the bed.

"Flo- " he hissed, as she wriggled against him like a Mabari pup, her bare foot colliding with his knee and her elbow digging into his chest. "Flo, calm down.  _Flora!_ Ouch. _"_

When she made yet another attempt to squirm away from him, Alistair nudged her back against the mattress and used his own body mass to hold her there; keeping her pinned with his hips and thighs.

Flora wriggled free with surprising strength and he wrestled her back down; ensuring by every measure possible that he did not actually hurt her. She gazed up at him in outrage, her eyes bright with hurt and indignation as his hand covered the lower part of her face, subduing her mouth. His other hand kept her arms pinned above her head, strong fingers easily encompassing her slender wrists.

Alistair exhaled hard, staring down at his sister-warden as she lay slumped beneath him, her hair dishevelled like trails of dark red seaweed across the pillows. He could feel her small breasts heaving against his chest as she panted, worn out from their struggle. It was not the first time that they had wrestled together in bed; but it was the first time they had done so without being consumed in the throes of pleasure.

Still, as Flora's indignant mouth protested against his callused palm; Alistair couldn't help but feel a single, liquid pulse of desire as he pressed her down into the mattress with her arms trapped above her head.

Then Alistair felt dampness against his fingers; he looked down and realised that Flora was crying. All lusty thoughts immediately fled from his head and he reached out to embrace her with a little groan. He drew her against his chest almost painfully tightly, as though trying to physically merge their separate bodies. Flora clung to him like a crab clutching a seaweed covered rock, digging in her fingers as though she might slip off and be swept away.

"Sweetheart," Alistair muttered against the top of her tangled head, his hands sliding beneath her shirt to run up and down her naked spine. "Ssh, don't get upset."

"But it's not  _true,"_ she croaked against his chest, the tears prompted by anger and frustration more than sadness. "What they're saying, it's  _lies!_ Howe murdered my parents."

"I know, my dear," he murmured back, kissing her neck feverishly. "And they'll know the truth soon. We'll tell everyone, just… not by yelling out of a window while we're meant to be hidden."

Flora huddled against him, drawing comfort from the warm, muscular bulk of her brother-warden's chest. Alistair slid over to sit on the edge of the bed, lifting his best friend easily as a child onto his lap, before embracing her once again. She rested her face against his shoulder, sniffling and damp-eyed, calming down.

"I'm sorry," she said into his shoulder, the words blurring together. "I'm so stupid."

"Don't be ridiculous," Alistair murmured, fingers clutching the back of her head and moving gently over the curve of her skull, his thumb rubbing in slow, comforting circles. "You're the furthest thing from stupid, my love. Don't fret yourself over it."

In the window, Zevran and Leliana parted from a business-like kiss that must have appeared deeply passionate to those gawping upwards from street level. The moment that Flora had flung open the shutter, her mouth forming a yell of denial; both assassins had moved smoothly to divert the attention of those watching.

Feigning that Flora's howl of outrage had come from her, Leliana had slapped the elf across the face; before Zevran had pulled the bard into a retaliatory kiss. The men and women on the street below had laughed and cat-called, the situation defusing as tension eased. Soon, the separate factions were drifting in different directions, lurching away through shadowed Denerim alleyways.

A slightly flushed Leliana turned towards the bed and opened her mouth to deliver a scorching reproach; when Alistair glanced upwards and met her eye with a steely glare, giving a slight shake of the head.

"Flo was upset," he said abruptly, feeling his sister-warden's racing heart as she exhaled unsteadily against his neck. "She knows she made a mistake. Don't lecture her."

It was not a request, but a command. Leliana let out a little sigh, then stepped forward and stroked her palm gentle and affectionate over the top of Flora's head.

"Make sure you get a good rest tonight," she said, not unkindly. "We're expecting Arl Eamon to visit tomorrow morning. Try not to shout your identity from the rooftops,  _chérie._  Howe's spies are still about."

Leaning down, the bard planted a kiss on Flora's forehead, compassion overriding her sensibilities. Flora, aware how close she had come to exposing herself through her own recklessness, reached out to grab Leliana's hand. She pressed it against her cheek, turning her face apologetically into the older woman's lotion-scented palm.

"I'm really sorry," Flora mumbled earnestly, raised by her strict Herring-father to offer contrition freely and without hesitation. "I know you and Zevran have been working hard to keep us safe. Please forgive me."

Leliana smiled despite herself, brushing her fingers over the younger girl's untidy hairline.

"No harm done,  _ma crevette._ You will soon be given the chance to say whatever you wish to Rendon Howe, without resorting to hanging out of a brothel window and shrieking at his children."

Flora immediately fell silent, having not yet considered what she would say when confronting the traitorous arl for the first time.

Zevran sauntered across the floorboards, his dark eyes warm with renewed interest. The kiss with Leliana – the first since their perfunctory coupling at South Reach - had piqued his curiosity. In addition, he was oddly touched by the kindness that the bard had shown to their mournful young healer.

"My reddest of roses," he purred, directing his charm towards the Orlesian bard. "We should leave the Wardens to rest. Do you fancy a quick nightcap with myself and Isabela? The quarters next door are reserved in her name."

Leliana agreed, with the stern instruction that both Alistair and Flora should get a good and  _uninterrupted_ nights' rest. To reinforce the message the bard blew out several candles as she headed towards the door, leaving a single flame flickering on the dresser.

Before following in the bard's wake, the elf's eyes slid reflexively towards the large, gilt-edged mirror hanging on the wall. Reflected in its polished surface, he caught sight of Flora, shoulders slumped. She was still sitting dejectedly on the edge of the mattress as Alistair stood up, moving around the bed to rehang the curtain that had fallen down during their struggle.

" _Mi florita;_ my little flower _,"_ Zevran murmured, crouching before Flora on the floorboards and reaching up to cradle her face gently between his hands, thumbs moving over her wet cheeks.

"You are impulsive, like me, but  _I_ can extract myself from most situations.  _You_  cannot afford to be so reckless."

Flora stared mournfully back at him, her grey eyes even more solemn than usual.

"Give me your word that you will act with more care? I have no wish to find another mistress to serve," the elf continued earnestly, the Antivan emerging in each word. "I am well content with the one I have."

"I'm not your mistress," replied Flora automatically, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "You're free now. Did you… forget?"

The elf hid a smile, shaking his head while assuming an expression of equal solemnity.

"No. But you didn't give me your word _, mi corazon."_

"Oh," she said, diverted. "I promise. To be more careful. And not be so impulsive."

Ever elegant, Zevran rose to his feet, leaning down to kiss Flora softly and chastely on the end of her Cousland-shaped nose.

"Good night,  _hermanita."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So my progressive hardening of Alistair (!) is coming to fruition in these Denerim chapters; both in his general maturing and his acceptance of responsibility. The Theirin dominance is also emerging more frequently – especially obvious in the bedroom department, h oho ho
> 
> So Flora's worst and most dangerous quality – her impulsiveness – manifests once again in this chapter, when she almost outs herself to Rendon Howe's son, Thomas. She needs to get her recklessness under control, lol. Part of it is a result of the natural naivety she's developed as a result of growing up in progressively more insular communities (the Cousland castle, Herring, the Circle) – she doesn't really think about the consequences of her actions.
> 
> I think Alistair would be good at comforting, just a general sense. Ironically, he's probably better at it than Flora, despite the fact that she has an actual spirit of compassion as an ally, haha
> 
> Did you count the number of Herring allusions in this chapter? Waking Sea eyes, seaweed hair, like a slippery fish, crab clinging to a rock... did you spot them all!
> 
> Lots of adult content in the next chapter, eeheheheee 


	215. I'll Show Them

The Orlesian music and laughter from below was muffled by the darkness; the faint smell of oven-baked sweetmeats drifting up from the kitchens. The lone candle still burning in their whorehouse bedchamber cast a faint ochre glow through the gloom.

Alistair divested himself of his clothing, sliding beneath the covers before recalling Leliana's warning that Arl Eamon was due to visit the next morning. Now accustomed to the practise of early bedchamber meetings, he clambered back out and retrieved a pair of thin linen breeches from his pack.

Flora had already slithered under the blankets, having stripped off everything except a shirt that Alistair recognised as one of his own. She was buried within the cushions, almost comically dwarfed by the oversized bed, an expression of deep concentration on her face. Alistair, who still savoured getting into bed beside the girl he loved, slid beneath the covers next to his sister-warden. He held out his arms expectantly and Flora turned to him, her eyes bright with inspiration.

"I hope three hundred Antivan piranhas consume your genitals!" she declared, then beamed. "That's a good one."

He stared back at her with no small measure of confusion.

"I'm thinking about what to say to Howe when I first see him," she clarified, and Alistair exhaled in mild relief. "Zevran and I were reading about Antivan piranhas earlier."

" _Zevran_ is an Antivan piranha," her brother-warden snorted, leaning back comfortably into the overstuffed velvet cushions as she settled against his chest. "Are you  _really_  going to say that, my dear?"

Flora was quiet for a moment, listening to the strong, steady thud of Alistair's heartbeat as her cheek rested against his chest.

"I don't know," she replied, in a small voice. "I'll probably just say something like  _why did you kill my parents?"_

Alistair pressed himself more tightly to his sister-warden beneath the blankets, adjusting himself around her body and wrapping his arm over her waist.

"I love you, Flo."

She replied in kind, feeling his lips nuzzling against her neck.

Alistair reached up to cup her breast with a calloused palm; feeling a throb of excitement deep in his belly as he recalled the Rivaini pirate's caress from earlier that evening.

"Alistair?"

Flora's voice drifted out of the darkness, a yawn following soon afterwards. She was fiddling thoughtfully with the silver locket around her neck; the one belonging to Alistair's mother. He had given it to her after the Satinalia ball at Redcliffe, midway through the journey to Orzammar.

"Yes, my darling?"

"You first told me that you liked me at Satinalia," she continued, her mind clearly venturing to the same place. "Why did you tell me then?"

Alistair thought for a moment, his fingers idly fiddling with her small nipple.

"Because I saw the way that people were looking at you," he replied honestly, feeling her yawn against him. "My uncle Teagan, the blasted elf. Some of the men from the village. I- I was afraid that someone would tell you they liked you before I got a chance to."

Flora remembered how her brother-warden had rambled his confession to her before the hearth, shy and awkward, convincing himself that he was mistaken even as he spoke. She had kissed him first, brief and impulsive; and then he had kissed her back forceful enough to bear her down onto the rug.

"It wouldn't have made any difference if they had," she replied, feeling a wave of tiredness rolling up through her limbs. "It was always going to be you."

Alistair felt silent for a moment, clutching his sister-warden tight to his chest. Before long, he felt Flora's breathing settle into the soft rhythm of sleep, her face turned against his arm. Closing his eyes, the bastard prince followed suit soon afterwards. Before he too fell asleep, he thought he heard a female voice drifting up somewhere from the wall beside him.

He woke in the middle of the night, with no sense as to the time, the room a uniform shade of grey. At first Alistair thought that he had been woken by the Archdemon invading his dreams – although that happened more and more infrequently these days – but as he conducted a quick self-appraisal on himself, he realised that this was unlikely. His heartbeat was steady and even, his skin warm and dry; he felt wholly rested in a way that he had rarely experienced even before the Blight began.

This was in no small manner due to his bed partner, whose presence appeared to be a talisman that warded off nightmares and ill thoughts. Although it was too dark to see anything save for the faint outline of the window; Alistair could feel the curve of his sister-warden's spine resting neatly against his own body, her head tucked beneath his chin and one of her small feet pressed to his calf. Flora slept like a child, mouth open and dead to the world; her fingers clenched into fists as though ready for a Herring brawl.

Alistair adjusted his position to fit himself more tightly around her, and then heard the distinct sound of a female moan coming from somewhere at the base of the wall. Adrenaline surged through his muscles as he prepared to surge up from the cushions to grab the sword resting against the bedframe – and then he heard a distinctly Orlesian-toned giggle that he recognised as belonging to Leliana.

Arresting his movement before it had begun, Alistair froze; before propping himself up carefully on an elbow and pricking his ears.

Sure enough, he could hear the blasted elf murmuring quietly in his Antivan purr. The words themselves may have been indistinguishable, but the lusty intent behind them was blatantly obvious. Leliana – for it  _was_ the bard, there was no mistaking that Val Royeaux inflection – replied quietly, her breath hitching in her throat.

The next minute the lay-sister began to moan softly, and Alistair's eyes nearly bulged from his head. He knew that he ought to stop listening – clearly there were some  _basic design flaws_  in the soundproofing of the whorehouse bedchambers – but instead he tilted his head in the direction of the noise.

The bard was whimpering now in her native Orlesian, and then there came a throaty and instantly recognisable chuckle. Alistair, eyebrows shooting upwards in incredulous disbelief, immediately identified it as belonging to the dark-haired Rivaini pirate.

Alistair allowed his mind to wander into the next chamber; envisioning the two women naked and writhing against one another. His breath caught in his throat as shameful fingers stole downwards, quickly unbuttoning the breeches to take himself in hand.

Some small time later, perhaps disturbed by the occasional bump of Alistair's fist as he pleasured himself; Flora yawned and shifted against him. Alistair's mind drifted to recollection rather than imagination, summoning the image of Flora wide-eyed beneath the Rivaini pirate, squirming with shy, startled pleasure.

Thrusting the blanket down Alistair reached out for his sister-warden, hands made clumsy with desire. Pulling up the shirt around her waist, he cupped her breast hungrily while sliding fingers between her thighs.

From the chamber next door, Zevran let out a little snort of triumph, his own hand resting lightly on himself as he reclined on the chaise.

"I told you he would do more than just grope her nipple," he said, glancing sideways to where the two women were curled up in an armchair.

"I still feel guilty about this. They deserve some privacy," murmured Leliana with somewhat unconvincing piety as she watched Alistair grope his dozing sister-warden though the specially designed mirror. In fact, the act reminded Leliana of when she had watched her old mistress Marjolaine lie with targets in order to extract information from them; voyeurism was a long-established cornerstone of the Orlesian bedchamber.

"No, you don't," retorted Zevran, reaching over to give the bard's heavy breast an amiable squeeze; his eyes fixed on Flora's body lying only yards away beyond the glass. Alistair was still determinedly pleasuring her while reaching from behind; yet the elf was desperate to offer some advice as to the inaccurate placement of the warrior's fingers.

"You're Orlesian, you must appreciate the  _aesthetic_ on display here. They are a most attractive pair."

Deciding to risk blowing their cover for the benefit of his  _carina's_ pleasure, Zevran cleared his throat and leaned forward, his mouth coming closer to the ventilation grid that allowed for the passage of sound between the two chambers.

" _Move your fingers a fraction higher,"_ he murmured, watching the bastard prince's reaction closely.

Alistair's face contorted in alarm and he accidentally jabbed Flora in the pelvic bone. Her eyes flew open and she let out a yelp, rolling onto her back in alarm.

"Ow," she said, and then watched in mild perplexion as her brother-warden clambered upright, dragging half of the bedding with him. "What're you doing?"

Alistair strode across the room, peering around the corner of the dresser into the mass of shadows concealed between the chest and the armoire.

"That Maker-blasted elf is in here!" he hissed, nostrils flaring. "I just heard his voice from… somewhere."

Flora yawned, sitting up and scratching her nose. She watched Alistair cross to the shutters and open them a fraction, as though the elf might be clinging gleefully to the wall outside.

"Are you sure?" she asked after a moment, absentmindedly tugging his shirt down over her bare knees. The single candle burning on the dresser cast just enough light to illuminate her handsome brother-warden's drill-honed physique as he strode about in half-unbuttoned breeches. Flora gazed at him with naked admiration for a moment; a shy flush spreading upwards from her collarbone while an entirely different type of heat surged downwards from her belly.

"Flo, help me look!" Alistair instructed indignantly and she clambered to her feet, almost tripping over the discarded bedding. He was peering down at the keyhole lodged within the main door, suspicion contorting his features.

"Zevran," yawned Flora, pulling open a dresser drawer and peering inside. " _Zevraaan,_  are you in there? Come out so Alistair can be cross with you."

Meanwhile in the voyeur's antechamber, Isabela was stuffing her fists into her mouth in an attempt to stifle her laughter. Leliana was making an unconvincing attempt to look disapproving; though she was too distracted by the bastard prince's statuesque physique to offer much protest.

"I would not fit in there," the offending party himself murmured in indignation as Flora shut the dresser drawer again with another yawn. "The little minx."

Flora clambered onto the bed and hung her head over the edge, peering upside-down into the shadows below. She found no elf, but did manage to retrieve a dusty wooden phallus.

"What's this?" Flora mused to herself, brow furrowing. "Alistair, what's this? Is it a… weapon?"

Alistair glanced around after a moment, hearing his sister-warden knocking something against the bedpost. As soon as he saw what she was wielding in her hand, he let out a squawk of horror.

" _Maker's Breath!_ Put that back where you found it, for the love of Andraste!"

Flora dropped it on the floorboards, confused. Alistair groaned, pressing his fingers momentarily to his forehead before continuing the search for the elf.

Not wanting to cause her brother-warden further distress, Flora raised her hand and summoned light to her fingers; the surrounding shadows chased away by a soft golden pulse. She could see her reflection in the silvery mirror on the wall alongside the bed, a flickering glow cast over her features.

As Flora sat on the mattress, she noticed something odd about the way that her Fade-channelled light was reacting with the long wall mirror. She couldn't quite explain what was  _strange_  about it; but she knew that the light was not being reflected back quite as it should.

Rising to her feet, she stepped closer to the mirror and brought her hand alongside it; casting light directly on its surface. Dim outlines gradually coalesced into clear shapes, an image forming through the mirror-window itself. From the small voyeur's chamber beyond the glass, an unashamed Zevran flashed her a wicked smile and gave a leisurely little wave.

The wide-eyed Flora gazed incredulously at him through the mirror, her stare moving across to where Isabela and Leliana were reclining on a single armchair. Only the bard had the grace to look abashed; the Rivaini pirate winked and blew Flora a kiss.

Gesturing Alistair over, Flora pointed accusingly before pressing her face flat against the mirror's surface. Crossing her eyes, she blew her cheeks out and leered at them through the glass.

"Maker, and  _this_  is the girl who is making history," murmured Leliana with a slight roll of the eyes. Flora stuck out her tongue through the glass, the ventilation panel transmitting Leliana's words between the chambers.

Alistair brought the candle over to the mirror, staring through the glass even as his sister-warden cackled. Six months ago he would have been outraged and fiercely embarrassed; even three months prior, he would have blushed and looked away hastily, before trying to cover the mirror with a bedsheet.

Now, made confident through a number of vying factors, the bastard prince gazed steadily back through the glass. His eyes moved over the two unclothed women appreciatively, his shaft giving a twitch of interest as he took in Leliana's pale body pressed against Isabela's heavier, coffee-hued figure.

Alistair turned back to Flora, who was snickering rather immaturely as she stood at the foot of the bed, his shirt falling to her knees.

"I  _knew_  I heard something last night," she was saying, waving fingers vaguely in the direction of the ventilation panel. "I thought it was ghosts. Or… talking mice."

"The elf wants to offer  _me_  advice?" Alistair half-snarled, insides slowly liquefying into a heady mix of anger and desire. "Does he think he could take you better than  _I_ could, Flora?"

Flora abruptly stopped laughing; gazing up at him with curious, grey eyes. Her brother-warden's face was set hard and blazing; and she could not remember the last time she had seen such raw determination writ into his features.

"Um," she said vaguely, with classic Herring eloquence. "Dunno."

" _I'm_  your brother-warden," Alistair breathed, standing close enough that she could feel his heated breath on her neck. "You sleep with  _me_  every night. I know your body – I know  _you,_ Flora, better than anyone."

All thoughts of tiredness fled from Flora's mind as Alistair slid an arm over her stomach from behind, sweeping her hair to one side before bowing his head to kiss the soft skin of her neck.

"Mm," she croaked in agreement, swallowing as she felt him already erect against the small of her back. "I wouldn't- I wouldn't disagree."

"I'm going to show them –  _all_  of them – how well I can give you pleasure, Flora," he continued against her skin, kissing the spot just behind her ear that always made her shiver. "Take off the shirt."

Alistair moved away to sit on the edge of the bed, knees spread and leaning forward; his eyes fixated on her like a hawk watching a field mouse. Flora, who had never been self-conscious, pulled the shirt over her head after a brief tussle with the sleeves. In slight awe, she realised that he had used her full name an unprecedented  _three times_ in a row.

Her brother-warden made a thick, appreciative sound deep in his throat, eyes moving over her unclothed body.

"You have no idea how much  _restraint_  it took to lie beside you for months and not touch you," he murmured, reaching down leisurely to unbutton his breeches. "I would wake up with you in my arms, and in those moments the thing I wanted most in Thedas wasn't to end the Blight, but to kiss your breasts and stroke you between the legs until you cried out."

As Alistair spoke he watched a blush rise to his sister-warden's face as the words had their desired effect; she was shifting from foot to foot and had clamped her thighs together to put pressure on her throbbing core.

"Come here, baby," he said thickly, patting his thighs. "Sit on my knee."

Helpless she went to him, letting her brother-warden position her deliberately on his lap; his erection nestled firm against her rear. Reaching up to cup a breast from behind, he suckled first at the lobe of her ear before biting it gently.

"I remember one morning on the road to Orzammar, I woke first next to you and your shirt had come undone," he whispered in her ear, rubbing his thumb over her collarbone. "Spread your legs for me, darling."

Flora obeyed him, heart thudding against her ribcage almost painfully as she felt Alistair's fingers sliding between her thighs. He had learnt how to stroke her while she simultaneously discovered what pleasured her most; they had spent many enjoyable hours at South Reach learning the type of stimulation that their bodies craved.

"I saw your bare breast," Alistair continued hoarsely, using his calloused thumb in slow circles as she arched her back against him. "And your little pink nipple. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."

He began to thrust gently with his fingers, while maintaining the steady caresses with his thumb. Soon Flora was squirming against him, mouth open and eyes shut helplessly as she felt the pressure building between her legs. He began to rock himself gently against her rear, feeling secretive little curlicues of excitement igniting in his brain.

"I – I..." gasped Flora, her brain crashing within her skull as all coherent thought fled. Her nerves felt as though they were thrumming with mage lightning; the pulsing between her legs was intensifying to almost unbearable levels as he continued to work her mercilessly with his fingers. " _Please-_  "

"Come for me, baby," he urged, a raw, ragged edge to his voice. "Let it happen."

She climaxed with a drawn out moan of surrender, her body shuddering against his as the muscles of her core tensed and contracted. He continued to stroke her though her climax, lips curling back over his teeth in a triumphant grin.

Flora collapsed on him, the strength drained from her limbs as she let her head dazedly loll back against his shoulder. As she slumped senseless on his thighs, Alistair ran his hands over her sweaty breasts, cupping them in his palms and caressing her nipples lightly with his thumbs.

"Are you alright, sweetheart?" he murmured into her hair, voice tender and considerate even as his arousal pressed insistently against her rear. "Maker, I could touch these all day."

When a slightly disorientated Flora gave a nod, Alistair's mouth curved into a fierce little smile.

"Good," he replied, voice thickening as he coaxed a nipple to stiffness with the ball of his thumb. "Because I'm not finished with you yet."

He bowed his head over her shoulder, dragging his teeth gently against her collarbone.

"Now, get on the bed."

Despite the tenderness of his tone, it was unmistakably a command. Flora's instinctual urge was to obey; she clambered off his lap with aching, sated limbs. Before she could remove herself to the bed, she felt Alistair's calloused palm striking her buttock in a little, stinging slap.

" _Ow!"_

"That's for your poor manners earlier, my darling," he murmured unseen behind her, tracing a provocative finger over the top of her rear.

"Which ones?" breathed Flora, feeling a sudden, deep throb of desire directly between her legs. "I have _lots_  of bad manners. Ask Leliana, I think she keeps a list."

Alistair paused a moment before replying, admiring the curve of his sister-warden's buttocks.

"The Rivaini pirate spent a long while fondling your breasts whilst you two were kissing," he replied, recalling how Flora had arched herself unconsciously up to meet Isabela's tan fingers. "And yet you didn't pay her back in kind."

As he spoke, Alistair gripped Flora by the elbows and steered her gently down onto the bed. In a matter of moments he had spread her legs, leaving her thighs bent apart. Stepping back to survey her, Alistair took himself in hand and began to stroke; taking some secretive pleasure in watching the flush rise to his sister-warden's face.

"Oh dear," she whispered to the ceiling, expression sulky. "Was I being selfish? Should I have touched her back? Nobody told me the  _rules_. It's not my fault."

Alistair let out an involuntary choked groan of lust, gripping Flora's thighs and pulling her to the edge of the bed. Licking his lips, he pressed a line of kisses up the inside of her thigh, along her pubic bone and back down the other side. Flora squirmed, the caress of his lips leaving a liquid trail of heat across her skin; tantalisingly close and yet excruciatingly not close  _enough._

"My sweet girl," he murmured, reaching out to stroke her with a single, teasing finger. She let out a little half-gasp of frustration, squirming slightly against the mattress. "I can't think of anything that would please me more than watching you  _return the favour_."

Having uttered these words, he crouched down and lowered his face between her legs, gripping her knees and bending them apart for easier access.

At the first confident touch of his mouth, Flora let out a whimper; her hands reaching down reflexively to make contact with him. The fingers of one hand tangled in Alistair's dishevelled golden hair, clutching at his head helplessly. As his tongue began its first exploratory probe, she arched her hips upwards to press herself wantonly against his mouth. Alistair slid his elbows beneath her thighs and lifted her towards him, increasing the pressure of his lips as he worked them against her.

Flora cried out and then clapped a hand over her face. She was still in the habits of South Reach, where they had needed to thrust away furtively in secret corners.

"Don't hold yourself back, darling," Alistair murmured, lifting his mouth reluctantly away from her. "We're in a whorehouse. I want to hear you moan for me."

He lowered his face between her legs once again and continued to make love to her with his lips and tongue, wanting to taste more of her sweetness. One sly finger stroked her gently from behind, probing one of Alistair's more secretive desires; while his tongue continued to lap audibly at the whorehouse's namesake.

" _Don't sto-oop,"_ she begged him each time he paused, fingers twisting urgently in his hair. "Please, Alistair."

"Don't stop what?" he asked cruelly, lifting his mouth and giving himself a few leisurely strokes. "You'll need to be more specific, my dear."

Flora, despite demonstrating extraordinary eloquence if the situation called for it, always resorted to the crude linguistics of a Herring native.

"Please do  _that_ more," she clarified, gazing up him entreatingly.

"Where?"

She pointed, blushing.

Grinning, Alistair stopped teasing his best friend, returning his mouth to her with an enthusiasm that was audible even from next door.

"He has impressive stamina," murmured Zevran some hours later with reluctant admiration, taking another gulp of wine.

The three  _voyeurs_ had abandoned their own efforts at lovemaking, too absorbed in watching the activities taking place in the other chamber.

"Poor little thing doesn't know whether she's coming or going," commented Isabela, as a dazed Flora obediently suckled on Alistair's proffered fingers. "He just needs to take her now."

"Speaking of  _taking,_ I hope you're going to take up Alistair's suggestion," replied Zevran, archly. "Naturally, somewhere where I can observe you and she together."

The elf leaned over to caress Isabela's cheek affectionately, his eyes dark and telling.

"Mm, she had lovely little breasts," replied the pirate, recalling the clinch that she and Flora had shared earlier that evening. "Kissed me back properly, too. I love girls from the countryside, so uncomplicated and lusty. Ah,  _finally."_

This was in response to Alistair positioning himself above his dazed companion, lifting her up by the thighs to better angle himself. Through a combination of determination and strategically applied pressure, he had managed to prevent himself from losing control during their prolonged foreplay. Now, as his sister-warden lay limp beneath him, sweaty hair plastered against her breasts and face flushed with arousal, Alistair was aware that he would not last much longer.

Through a lust-soaked blur Flora reached up towards where she thought Alistair's face was most likely to be. In that moment she could not remember a time before Alistair's naked body had been pressed against hers; the world shrinking around them like her own retracting shield.

He caught her hand and pressed it to his mouth, kissing the palm before drawing her finger within his lips. With his other hand, he pressed himself between her legs; pausing to stroke himself over every part of her. Flora let out a little whimper of frustration, arching her hips each time he deliberately passed over her without penetration.

The small part of Flora's mind that was still coherent realised that he wanted her to plead for it.

"Please," she whispered in a voice made hoarse from kisses; having never been too proud to beg. " _Please,_  Alistair."

He slid himself inside Flora on the second plea, penetration made easy by her plentiful arousal. Even before he had fully sheathed himself within her, he had begun to thrust in and out, lips drawing back over his teeth.

Alistair, despite exerting great caution and care with his sister-warden in their daily life, had always taken her hard during their lovemaking. The Theirin dominance emerged far more frequently in his character after he had first started to exert control in the bedchamber.

First he took her with her legs in the air, small breasts juddering with each deep stroke. Then he pulled her over his knee and delivered several quick, firm spanks to her buttocks; the corners of his mouth twisting upwards as he saw her made pink and helpless beneath his hand.

With strict orders for her  _not_ to touch herself, Alistair spread her on the bed and parted her thighs. The next few minutes were spent stroking a calloused hand up and down his length as he stared down at her; reminded of the times he had resorted to pleasuring himself to a glimpse of thigh or a flash of stomach. On the morning that his sleeping sister-warden had inadvertently exposed her breast to him, he had brought himself to climax three times over the hour. The third time, he had deliberately opened the tent flap a fraction; watching her nipple stiffen in the cool morning breeze.

Deciding that he wanted to feel her enthusiastic tongue lapping against him, Alistair next reached down and guided himself into her mouth. Gripping her head gently he thrust back and forth between her lips, letting out a crude blasphemy.

After nearly losing control as his sister-warden demonstrated the assets of a wide Cousland mouth; Alistair decided that it was time to take more decisive action. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he settled Flora on his thighs and angled himself between her thighs.

Then the prince began to thrust himself up into her, in a manner that deserved a far more primitive epithet than  _lovemaking._ She encouraged him to take her in the crudest possible terms, her hands groping at her own breasts feverishly. The memory of the dark-haired Rivaini woman fondling her nipples rose to her lust-blurred mind; the thought excited her, and she began to grind herself more fervently against Alistair, desperate for another release.

The next moment he granted it, driving himself into her while thumbing her most sensitive spot, considerate even in the depths of his own dizzied pleasure. She slumped forward and he lifted her bodily into the air; breath coming in raw and ragged gasps as he lost his last measure of restraint, driving himself erratically into her with teeth bared. When he finally allowed himself to climax, he let out a strangled cry and threw his head back, fingers tightening around her thighs. The force of his spending drove all higher thought from his brain; and he could do nothing for several minutes except cling mindlessly to her and take great gulps of air.

Flora, in the process of crashing down from the lofty peaks of pleasure, sprawled back on the mattress. She reached out for a cushion to hold on to, but made clumsy by the power of her climax, she accidentally knocked the stack of pillows onto the floor. Caught in a maelstrom of contrasting emotions, this suddenly seemed like a great and devastating tragedy and Flora let out a moan of pure despair.

Alistair, who had regained his senses more quickly, reached out to embrace her. His dazed sister-warden slumped against his chest, red-faced and exhausted; he stood, bringing Flora with him.

"Come on, baby."

Carrying his lover over to the window, he gripped her easily with one arm whilst opening the shutters with the other. Propping her on the adjacent velvet bench, he reached down into his pack for a clean square of cambric usually used for polishing weapons.

Leaving Flora in the window seat with her head back against the frame, Alistair went to the dresser. He poured a small cup of water from the ewer before dampening the cloth with the remnants; bringing both back over to his flushed best friend as she tilted her face gratefully to the night breeze.

Already far more composed than she – though to be fair, _he_  had not been the focus for the past three hours – Alistair placed the damp cloth on her forehead. Wrapping his fingers around hers to steady them, he helped her to bring the cup to her feverish lips.

"Drink, sweetheart," he murmured, careful not to tip the vessel too steeply. "Maker, I love you  _so_  much."

Flora smiled blearily at him, still dazed from his prolonged attentions. Her eyes drifted to the saltwater estuary, dark and flat as a mirror, reflecting shifting fragments of the cloud-veiled moon.

"I love you too," she whispered and an absurdly proud Alistair grinned at her, reaching out to pluck a strand of hair from her cheek. His gaze dropped down to her small, sweaty breasts; the stamina of youth propelling a new rush of desire deep in his groin. Her skin was pale and almost luminous in the moonlight, the nipple a soft smudge of pink.

Unable to stop himself, Alistair reached out to caress her, feeling a new, heady pulse of lust. His eyes dropped further, the breath catching in his throat as he sensed himself becoming erect once more.

"Flo, do you think you could… go again?" he asked thickly, thumb tracing the damp swell of her breast.

The only response was a soft snore and Alistair looked up to see Flora's head tipped back against the window frame; her eyes closed and mouth partly hanging open.

He carried his sister-warden back over to the bed and was about to pull the blankets up over her body when he came to an abrupt stop. Instead of covering her, Alistair reached down to take himself in hand; stroking himself in firm motions with a fist as he gazed down at his naked lover, whose deceptive vulnerability masked the best defences in Ferelden.

By now Leliana was fast asleep in the voyeur's chamber, somehow managing to convey elegance and refinement even when sprawled in a velvet armchair.

"I want that man in my bed," declared Isabela, rising slowly up and down on Zevran's lap as she straddled his thighs. "And I have unfinished business with that pretty little redhead."

"Unfortunately, Alistair has never looked elsewhere for idle pleasure, not even when Leliana had left herself practically naked for him to discover in the tent," replied Zevran, eyes half-closed as he rocked against the pirate's undulating hips. "But if you please  _mi florita_ enough, you might get him to touch you."

"Hm," said Isabela thoughtfully, watching as the handsome young warrior spent himself over his fingers with a groan, head thrown back and shoulders shuddering.

After cleaning himself with the supplies provided by the Pearl, Alistair relaxed on the mattress alongside his snoring sister-warden. Drawing Flora's limp and compliant body against his own, he slid an arm around her stomach. Alistair was unable to stop a smile as he felt the gently swollen belly that his fellow Warden was so defensive about.

_Too many pastries during breakfast at South Reach,_ he thought, tenderly.

Cupping affectionate fingers over the shallow rise of flesh; he pressed his lips softly to the back of her neck. Eventually Alistair allowed his eyelids to close, comforted both by Flora's warmth and the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Hahaha they've come a long way since Lothering, when Alistair felt Chantry-instilled guilt about putting an arm around Flora's shoulders, even with about six layers of clothing between them, lol
> 
> Lol also that was really just about 6000 words of straight PORN, with a brief SPOT THE ELF interlude!
> 
> So bedchamber meetings are definitely a thing for royalty – the king's private quarters would be known as the Privy Chamber and were definitely THE PLACE TO BE for unrestricted royal access. If you were a lady or gentleman of the PC, you'd get ALL THE GOSSIP lol
> 
> I think it's interesting how Flora said "it was always going to be you." Because I loved doing the memory flashbacks, I'm currently incorporating some 'alternate history' scenes conjured during the blood mage purging quest. It'll include what if there was no Blight – i.e neither Flora nor Alistair were recruited to the Wardens, and he was posted as a Templar to the Kinloch Hold. Also, what if Flora's magic never manifested in the first place and she never was expelled from Highever…? THEY ARE FUN TO WRITE!
> 
> I almost called this chapter Chapter 216: POOOORN


	216. A Shopping Trip With Bann Teagan

As predicted, the next morning's awakening was a rude one. The bastard prince eased open his eyes to sunlight streaming across the worn furnishings– the Pearl's salt-stained glamour seeming far more seedy in the light of day – and the firm, insistent rapping of a fist against the door.

"That'll be Arl Eamon," drifted Leliana's voice from the corner of the room. The bard was reclining in a velvet-padded armchair, her foot tapping idly against the floorboards. She was wearing clinging leathers that displayed her magnificently muscled thighs to their full advantage; her cleavage plumped and raised by a skin-tight tunic.

Alistair coughed, sitting up against the cushions as he glanced briefly across the chamber towards her. He was acutely aware that the last time he had seen Leliana, she had been entwined in the pirate's arms.

"I'm going to let him in. Are you both decent under there?" the bard asked, rising to her feet with seamless grace.

"Decent enough."

Although bare-chested, Alistair was still clad in his breeches beneath the blankets. He had woken thirsty during the grey hour before dawn; whilst pouring himself some watered wine, he had noticed that the temperature had dropped several degrees. Not wanting his snoring sister-warden to risk catching cold, he had manhandled her back into his shirt with some difficulty, her limbs flopping loose like those of a doll.

Now Flora lay slumped beside him with her head resting heavily against his elbow; for all intents and purposes, she seemed dead to the world. Alistair gazed down at her solemn, finely-carved face, which lost none of its deceptive austerity in sleep. Reluctant to disturb her, he reached out and pressed his thumb to the full swell of Flora's lower lip, feeling its soft, yielding compliance. A small twist of desire tugged at his groin as he remembered their marathon exertions from the previous night.

The sound of Leliana's voice greeting the Arl of Redcliffe and his brother broke through Alistair's mind; he forced himself to look away, to push the blankets back and rise to greet them both. He had not seen Eamon since they had departed South Reach over a week prior, and the young man was pleased to see that his uncle seemed in good health and spirits.

"Some unusual accommodation you've chosen here," Eamon commented, smiling up at his tall ward. "But I admit it  _is_  discreet. Hopefully discreet enough to stop the rumours from returning to Isolde that I was seen entering a Denerim brothel."

"What's that Orlesian method of execution – the one where they don't even wield the blade themselves?" Teagan interjected, trying not to laugh. "She'd be using that."

"The  _guillotine,_ " murmured Leliana, crossing to the window and leaning against the shutters. The morning sun caught her bright hair aflame, igniting each amber braid into a skein of bronze.

Eamon nodded, his eyes dropping to the slumped figure curled mollusc-like inside a shell of blankets on the bed.

"Is she asleep?"

Alistair glanced down, feeling great reluctance to disturb his sister-warden from any dream that appeared to be undisturbed.

"She's exhausted," he replied, somewhat evasively. "I'm… not sure why."

From the window seat, Leliana let out a tiny snort. She shot Alistair a sly smile and he coughed, avoiding her pointedly raised eyebrow.

"Alistair, we need to discuss a few last items in preparation for when the Landsmeet is called," Eamon continued, wasting no time in addressing the purpose of his visit. "Howe must be on his way back from Amaranthine, and we should be prepared for proceedings to begin any day now. There's a small tavern nearby – my men have cleared and secured it – shall we remove ourselves there?"

"An excellent idea," interjected Leliana, who had personally suggested and scouted the location beforehand.

Alistair glanced down at his snoring sister-warden, who was clutching a cushion to her chest and yawning. Her bare foot emerged from the tangled blankets, oddly vulnerable. The elf had not yet made an appearance that morning, and Alistair did not want to leave her on her own.

"We don't have to wake the lass," Eamon continued, under the impression that Alistair was reluctant to disturb his sister-warden's rest. "There are a few points to be addressed with her, but they are not pressing."

The perceptive Teagan had interpreted Alistair's reservations more accurately; seeing the anxiety flicker across the young prince's face as he adjusted the blanket over Flora's small foot.

"I'll stay here," he said after a moment, quietly. "To keep an eye on her."

This reassured Alistair not  _entirely_  but well enough. He washed quickly with supplies brought by the brothel's servants, before pulling on whatever he retrieved first from his pack. Reluctantly taking leave of his sleeping sister-warden by pressing a kiss to her rumpled head; he eventually departed in the company of Leliana and Eamon.

Sunlight streamed through the open shutters, illuminating small particles of dust suspended above the floorboards. The docks were teeming with life outside, the melancholic caterwauling of gulls rising above the polyglot of fishermen, merchant calls and sailor's chatter. Teagan seated himself in the armchair and leaned back. Spotting  _Exotic Fish of Thedas_ resting on the dresser, he hastened to retrieve it; desiring to focus his attentions somewhere other than the bed.

Flora woke a short time later, yawning and stiff-limbed, rubbing her fists into her eyes as she stretched against the cushions. The rose-coloured bedchamber gradually came into focus around her, as did the straight-backed figure of the Bann of Rainesfere, reclining in the chair beside the bed. She eyed him for a moment, clumsy fingers pleating folds of blanket in her lap.

"Did you sleep well?" Teagan asked courteously, and Flora nodded in some confusion; her pale gaze swivelling to take in the otherwise empty bedchamber.

"Eamon and Alistair are in a tavern nearby," he clarified, seeing the question rising on her face. "They're talking about the opening of the Landsmeet."

"Oh," said Flora, and then began to laugh. "I thought for a moment that I was really  _Madame du Poisson_ , and that you had  _bought_  me. Ha! I hope I was worth it."

As she cackled merrily Teagan swallowed, reaching up to run a finger between the collar of his tunic and his suddenly prickling neck.

Flora continued to snicker to herself in juvenile manner as she swung her legs from the bed, smoothing Alistair's crumpled shirt across her knees. The leather strapping around her sore leg had come undone during the night's exertions, trailing free like a ribbon.

"Because I'm very  _expensive_ ," she clarified unnecessarily, shooting a sweating Teagan a solemn look as she pulled the strap taut. "I cost one hundred fish."

As he manfully summoned a reply in a similar light-hearted vein, Teagan saw Flora's expression change; a flicker of uncertainty passing across her face. Abandoning the strap, she pressed a hand to her stomach and swallowed, suddenly looking rather green about the gills. The earlier humour had vanished, a cloud of apprehension settling in its place.

"Flora?"

Already feeling nausea rolling through her body like the incoming tide, Flora lurched up from the bed. She felt as though her head had been removed, spun violently and replaced back on her neck; the room blurring about her as her vision contracted. The queasiness was unfortunately all too familiar, but the accompanying dizziness was new and frightening.

Stumbling over the rug, Flora would have fallen if not for the steadying hand at her elbow.

"Here, sit down," instructed Teagan, steering her over to the window seat. "Lean forward, child."

Flora let him guide her onto the velvet bench, her forehead dropping between her bare knees as she gulped for air.

"I don't feel well," she croaked pathetically, beads of sweet erupting on her forehead.

A bowl was slid before her just as she felt the nausea rise inevitably; coughing up the meagre contents of her stomach along with a thin, watery acid. A strong hand rested itself between her shoulder-blades, providing firm and steadying pressure.

Then, as suddenly as it had arrived, the nausea made a swift departure. Flora's vision restored itself, the room coming into gradual focus once more around her. As she exhaled unsteadily, the golden mist rose prickling in her throat to repair the minor abrasions left by the expulsion of stomach acid.

"I'm - I'm sorry," she croaked apologetically, her voice huskier than usual. Teagan shook his head abruptly, offering her his own hip flask.

"Don't be sorry, my young friend," he murmured, watching her take several gulps. "I'm afraid it's ale; I know you're not much of a drinker."

Flora shook her head, grateful for the cleansing sharpness of the alcohol before it distilled itself to water beneath her tongue.

"It's fine," she replied dolefully, unhappy and slightly ashamed of herself for her lack of control. "Thank you for helping me."

Teagan's mouth curved in a wry smile and he shook his head, taking back the hip flask.

"Ah, Eamon took care of me many times when we were younger," he replied mildly, using a capable thumb to drive the stopper back into the flask's neck. "You mustn't say anything or my reputation will be  _ruined_ ; but I wasn't that skilled at holding my drink when I was a youth. Especially not when it came to Antivan wine."

Flora smiled wanly at him, though he could see that she was still miserable.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she confessed after a moment, rubbing the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "I feel sick, I keep getting hot all over. I feel dizzy for no reason. My body  _aches_ for no reason."

Teagan gazed back at her for a moment, pale green eyes searching her face. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully neutral.

"Have you told Alistair?"

Flora snorted, turning her face to stare out of the window at the docks below. She could see fishermen heaving straining nets onto the wooden jetty; the sunlight glinting off the jade-green surface of Denerim's saltwater estuary. Several fish had slithered free of the rope netting and were flapping on the dock, quickly set upon by several greedy-eyed gulls.

"No," she replied, shrugging a shoulder desolately. "He has enough to worry about."

Flora paused for a moment, watching the sea birds fight over the quivering fish as they gulped their last gasps of air on the side of the dock.

"Perhaps I've breathed in too much of the Blight," she continued in a small voice as she dropped her gaze to her lap. "I think that… maybe I might - there's a chance that I could be… dying?"

Compassion overcoming his natural restraint, Teagan reached out and took Flora's hand, clasping it tightly between his palms in an effort to convey reassurance.

"You're  _not_  dying," he said firmly, seeing her eyes rise hopefully up to his own. "Get dressed, and we'll go and look at the fish-market. We might spot something from your book, I've been reading about Tevinter snappers."

Flora beamed at him, her face lighting up with almost comical pleasure.

"Oh!" she breathed, eyes wide and excited.  _"Really?_  Yes, please."

_Her eyelashes, her cheekbones, her nose all tilt upwards,_ Teagan thought in a sudden, distinctly un-fatherly manner.  _She has no idea how comely she is._

Abruptly he dropped her hand, coughing to disguise the sudden thickness in his throat.  _She's half your age, you mid-life fool._

Denerim's fish market was located just off the main docks; a forest of wooden struts supporting a high, angled roof. Open to the elements to allow fresh air to circulate, wooden stalls were constructed maze-like over a stone tiled floor. Stray cats lurked around the gutters, fiercely squalling over scraps. The saltwater tang of the sea pervaded the air, strong enough that the scent could carry over the entire city if a westerly wind was blowing.

The day's business was already well under way, the fish traders alternating between bellowing their wares and gossiping with their neighbours. Tavern cooks came to peruse the fresh catches; boys attached to noble households came with entire handcarts to fill. Most knew each other by name, greeting acquaintances jovially while simultaneously eyeing up the selection of produce on display.

Flora, who had never seen such sights before, was in her element. Teagan had a hard time keeping track of her in the crowded aisles between the stalls – especially with her distinctive copper beech hair crammed beneath the woollen cap. She wandered with no particular aim in mind, her mouth hanging open in awe as she took in the quantity and range of seafood for purchase. A fresh sweat broke out on the bann's neck as he struggled to keep up with her, aware of his earlier promise to Alistair.

"Look, it's an  _Amaranthine squid!"_ she said excitedly as Teagan finally came to a breathless halt beside her, pointing towards a display of tentacled creatures. "A dead one washed up on the Hag's Teeth once. I don't know why it was so far from home."

"I've eaten stew made from squid," Teagan replied somewhat thickly, still not accustomed to the pungent smell. "An Orlesian recipe. Absolutely  _vile."_

Flora – as a veteran of Herring - barely registered the fishy aroma. She abandoned the squid as her attention was caught by submerged piles of molluscs, their shells dark and shiny as polished jet.

"Are you going to buy anything or just gawp at my goods?" asked the merchant irritably, scratching at his stomach.

"Just gawp," retorted Flora, reaching into the barrel and tapping her finger against an assortment of shells. Only a small number of molluscs responded to her tap, their valves clamping tightly together.

"Half of these are dead!" she said indignantly, withdrawing her hand and shaking the water from her fingers. "You've not stored them right."

The merchant's nostrils flared angrily, and he opened his mouth to retort. Teagan stepped forward hastily to steer Flora towards a display of rainbow trout.

"He was selling  _stale goods!"_ she breathed at him, clearly outraged. "Don't they have rules against that here? We would never sell stale produce in Herring."

Teagan, who had no idea about city regulations controlling the sale of seafood, confessed that he did not know.

Fortunately, Flora was distracted by the iridescent scales of the fish spread on the stall before her, swiftly abandoning her tirade.

They wandered the stalls for the next hour, eventually emerging into a smaller, general-purpose market. Housed beneath the same type of pillared roofing as the fish-market; it appeared to supply Denerim's dockside inhabitants with everything from fruit and vegetables, to children's toys and livestock.

Teagan had to quicken his stride to keep pace with Flora, who was fascinated by the volume and variety of goods on display. Although it was not as large as the market in Denerim's central square, there was more than enough on display to hold her interest.

Flora came to an abrupt halt before a toy stall, her mouth dropping. Her attention had been captured by a row of Orlesian porcelain dolls, bewigged and beribboned, sporting silk dresses, curled hair and beautifully painted pink lips.

"Oh," she breathed, eyes widening. "It's some little  _Lelianas_. Are these for grown people?"

Teagan slowed behind her, shaking his head. He watched Flora gaze at the array of elaborate dolls, keeping her nail-bitten fingers clamped firmly at her side in an effort to stop herself from touching them.

"No, they're for children," he replied, and Flora's eyebrows shot skywards.

"No!' she exclaimed, gazing in bewilderment at their tiny satin slippers. "But they're so  _nice_. In Herring, my doll was a rock in a blanket with a face drawn on it."

Another memory rose unprovoked to the surface of her mind; flashes of small, childish hands holding a doll similar to the ones on display before her. A petulant voice rose and then the doll was hurled through the air, its delicate features smashing against a nursery wall.

"Or maybe I did have one in Highever," Flora said vaguely, forcing the unwanted recollection back down into her subconscious. "Oh, look! Is it a Grey Warden?!"

She pointed at a cloth hand puppet slumped on the corner of a far shelf, clad in grey felted armour and with a tiny tin helmet on its head. The toy seller, who had been eyeing her with some suspicion, gave a small nod and interjected.

"Can't get rid of that thing. No one wants to buy the symbol of a traitor."

Sensing Teagan tense beside her, Flora opened her mouth to offer an indignant retort; when she suddenly remembered the promise that she had made the previous night.

_You said you'd be less impulsive. Look what happens when you open your big mouth without thinking._

With some difficulty, Flora bit back the impassioned denial before it could emerge, instead forcing a smile.

"Well, I think it's a nice toy," she replied rigidly, hearing Teagan exhale under his breath. "It has a very  _loyal_ bearing."

Flora had just turned away with chin held high, when Teagan dug a hand into his pocket and brought out a fistful of coins. A spread of gold, silver and copper coin lay across his palm; some tarnished and others winking bright in the sunlight. Flora looked down at the coin, and then back up at Teagan, confused.

"Eh?"

"Take some. Buy a few things," he murmured, nodding down at her.

Flora gaped at the bann as though he had sprouted a horn.

"But I don't have any money," she said, stupidly. "I can't pay you back."

Teagan had been intending to offer it to her as a gift; but, realising that she would never have accepted it, changed tactic.

"One of your brothers will settle your debt," he replied evenly, his voice encouraging. "I saw Finian win three hundred gold at cards in the Gnawed Noble last night."

Flora, who had no concept of how much three hundred gold was, eyed him with no small measure of hesitancy. Teagan smiled down at her and gave another little nod. The bann knew that he would never seek to claim any recompense from the girl to whom the Guerrins owed such a large collective debt.

Finally, Flora reached forward and carefully plucked up several silver and copper coins, deliberately ignoring their golden counterparts. Turning to the toy merchant, unskilled in the art of bartering, she held out her entire palm wordlessly.

Teagan hastily intercepted, negotiating a reasonable price and counting out the correct payment. The small puppet was wrapped in a cloth and handed over; Flora was unable to stop herself from letting out a small squawk of excitement.

"Oh!" she breathed, almost comically delighted. "I  _enjoyed_ that. Let's see if we can find something for the others."

Teagan was amused by this rare glimpse into what Flora might have been like had she grown up as  _Lady Florence Cousland,_ with the vast wealth of Highever at her disposal. He followed her around the stalls as she made various token purchases for her companions; none worth more than a few silver. A tiny glass snifter of Antivan brandy for Zevran; a lute string for Leliana to replace one that had snapped; a quill for Wynne and a flask of moustache oil for Oghren. Sten and Morrigan were more difficult, and she finally settled on purchasing each a sugared biscuit, on the premise that it might make them  _sweeter_.

Finally, with her last few coppers, Flora bought several sticky fruit pastries, handing the wrapped goods to Teagan.

"Thank you," she said solemnly as they wandered back through the crowds towards the Pearl. The sun had reached its peak and was starting on a slow descent towards the western horizon, the mellow light of afternoon diluting the green estuary and blurring the sails of the tall ships.

"These are for you, and for your brother. And for my brothers, and Arl Bryland."

"And what of you, child?" Teagan interjected, steering her out of the way of an approaching handcart.

"What?" Flora replied, preoccupied with clutching her purchases to her chest. Her bundled hair was also trying its best to repel the cap from her head; she could feel sweat prickling on her forehead.

"You didn't buy anything for yourself."

Flora gave a little shrug, nearly dropping the quill and lute string as she did so.

"Don't need nothing," she replied cheerfully in typical Herring vernacular, as they passed beneath the enamelled entrance sign of the Pearl. "And the things I  _want_  can't be bought in the market."

_The Blight ended. The Archdemon dead. And Arl Howe's head._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Aaaah such a nice wholesome chapter compared to yesterday's 6000 words of DEBAUCHERY! 
> 
> So Flora is starting to run the gamut of pregnancy symptoms now, but she's still in the Land of Denial. She actually is afraid that she might be getting sick – that the amount of taint she's inhaled over the months is starting to overcome her body's natural defences.
> 
> This chapter is inspired by the DLC pack where you buy your companions presents! I changed most of them to match up with Flora only having a small amount of coin (so a lute string rather than an actual lute for Leliana, etc), but I kept the Grey Warden hand puppet for Alistair because it was cuuuuute. It made me laugh how noone wants to buy it because Loghain's been slagging the Wardens off though hehehehe
> 
> Also, I know Val Royeaux has a gallows, but THEY DEFINITELY HAVE TO HAVE A GUILLOTINE TOO, right?


	217. Politics and Presents

When they had reached the Pearl's upper passageway - thankfully deserted due to the early hour - Flora stopped abruptly, clamping her gifts to her chest with one arm. Turning around, she reached up with the other to embrace the startled bann, impulsive and grateful.

"Thank you," she said, aware that he had taken her out to the markets to distract her from her earlier melancholy. "For being kind to me."

Teagan patted her on the back, inwardly furious as he felt his body tensing like an inexperienced adolescent. As one of Ferelden's most erstwhile eligible bachelors, he was accustomed to receiving copious female attention; and had always prided himself on retaining calmness and composure in all manner of circumstance. Yet this clumsy embrace, from a  _teyrnina_  who carried herself like a fisherman's daughter, broke down the bann's defences and he found himself growing flustered.

Then Flora withdrew, the corners of her mouth reflexively turning upwards as she felt the pull of her brother-warden in the bedchamber beyond.

With customary prescience Leliana opened the door just as Flora was about to rap her knuckles against it, the bard stepping back to allow them both inside the rose-coloured bedchamber.

"See, Alistair," murmured Arl Eamon, who had been seated patiently with fingers steepled in the stuffed armchair. "I  _told_  you that she would be fine with my brother. No need to get yourself worked up."

Alistair, who had been pacing the confines of the small chamber with a face like thunder, turned abruptly as Flora and Teagan entered. Immediately he strode across the room and embraced his sister-warden in a vice-like grip, his chin clamping down protectively against the top of her head.

Flora exhaled unsteadily as the edge of Oghren's moustache oil dug itself into her ribcage; Alistair was clutching her so tightly that it almost seemed that he intended to press her physically into his body.

"Alistair, I can't see," Flora said eventually, voice muffled as the cap slid down over her face. "Or breathe."

"Sorry," her brother-warden murmured, reluctantly loosening his grip a fraction. "You were gone for ages; I was worried. What's all this stuff?"

"I'll show you in a bit," replied Flora, sensing Eamon hovering at the periphery of her vision. She extracted herself with some difficulty from Alistair's grasp, as Leliana rolled her eyes and muttered something along the lines of  _she's the best defended of us all._

"Florence, you won't need to speak at the opening of the Landsmeet," Eamon said, as Alistair carried Flora's wrapped purchases courteously over to the bed. "Your appearance alone should be enough to disconcert Loghain."

"My  _face_  will disconcert him? It didn't at Ostagar."

Flora recalled the look of contemptuous derision that had contorted the general's features whenever he had bothered to spare her a glance. She still had not forgiven him for once testing the strength of her barrier by lunging across the tent towards her with great-sword raised.

"Believe me, child, it will when you appear alongside your brothers," Eamon replied, as Leliana gave a slight nod. "Anyway, after the opening of the Landsmeet there will follow the presentation of evidence and witnesses to both support and contradict the presence of a Blight."

"Loghain won't be convinced that there's a Blight until the Archdemon swoops down and bites his head off," Alistair commented lightly, a thread of steel running through the jocund words.

"Regardless," Eamon continued, watching Flora sit down on the bed and remove the woollen cap. Her hair fell out in a sweaty bundle over her shoulders, and she shook her head like a Mabari to loosen it. "You won't need to speak during the evidence, either. But at the closing statements on the final day, we  _would_ like you to speak."

Her fingers caught in the midst of detangling her hair, Flora glanced across at Leliana. The bard was leaning artfully against the dresser, a picture of casual elegance. Meeting Flora's eye, she gave a slight nod, undetectable to anyone else.

"Why me?" Flora asked after a moment, carefully. She did not finish her sentence, but it was writ clear on her indignant face.

_I did my bit; we gathered an army. I thought the nobles would take care of the politics. I've never experienced politics and I hate it already._

"It's not going to be easy to convince the rest of the Landsmeet that it is a  _true_  Blight, and not just a slightly larger Darkspawn incursion than unusual."

Teagan took over explanation from his elder brother; the bann speaking earnestly as the arl poured himself a glass of wine and downed it in several gulps.

"Loghain has done a good job of persuading Denerim that the Wardens are traitors. Since it's been six months and the Darkspawn horde has not yet appeared on their doorstep, they're inclined to believe him."

"Because it's been too busy ravaging the south, including Mac Tir's own teyrnir," muttered Alistair, the dark clouds returning to mass over his face.

"But what about the southern nobles, who came with us? And the refugees?" interrupted a belligerent Flora, her Herring practicality rebelling in the face of such irrational denial.

"City nobles have always looked down upon us rural counterparts as reactionary and easily panicked," replied Teagan, his voice even. "I've experienced such attitudes towards myself many times. And aye, the refugees are causing ill rumours and unrest; but the nobles' district is a long way from where they tend to cluster. It's easy to dismiss what you choose not to see."

Flora scowled, pleating folds of blanket on her lap as she sat on the edge of the bed.

"I hate politics," she hissed after a moment, turning her pale grey stare from one Guerrin brother to the other. "Why won't they just  _help_  us? In Herring, when something needs to be done, we  _do_  it."

"Hate it or not, we must play at it until we get the support of the Landsmeet," continued Eamon, replacing the chalice on the dresser. "So we'd like you to deliver this speech during the closing statements."

Flora reached out and took the long roll of parchment, her brow furrowing as her eyes moved over the lines of handwritten text.

"I can't read this," she replied, nonplussed. "The words are too big."

"Alistair has agreed to help you memorise it," Eamon replied, glancing towards the door as two Redcliffe retainers entered unobtrusively. "Will you be able to learn it in a week?"

Flora nodded dolefully, grateful for the warmth of Alistair's thigh against her own as he sat beside her on the bed.

The Guerrin brothers prepared to take their leave, the horses waiting below to transport them back to the noble district on the far side of Denerim. Just as they were about to depart, Eamon caught Alistair's eye, gazing at his old ward with a mixture of emotions crossing his face.

"Alistair, you understand that if our bid wins the Landsmeet's support, you will become king?"

Flora felt her brother-warden tense beside her, but when Alistair did reply his voice was steady and even.

"I understand."

They waited for the usual derisive comment to follow, the familiar complaint that he had never wanted this; but there was only silence in the wake of Alistair's words. Eamon flashed a lightning quick glance at his brother, who inclined his head fractionally.

As the door closed in the Redcliffe contingent's wake, Flora felt the warmth of her brother-warden's palm as he clasped her hand, fingers entwining in their familiar fish-rope ritual.

"What  _can't_  I do with you at my side, Flo?" he murmured, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek. "Now, what's in all these packages?"

Flora beamed, tucking one foot beneath her rear and reaching down to retrieve the wrapped bundles.

"I bought things," she replied proudly, the act of purchasing goods with coin still a novelty to her. "Leliana, I got you a present."

The bard drifted across the room, her pale blue eyes alight with interest. She sat herself down in the armchair beside the bed, watching the young healer rummage through the packages until she had located the object of her desire.

"Here," Flora said eventually, holding out a length of sheep-gut lute string wrapped around a wooden spool. "This is for you."

Leliana reached out to receive the gift in the centre of her palm. She gazed down at the string, which was the correct thickness to replace the one that had snapped back at South Reach.

"This is a  _G_ string," Leliana breathed, and although the bard was well-versed in maintaing a neutral expression, the corners of her mouth were twitching. "How in Andraste's name did you remember that?"

Flora shrugged; she had overheard Leliana complaining about it one morning whilst they were breaking their fast in the great hall.

"Just did. Is it the right one?"

" _Oui, ma petite."_

Leliana rose elegantly to her feet and crossed to the bed, crouching to kiss Flora twice on both cheeks. Flora, who never knew how to respond to this typically Orlesian gesture, sat placidly until the bard had retreated back to the armchair.

Next, she reached down into the next package, groping around until she had slid her hand into the base of the puppet.

"Alistair," she intoned with mock solemnity, catching her brother-warden's eye. "Please let me introduce you to the  _third_ Grey Warden in Ferelden!"

She withdrew the puppet and danced it around on his knee, wriggling her fingers to move its tiny felt-armoured arms back and forth.

" _Die, Darkspawn!"_ Flora squeaked in falsetto, the puppet contorting itself into unnatural shapes on Alistair's thigh.  _"Watch me take down an ogre!"_

Alistair laughed out loud, a grin curving his mouth and creasing his eyes as he reached out to lift her hand incredulously.

"It  _is_ a little Warden," he murmured, feeling its tiny tin helmet. "Maker, it's even got the griffon on its chest!"

Flora slid it off her hand and passed it over to him; Alistair inserted his own fingers and made the puppet do a little bow.

"Warden-Commander Cousland!"

" _Acting,"_ Flora reprimanded the puppet sternly and Alistair snorted, lifting the tiny Warden towards her face.

She dutifully pecked it on the front of its helmet, and then beamed up at Alistair. He smiled back at his sister-warden, gaze brimming over with tender affection.

Resting the puppet on his knee, Alistair slid his fingers into Flora's hair and brought her face towards his own; narrowing the space between them inch by inch until his mouth landed gently on hers.

When he finally pulled away, Flora was breathless and red in the face; her heart throbbing insistently against her ribcage. Alistair stared down at her with eyes that were heavy-lidded and desirous.

"Thank you," he said, voice left hoarse by their kiss. "For… the gift."

Leliana, who had averted her eyes decorously during the Wardens' clinch, let out a delicate cough.

"May I suggest that you begin to familiarise yourself with the closing statement speech? If the Landsmeet opens in several days, it'll be only a week before you have to deliver it."

Flora nodded, taking a deep breath to gather her composure. Alistair retrieved the scroll of parchment from where it had fallen into the floor, then cleared his throat.

" _My name is Florence Cousland, daughter of Highever,"_ he began, enunciating the words slow and clear.  _"Warden-Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens."_

"My name is Florence Cousland, daughter of Highever," repeated Flora dutifully, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. " _Acting_ Warden-Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens."

"Don't self-edit,  _ma chérie,"_ interjected Leliana pointedly from the armchair.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So lots of head-canon things purely made up by me in this chapter! First of all, the title of 'teyrnina' to refer to a teyrn's daughter – following the linguistic convention of teyrn, teyrna, teyrnina; arl, arlessa, arlina… MADE-UP LINGUISTICS.
> 
> I've also elongated the Landsmeet to reflect its historical counterpart in reality, where nobles would meet up for several weeks to discuss a key issue (the closest counterpart I can think of are the Medieval Great Councils, summoned in emergencies). So in my head-canon, the Landsmeet is going to take about a week!
> 
> This leads me to something that I don't actually understand – the timespan of the game. In canon, it takes place between 1-2 years apparently! I don't get how Loghain would not grasp the reality of the situation during that time – how could he still be in denial for that long when the Darkspawn have literally fucked most of southern Ferelden with a spiked dildo? I obviously don't have a strong enough grasp on canon in that area so please enlighten me if anyone knows the answer! Anyway, my story takes place over a more compressed time frame – with reference to the DA calendar, Chapter 1 took place in Kingsway, and it's now Cloudreach; so about eight months have passed.
> 
> Lol Flora is displaying some pretty impressive hypocrisy here – she's not exactly one to talk about people being in denial and missing the obvious! Taken a look at your own STOMACH recently, Florence? That's not just a big dinner, hahaha
> 
> Also h oho G string, I couldn't resist


	218. Zevran Confesses His Desire

Several hours later, the sun was nestling beneath the horizon and Flora had memorised the first three paragraphs of her Landsmeet closing speech. The Pearl had flung open its doors to receive the evening's first patrons, and already the sound of music and laughter was drifting up from the ground floor.

Leliana had ventured down to the kitchens to retrieve some food; recruiting Alistair to help her carry the drinks. Flora was sitting on the window seat with bare feet propped up against the wooden shutters, peering out at the sea estuary below. Used to the petulant restlessness of the Waking Sea, Flora was still fascinated by the placid nature of the Amaranthine Ocean. Its surface was as smooth and unruffled as green glass, dotted with a flotilla of fishing boats returning from a long day on the open water.

She settled her eyes on one small vessel in particular, resting her cheek against the window frame. It came to a bobbing halt alongside the jetty and a young boy went running forward to receive the flung mooring rope. After securing the boat, the men began to unload the day's catch; straining nets spilling out over the stone dock alongside buckets of live crabs. One of the older men had a bristling grey beard that reminded Flora of her Herring-papa, and she beamed reflexively down at him.

He caught sight of Flora and shot her a scowl in return, clearly assuming that she was one of the Pearl's resident workers. So absorbed was she in watching the fishermen unload their catch, that she barely flinched when Zevran slid in through the window above her; landing like a cat on the rug beside the bed.

" _Mi sirenita,"_ he murmured, dusting invisible flecks of dirt from his leather tunic. "How has your day fared? I apologise deeply for my absence; I was making a few enquiries in the face of… the events that occurred yesterday."

Flora smiled at him, grateful for the distraction.

"I've had a good day," she replied, pushing herself off the window seat as Zevran strolled over to the dresser and poured himself some wine. "I went to the market, I bought something for you."

"You bought something for me?" the elf repeated, brow furrowing as the chalice paused halfway to his mouth. "But… I have nothing for you in return."

She squatted beside the crumpled remains of the packages, digging through them until she found the wrapped glass snifter. Her knee gave a little grimace of protest as she rose, unhappy at the day's prolonged exertions.

"That's fine," Flora replied, handing him the small package before returning to sit on the window bench. "I don't want nothing in return."

Zevran shot her a strange look, deft fingers making quick work of the paper and string. Before long, the small glass vial lay on his nut-brown palm; the liquid within a rich shade of honey.

Loosening the glass stopper, the elf brought it to his nose and inhaled. For a moment, he wore an expression similar to the one Flora had sported while watching the fishing boats on the estuary. His eyes closed for a moment, conjuring visions of orange trees and dusty streets, the gaudy blooms of  _pulsatilla_ flowers clinging to crumbling sandstone walls; the pungent smell of the leatherworkers mingling with the characteristic spiced-honey aroma of Antivan brandy.

Zevran opened his eyes and blinked, taking a moment to rouse himself from the vision of home.

"When I smell the salt," Flora offered quietly, waving a vague hand towards the seawater estuary outside. "It's almost like I'm back in Herring, if I close my eyes."

The elf swallowed, hastening to busy himself in order to arrest any other emotion that might have been rising in his throat.

"How much was it?" he replied in a business-like tone, reaching for the coin-purse he kept at his belt. "I will recompense you, my Rialto lily."

Flora eyed him sternly, prying a loose splinter of wood free from the window frame.

"It's a  _gift,"_ she replied belligerently. "You don't need to do anything except just… take it."

Zevran slid the small glass bottle within his leathers, a strange expression contorting his clever, fine-boned features.

"I apologise for my odd reaction,  _nena,"_ he murmured, coming to sit beside her on the bench. "I am unused to receiving such things, due to my background."

Flora, who had also grown up with little of her own, understood well how this felt and nodded solemnly.

The elf gazed at her for a long moment with dark, unreadable eyes, and then abruptly reached up to his ear. After fiddling for a moment, he withdrew the golden loop that had formerly been embedded in the lobe.

"Let me gift you something too," he breathed, taking her hand and placing the earring in the centre of her palm. "And, as with yours, I expect… nothing in return. It is merely a sign of the inestimable regard that I have for you,  _mi sirenita."_

"Thank you," Flora replied politely, tucking the jewellery carefully away inside her shirt. "I'll take good care of it."

Either unable or unwilling to stop himself, Zevran reached out and took her empty hand, pressing his lips against her palm. The next moment he had begun to move his mouth up towards her inner wrist in a trail of feather-light kisses.

"I'm sorry," he murmured desperately against her skin. "I have tried  _so_  hard to resist this,  _nena."_

Flora watched the elf kiss his way up the inside of her arm, wondering with mild perplexion how best to proceed. While she was lost in thought, Zevran pressed his lips feverishly against her collarbone, inwardly furious at his own lack of control.

Unsure what else to do, Flora reached out and rested her hand on his head, gently and without rancour. It was a soft, almost motherly gesture – and it stopped the elf in his tracks. Zevran raised his distressed face, contrition writ stark across his features. Abruptly he withdrew, quick as a whip, an apology already rising in his throat.

"My little flower, I- "

Flora interrupted him by bowing her own head low; her forehead practically touching the velvet bench.

" _Don't._ You never need to say sorry to me for anything," she whispered to the worn fabric, feeling his startled gaze on the top of her head. "Alistair and I owe you so much; you've probably saved our lives a dozen times each by now. I'm so grateful that you're with us."

Zevran looked down at her a moment longer; she peered up at him through dishevelled dark red hair, then smiled hopefully. Already rueing his temporary loss of restraint, the elf leaned forward and pecked her in the centre of the forehead.

"Forgive me,  _mi hermanita_ ," he purred, the normal insouciance returning to his tone. "The scent of my home city clearly stoked an  _inappropriate_ fire in my loins. Tell me, are you going to tell your bastard prince about my little…  _indiscretion?"_

"I don't think there's anything to tell," Flora replied mildly, then gave him a slow and comically exaggerated wink. The elf gazed at her in mild alarm.

" _Cara,_ you look like you're having a seizure. Please, never do that again - I was about to call for medical assistance."

Flora cackled, reaching out for the scroll of parchment left by Arl Eamon.

"Would you help me with this? I have to deliver it at the closing session of the Landsmeet."

Zevran took it, grateful for the distraction.

"Let's see, how does this begin?  _I am Florence Cousland, a naughty little minx from Highever-_  "

She smacked her fingers against his knee in feigned indignation.

"Don't put that sentence in my head!" she retorted, widening her eyes reproachfully. "Anyway, it's not true, I am a  _good_ girl. After all, my middle name is  _Chastity."_

The elf let out a cackle of incredulous laughter, his dark eyes flashing wickedly.

" _Nena,_ a  _good girl_  would not let anyone do what I saw Alistair doing to you last night. I'm not even sure that's  _legal_ in Ferelden."

Flora maintained her sanctimonious expression for a moment longer, then crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him.

"Although I suppose if he  _does_  claim the throne, he can do whatever he wants," Zevran continued lightly, his eyes running down the parchment. "What does it feel like to be made love to by the next King of Ferelden,  _carina?"_

She shrugged, jabbing his knee impatiently with her toe.

"Dunno. Test me on the second bit, I think I've forgotten it already. Thanks for putting  _I am a naughty little minx from Highever_ in my head, by the way. If I say that in front of the Landsmeet, it's  _your fault."_

A short while later Wardens, elf and bard were positioned around the chamber, consuming a chicken that had been prepared for them by the Pearl's kitchens. The noise of the whorehouse had by now become almost mundane; the laughs, groans and giggles blending into a soft miasma in the background.

Closing the window shutters against the cool night air, Leliana lit the candles and illuminated the room in pools of amber. She settled back against the armchair, looking beautiful and aloof, orange hair almost luminous in the firelight as she gnawed delicately away at a thigh bone.

Alistair was leaning against the bed, sitting on the floorboards and responsible for at least half of the chicken's consumption. Zevran, who approved of a hearty appetite but conversely had the feeding habits of a sparrow, watched the bastard prince lick the grease from his fingers with a little grin.

A moment later, the elf turned towards the window seat, where Flora was wedged with a forlorn plate of vegetables.

"Are you sure I can't tempt you,  _nena?"_ Zevran purred, waving a chicken leg in her direction. "It's still hot. And  _juicy."_

To her intense annoyance, Flora felt her stomach curdle inexplicably once again.

"No," she replied, perturbed. "I don't… I don't fancy it for some reason."

Alistair shot her a slightly perplexed glance.

"But you love chicken. I remember you eating a whole one pretty much on your own at Eamon's birthday celebration."

"I know!" Flora retorted, indignantly. "It's very annoying. I just… suddenly don't want it."

There followed a few minutes of quiet as they resumed eating, and then Leliana let out a piercing squeal of alarm.

"Flora! What in the Maker's name are you  _doing?_ Those are the raw vegetables to be wrapped and stored!"

Flora, who was halfway through a cold potato, clutched it defensively between her fingers as though the bard might lunge forward and steal it.

"I like it," she replied stubbornly as Alistair gaped up at her in alarm.

"But it's  _raw._ Wait, have you eaten the raw turnip as well?!"

Flora made a futile attempt to hide the evidence, but Leliana's appalled eyes were too quick.

"For the love of Andraste!" she hissed, incredulous. "They weren't even washed! They were covered in  _dirt_."

"I know," replied their young healer, defiantly. "It tasted  _good._ I can't explain why, I just… really wanted to eat them."

The chamber fell into confused silence for a moment; elf and bard shooting quick glances towards one another as Alistair gazed anxiously up at his sister-warden.

"I paid a visit to your brother earlier,  _mi corazon."_

Zevran's deliberate comment broke the pause and Flora turned to him in relief, hoping that the focus would now shift away from her. In truth, she had also been somewhat disconcerted by her sudden aversion to chicken, and was grateful for the elf's distraction.

"Is Finian alright? Fergus?"

"Eager to get their hands on Howe, as you can imagine," Zevran replied smoothly, sliding his plate away across the floorboards. "But actually I was asking him about you,  _carina._ Your earlier comment reminded me; I was curious as to the origin of your middle name."

"Chastity?" Flora replied, surreptitiously licking the surface of a second raw potato. "It is a bit odd, I don't remember my Highever parents being very Chantry-fearing."

"It was a  _joke_ ," replied Zevran, with barely restrained glee. "According to Finian, you were such a  _gargantuan_ baby to birth – far heavier than either he or Fergus – that your mother swore in jest she would never lie with your father again. Hence:  _Chastity."_

Alistair nearly choked on a chicken bone, spluttering with laughter at the outraged expression on his sister-warden's face.

"My name was a  _joke?!"_ she repeated, brow furrowed. "How rude. I thought it was meaningful!"

"Don't worry," purred Zevran, his own eyes flashing wickedly. "As it happens, you have a selection of names to choose from."

Flora's head spun back around in his direction, mouth dropping.

"No! I have  _more than one_ middle name?" she pleaded, incredulous. "I don't remember that. Tell me immediately!"

Zevran took a deep breath, relishing the moment, sensing all eyes on him.

"Florence Popelyn Ragenhilda Chastity Cousland."

Alistair dropped a chicken leg in his lap and began to laugh openly. Flora stared in horror at the elf, her head slowly shaking back and forth.

"That _can't_  be true!" she breathed, appalled.  _"Popelyn Ragenhilda?!"_

"Pop- _e-_  lyn," corrected Leliana from the armchair. "Not  _Pope-line."_

"I swear it is true,  _carina."_

"Never mind about Chastity; my entire  _name_  is a joke!" wailed Flora in horror, clutching at her face.

"They're traditional Ferelden cognomens," Leliana informed her in a vain attempt to offer comfort. "Ragenhilda was a contemporary of Andraste, I believe."

"I've only just learnt how to spell  _Florence,"_ their healer bemoaned, deeply un-amused. "That was long enough for me. It's not  _fair_."

Zevran rose gracefully to his feet, glancing through the shutters into the deepening evening. The merchants and fishermen were packing up their wares, closing stalls and winding up nets; making their way back to wives, children or lovers. A handful – those who had made good coin and had no one to return to – were instead heading towards the welcoming doors of the Pearl.

"Night draws in," he observed, inspecting a minute scratch on the back of his knuckle. "Did you still want to look round Isabela's tall ship, my lily?"

" _Yes!"_  half-screamed Flora, all thoughts of  _Popelyns_ and  _Ragenhildas_ immediately erased from her mind. "Yes, please!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Zevran is one of my favourite characters, I've said before that he's a lot more complex than some might give him credit for.
> 
> Apparently eating raw vegetables – and even DIRT – is a common pregnancy craving! So is eating tree bark, lol. So odd!
> 
> Popelyn and Ragenhilda are two classic Medieval English names! I wanted to pick some of the weirdest names I could find because I def want to torture Flora, haha. In Herring, nobody has a surname unless there's more than one person with the same name – Flora was enrolled as Flora Cove in the Circle because there was an older Flora already living nearby. She's genuinely horrified by the whole situation


	219. Aboard The Siren's Call

After their healer had manhandled her distinctive Cousland hair back under the cap; Wardens, bard and assassin made their way out of the whorehouse and along the wooden jetty. They appeared to be going in the opposite direction to most occupants of the dock, who were either headed for the Pearl or one of its sister taverns. The moon had just risen in a vast and globular mass on the Amaranthine horizon; suspended like a pearl sewn onto black silk.

It was a mild evening, the gentlest of breezes disturbing the smooth green surface of the saltwater estuary. Zevran, with the confidence of one who had undertaken this particular excursion before, led the way to a small boat bobbing at the end of a jetty. A dwarf was asleep in the hull, a tankard clutched loosely between his fingers and the stench of alcohol obvious even from a distance.

"Rouse yourself," ordered Zevran, dropping one booted toe into the boat to nudge the dwarf awake.

"Your captain will tan your hide if she finds out you've been sleeping on duty.  _Although_ ," he continued, lowering his voice and directing the next comment over his shoulder. "Knowing the type that Isabela tends to employ, he'd probably enjoy it."

The dwarf dutifully roused himself with a loud belch, clambering onto a bench and reaching for the oars. He shot the elf a bloodshot, bleary look of recognition.

"This one, again. Does cap'n know yeh comin'?"

"She invited us," retorted Zevran smoothly, dropping down into the boat with catlike agility and reaching up a hand to assist Leliana.

The bard accepted his fingers, although she could have descended perfectly adequately with eyes covered and hands bound together; such was her natural grace. Flora adeptly but far less gracefully crashed her way into the boat, made clumsy by her excitement.

Once Alistair was banished to the far end to act as counterweight to elf and dwarf, they set out across the saltwater lagoon. Despite his apparent intoxication, Isabela's crewman pulled the oars with surprising speed and skill. The boat went coursing over the short, choppy waves towards where the tall ships were anchored in the deepest part of the estuary.

Their boat was headed for one vessel in particular, anchored slightly apart from the rest. It was Antivan in design, light and manoeuvrable, constructed from glossy beech-wood. It had two masts of varying heights, the vast canvas sails bundled together with ropes. Its prow was decorated with a gilded mermaid, her arms stretched out and her mouth curved in a beguiling smile.

"Look,  _mi sirenita,_ it's your older sister," Zevran murmured, smiling sideways at Flora as he gestured towards the figurehead. "This is the  _siren_ who gives the ship her name."

"How did she come by such a vessel?" Leliana asked suspiciously, having correctly surmised that the pirate must have been about her age. "This is a fine craft."

"She inherited it from her husband, after he… tragically died," the elf replied smoothly as they drew up alongside the gleaming beech-wood hull.

The bard shot him a narrow stare, rising elegantly to grip the rope ladder that had been lowered in preparation.

"You mean after he was tragically  _killed_  - by you!" she retorted, surreptitiously checking the placement of her daggers before hoisting herself up. "Don't let your guard down."

Zevran leaned back to admire the lay sister's strong, muscular thighs as she clambered up the rope ladder.

"Why don't you go next,  _mi corazon?"_ he suggested with a leer towards Flora. "I'll stay down here and catch you if you fall."

As Alistair shot him a glower, the Antivan raised his hands and laughed, lightly.

"Alright, you both can admire me from below, then," he purred, ascending the ladder with feline dexterity.

Flora was sitting very still on the wooden bench, her fingers tangled in the hem of her shirt. Absentmindedly, she pulled the cap from her head and began to twist it in her lap. Alistair reached out, covering her fingers with his own as the boat rocked gently on the waves.

"Are you alright, my dear? You look lost in thought."

She blinked and smiled at him, her eyes slightly dazed.

"I'm just trying to remember every detail," Flora whispered, clutching his fingers as Zevran's laughter drifted down from the main deck above. "So I can tell my dad what it's like. He always wanted to go on the tall ships we saw sailing past Herring."

She did not add that the only time they ever saw the great galleons up _close_  was when they washed ashore, chewed into wooden fragments by the Hag's Teeth, disgorging corpses and cargo across the shallows.

Alistair grinned at her, and then tilted his head towards the rope ladder.

"Go on, sweetheart. I'll be underneath if you slip."

Flora shot him a mildly incredulous glance, before shoving the cap down the front of her shirt. She proceeded to clamber up the rope ladder nearly as adeptly as the elf had done.

"Be on your guard, Florence," called down Leliana from the railing above. "The pirate has her own version of the  _kiss of greeting."_

The flushed bard reached down a hand to help Flora clamber over the railing, the cap slithering out from under her shirt and landing on the polished deck. Barely noticing, Flora's head swivelled from left to right, trying to take in as much detail as possible. The stern rose high behind them, the wheel just visible from its lofty vantage point. From this close proximity, the twin masts seemed as tall and thick as tree trunks, looming up into the night sky overhead.

Only after several moments of looking about in silent awe, did Flora manage to gather her senses. She heard Alistair curse from somewhere behind her, the bastard prince almost missing one of the ladder rungs. In front of her, Zevran was just disentangling himself from Isabela's grasp, laughing at the pirate as she flashed him a devilish wink.

"Never start wearing breeches, my dusky beauty," he murmured, running a palm appreciatively up Isabela's bare thigh. The white linen tunic she wore, slit to the hip at each side, left little to the imagination. "Thedas would be a poorer place for it."

"Ah, look who it is," announced the pirate abruptly, dark eyes settling on Flora like a hawk eyeing a fieldmouse. _"This_ beautiful girl. Come here and give me the kiss of greeting, sweet thing."

Alistair nearly fell off the ladder in his haste to ascend to the deck. He clambered over the railing just as Flora pressed her lips tentatively to Isabela's cheek; only for the pirate to turn her head at the last moment, their mouths colliding.

To Flora's credit, she was not taken aback by the older woman's stolen kiss; her attention caught by a heap of netting on the deck nearby.

"What're they for?" she asked immediately, the very moment that Isabela drew back. "They look big enough to pull up whole  _shoals."_

The pirate shot Flora a mildly incredulous look, having never been interested in the fishing capability of her beloved ship. As long as her crew managed to dredge up something tasty for breakfast – Isabela's favourite was salmon, smoked until it was nearly charred to pieces - she did not care to spend any time thinking about how it had been procured.

Isabela turned her attention to Alistair, who, to the Rivaini's slight irritation, had not spared her a glance despite the ripe, revealed flesh and lack of breeches. Instead, he had gone to retrieve Flora's discarded cap, shoving it inside the pocket of his breeches before reaching out to take his sister-warden's hand.

"Good evening, Alistair," Isabela said loud and deliberate; the blond Warden flashed her a small, awkward smile and tilted his head in greeting. His eyes were already moving back towards his best friend as she squatted beside the nets, prodding the few remaining mussels still clinging to the salt-encrusted ropes.

"Now," the pirate purred, letting her gaze trawl openly over Alistair's muscular chest and broad shoulders. "You have a choice. Either, you can take a tour of the ship with my first mate, Casavir, as I promised - "

Isabela gestured to a silent, hulking man who had emerged from the shadows of the cabin; tanned and almost as tall as a Qunari. He had a black moustache and beard that had been oiled into stiff little points, and sported a look of benign malevolence.

"Or… you can join me in my quarters for a small nightcap," she continued, flashing a look heavy with promise from beneath dark eyelashes.

Some time later, Flora and Alistair were following Casavir around the ship as he delivered a stilted commentary that consisted mostly of jabbing a calloused finger and grunting  _hold_ or  _bilge._ Isabela, Leliana and a grinning Zevran – the latter cackling at the scowl on the pirate's face as the objects of her affection trailed off in the company of her first mate – locked themselves away in the captain's quarters at the vessel's stern.

If Alistair had experienced any initial ruefulness at Flora's choice, this soon vanished when they emerged once more onto the rear deck. The stars were laid out in gleaming brilliance above them; shafts of moonlight piercing through a veil of mist to illuminate the still green waters of the estuary. Casavir left them with an abbreviated grunt, vanishing off somewhere into the bowels of the ship.

Flora advanced towards the great steering wheel, polished and still, with an expression not far from awe. She stood in its shadow for a moment, not quite daring to touch. Finally, she reached out and stroked the polished helm with a single finger, before withdrawing her hand with a squeak at her own daring.

Alistair watched her shift from foot to foot excitedly, her face suffused with a myriad of emotions; and suddenly he had no regrets that they had not joined the pirate in her quarters. He leaned back against the rail, gazing at his sister-warden as she ventured to clench a fist around one of the protruding handles.

The next moment Flora had moved over to the railing, leaning over precariously to read the upside-down gilded letters inscribed below.

" _The,"_ she started, recognising the first word immediately. Alistair reached out to grip his sister-warden gently by the back of her breeches, securing her in place as she hung over the railing.

" _S-I-R-E-N,"_ she read slowly, enunciating each separate letter. "What's that?"

"A woman who seduces others with… general sauciness," Alistair replied, shifting from foot to foot as he recalled Isabela's dark, gold-ringed fingers sliding over his sister-warden's breast.

 _Touch her,_ he'd ordered, _and the Rivaini had done it without hesitation._

"Oh," replied Flora, then resumed in her reading of the ship's name. "C-a-  _call. The Siren's Call!_ Do you think she named the ship after herself?"

Alistair laughed after a moment, his mind returning to the present.

"Perhaps, my dear."

He moved to stand behind Flora as she placed her hands on the railing, feeling the smooth beech-wood beneath her palms.

Ferelden's largest city was spread out along the shore before them, vast and crowded. Torches and lanterns created pinpricks of light against the shadowed buildings; they could see the spire of the Chantry rising overhead like a stern, chastising finger. In the distance, the sprawling royal palace sat squat on a low rise; dominating the entire southern part of the city. Lit by a fleet of braziers, the towers and castellated ramparts stood out like a gleaming beacon in the bosom of Denerim.

Flora knew that Alistair's attention was also drawn instinctively to the great castle; ruled over first by his father, and more recently by his unfortunate half-brother. Now, of course, it was Loghain who had taken control of Ferelden's political heart. She could sense her brother-warden growing pensive behind her, eyes focused fixedly on the distant walls; as though he could somehow glimpse the traitorous general beyond the impassive stone edifice.

"Alistair," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the gentle lapping of waves against the ship's keel. He rubbed a calloused thumb over the curve of her ear in response, quiet and thoughtful.

"Yes, my darling?"

"Do you ever think about what it would be like if… things were different?"

"What do you mean, sweetheart?"

Flora paused for a moment, her eyes moving from the palace and focusing on the constellation  _Eluvia,_ stretching bright and brilliant across the heavens above them.

"If you were just Arl Eamon's stable-boy and I was still a fisherman's daughter," she said, then grimaced and waved her fingers. "And I also wasn't the way that I am. And… there was no Blight. Ooh, that's lot of  _ifs._ "

Alistair slid his arms around her stomach, ducking his head to rest his chin on her shoulder.

"Well," he murmured, brushing lips affectionately over her ear. "I'd have married you as soon as the Chantry allowed it, for starters."

Flora cackled and her brother-warden grinned, nuzzling his face against her neck.

"We'd have three children by now," Alistair continued, the words muffled against her skin as she mouthed  _three!_ incredulously. "Called… Taron, Dennis and- "

" _Ragenhilda_ ," Flora finished, and then squeaked as he bit gently at the tender spot behind her ear.

"And we'd have a little hut on the shore of Lake Calenhad," Alistair breathed, fingers moving with intent over the top of her breeches. "And a summer home in Herring, naturally."

Flora began to giggle, squirming against her brother-warden as he pressed a rapid succession of kisses down her neck.

"There  _is_  no summer in Herring," she pointed out, twisting around in Alistair's arms to face him. "It rains all year round."

Alistair gazed back down at her, his eyes fixated on her full, Cousland lower lip. The next moment, the fingers of one hand had slid within Flora's hair, cradling her face against his calloused palm. As he brought his mouth down to press hungrily into hers, his other hand stole surreptitiously down the back of her breeches.

"What a surprise," a familiar derisive voice hissed from the shadows beside the cabin. "Left to your own devices for two minutes, and immediately beginning to  _paw_  at one another."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol so Isabela invites them on board the Siren's Call with the excuse that they can have a tour… and Flora actually wants to take the tour, lol. WELL OF COURSE SHE DOES, she's literally never been on a ship bigger than a tiny fishing boat before!
> 
> I loved writing the last bit of this chapter, I thought it was so cute; and also quite bittersweet – I think both Alistair and Flora have the personality that would be content with living a simple, rural lifestyle. Although three children by the age of 19 – Flora is right to be slightly WTF at that, I think haha.
> 
> There's an unintentional parallel between Alistair and Cailen here! According to Bryce Cousland's original plan, Flora was to have been married to Cailen as soon as possible – probably around 14 or 15, by Medieval royal standards – which would mean they probably would have had 3 children by the time that Flora was 19.
> 
> Finally, guess who's baaack, back again... it's Morrigan "Cockblock" WitchoftheWilds!


	220. The Mermaid From The Waking Sea

Alistair groaned, giving his sister-warden's rear a parting squeeze before reluctantly withdrawing his fingers from her breeches. The witch sauntered barefoot across the deck, her expression meticulously neutral. If this was indeed the first time that Morrigan had been on a ship, there was no hint of novelty on her Chasind features.

"Whilst you two have been  _debauching_  yourselves in the local whorehouse, I have been scouting the positions of your enemies," she continued airily, leaning down on the railing and taking a deep breath of salty air. Several strands of dark hair hung loose around her ears, interwoven with beads and the tiny, fragile bones of animals. "Or,  _doing your work for you."_

"Where is Howe?" Alistair asked immediately, glancing around as though expecting the treacherous arl to emerge from the still green water of the estuary. Flora remained quiet, still puzzling over the possible meaning of  _debauching._

"He left the arling of Amaranthine yesterday morning," Morrigan replied, digging a fingernail into the flaking wood and prying up an inch-long splinter. "At the rate his caravan is travelling, he should arrive in the city the day after tomorrow. He appears to be journeying with some retainers, but not a whole household."

Alistair inclined his head stiffly towards the witch, while managing to avoid actually casting his eyes in her direction.

"Thanks," he muttered, reaching out reflexively towards his sister-warden; fingers curling themselves into her shirt sleeves. "Flo, I don't want you leaving my side until Howe's head sits on a spike above the city gates."

Flora gave a vague nod, still puzzling over the meaning of the word  _debauching._ Finally, she gave in and asked Morrigan to clarify; provoking a derisive snort from the witch and a slight groan from Alistair.

"It means to behave in a lewd and provocative manner," Morrigan explained, her dark-painted lip curling. "For example, how the elf, the wench and the supposed lay sister are acting within that cabin. I would expect nothing less than abject hypocrisy from one associated with the Chantry, however."

As Alistair stifled a cough, Flora reached out and put her fingers on Morrigan's bare elbow.

"What about the general?" she asked, tentatively. "Is he still in the city?"

The witch wrinkled her nose at the touch, yet did not pull her arm away. She squinted across the estuary towards the city sprawled across the shore; the royal palace rising up to dominate everything in its shadow.

"The general is still here," she murmured, amber eyes glowing softly in the evening gloom. "He rarely ventures outside the walls of the castle nowadays. Can you taste the restlessness in the air? It rankles, like acid in the throat. The people here are not happy."

"That's because they knew they're being led by a traitorous villain," muttered Alistair venomously, shifting from foot to foot.

"And who would lead them instead?  _You?_ " asked Morrigan, the sarcasm in her words a fraction less abrasive than usual, her cat-like eyes somehow both thoughtful and amused.

Alistair gave a shrug, reaching out to run a hand over his sister-warden's rumpled head.

"If needs be," he replied, with a lightness of tone that did not mask the hard core of truth at the heart of his reply. "Ferelden deserves better than a Mac Tir on its throne."

"Hm," observed Morrigan acerbically, shooting him an arch look as she retreated to the centre of the deck. "'Tis quite a different tune that you sing now, Alistair Theirin."

"Can't help who we were born to, can we?"

Alistair flashed a rueful half-smile, and for the first time since they had met in the Korcari wilderness; bastard prince and Witch of the Wilds shared a look that could almost be mistaken for mutual accord.

"Oh," said Flora suddenly, rummaging in the inside of her shirt. "I got something for you."

She withdrew the sweet pastry, still in its wrapper, and presented it in the palm of her hand. "Sorry, it's a bit squashed."

Morrigan raised her fine-plucked eyebrow, preparing to make some supercilious comment. However, in the end she remained silent, plucking the pastry from Flora's palm between her nails.

"Thank you," she said after a moment, in a quieter voice than they had heard emerging from the witch before. Flora smiled at her, slightly taken aback by Morrigan's apparent sincerity. From the captain's cabin behind them, they heard the soft sound of voices raised in jest.

"Tell me," said Flemeth's daughter eventually, her voice slightly odd. "Have you fools done much…  _research_ into the process of killing this Archdemon? Such as why it must be slain by a  _Warden_? 'Tis curious, no?"

When both shook their heads, the witch snorted, though she sported a peculiar look on her face.

"I am not surprised," she retorted, but there was no true acrimony in her voice. "Fortunately for you, I have been doing some  _reading_ into the matter. I have not yet finished, but I will let you know when I have. And… what I've discovered."

Flora turned a slightly bemused smile on the Chasind woman, nodding.

Morrigan gazed back at the young healer, her eyes swivelling for the briefest moment across to Alistair. Without further word, she stepped back and folded herself into a dark, feathery shape; winging her way up past the mast and out into the night sky.

"I wish I could do that," Flora breathed wistfully, leaning back against the railing and watching the witch disappear against the brilliant light of the stars. "She's so clever."

Alistair grunted, unconvinced.

In defiance of his better judgement and a decade of Chantry-induced piety; he found himself wandering over to the captain's cabin, which was partially sunk into the deck below. The porthole windows gleamed like watchful golden eyes, placed at regular intervals along the beech-wood wall.

Telling himself firmly that it was no different to what had happened to he and his sister-warden the previous night; Alistair bent his head and peered through the window.

The inside of the captain's cabin glowed like a lantern, lit with a myriad of candles placed on every available surface. It was filled with an odd mishmash of furnishings; a tall Antivan wardrobe disgorged its contents across the floor, two skeletons posed in a dancing pair were draped with jewellery and sported fanciful hats. A standing mirror, warped with age, was covered with kiss-marks from a red painted mouth. A stuffed nug had been wedged unceremoniously between the dresser and a sword rack, which bore a variety of weapons in differing stages of decay. A chest, wrapped around three times with chains, stood in pride of place at the foot of the bed.

Yet it was on the bed  _itself_  that Alistair's attention was fixed. Placed squarely in the centre of the room, like an island haven in the midst of chaos, it was covered in a clashing array of blankets and cushions. In its centre, Isabela lay sprawled across the sheets, entirely naked and with her hands bound above her head. She was laughing, her teeth very white against her tan face and glossy curls spread over the cushions. Leliana, who had clearly been responsible for such skilful knots, was kneeling between the pirate's legs, clad in something transparent and Orlesian. Zevran, still fully dressed, was pouring himself a tankard of wine at the dresser.

"Alistair?" His sister-warden's voice drifted across the deck.

The blood ran hot in his veins and a painful erection throbbed in his breeches. Alistair turned around, his breath catching in a throat that was suddenly bone-dry.

Perched on the railing with one bare foot swinging, Flora eyed him thoughtfully. Her breeches and smalls were nowhere to be seen; the overlarge shirt fell only partway down her naked thighs. The buttons had been loosened enough to reveal one pale breast, smooth and curved as the shell of an egg. Tendrils of dark red hair snaked their way down her neck like strands of seaweed, forming careless, slovenly curls. She gazed at him with her solemn, silver-edged stare, running her fingers idly over the top of her bare thigh.

_Ha,_ Flora thought, seeing her brother-warden go absolutely rigid.  _Debauchery!_

Seeing that she had successfully captured her brother-warden's attention, Flora peeked at him from beneath her eyelashes; then parted her slender thighs with a sigh, in a gesture far more befitting a country girl than a teyrn's daughter. The shirt slid upwards as she showed herself to him, and the blush that followed was no feigned act.

A low growl of lust broke free from Alistair's throat, thick and primal. He didn't remember crossing the deck, which he must have done in mere seconds; but the next moment he was at the railing, taking her almost too roughly in his arms.

Flora began to speak but then his lips came down hard on hers, tongue seeking to lay claim to every part of her mouth. As he kissed her, Alistair's fingers slid immediately between her legs; demonstrating his knowledge of his sister-warden's body by immediately locating her most sensitive spot and beginning to rub up and down. Soon, he was rewarded by her arousal, audible against his calloused fingers.

"You look like a mermaid from one of your Herring stories," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "Like you've been pulled out of the water in a net."

He picked up a strand of hair, dark red and trailing like the fronds of some underwater plant, running it through his fingers.

"My little mermaid."

" _Mmgh,"_ mumbled Flora as she clung to the railing, vision narrowing. Some distant part of her mind was aware that falling into the estuary would not be desirable in the circumstances, but she could feel her legs increasingly unable to support her weight. As the bastard prince added a single, rhythmically probing finger to the circling of his calloused thumb, she dug her bitten nails into the wood and gasped out in shamelessly wanton pleasure.

"Moan for me, baby," Alistair murmured into her neck, lips brushing against her skin. "I want to hear you say my name when you come."

Flora shot him a slightly awed look, wondering at how her virginal brother-warden had grown in confidence since they had first lain together at Ostagar. Then he added a second finger and all rational thought was driven from her mind; she dutifully wailed out his name as her body shuddered in erratic convulsions of pleasure.

Wanting to return the favour, a slightly dazed Flora reached for his breeches. Alistair caught her wrist, gently and effortlessly turning her around.

"I want  _you,_ " he murmured, pressing his lips to the back of her neck. "Lean forward, darling."

Alistair fumbled at his breeches with one hand, while simultaneously bending her over the railing with the other. He paused for a moment to admire his sister-warden's body before delivering three spanks to her buttocks in quick, loving succession; enjoying the ensuing squirms of arousal.

Pulling Flora back around to face him, he lifted her effortlessly by the thighs before lowering her by increments onto his length. With his fingers gripping her hips, Alistair was able to control the pace and depth of their coupling; he braced himself against the railing and bounced her up and down to satisfy his own surging pleasure.

Shortly after a vain attempt to restrain himself by counting backwards in intervals of seven, Alistair spent inside her with a helpless groan. Feeling his vision constrict and his limbs growing leaden, he leaned back on the railing, clutching his sister-warden tightly as she curled her legs around his waist.

"Holy Maker," he breathed after a moment, astounded. "Are you alright, my dear? Sorry if that was a bit too –  _vigorous_ at the end there. I got… carried away."

He began to rub his palm up and down her back, both in comfort and contrition.

Flora rested her chin on his shoulder, feeling beads of sweat prickling against her hairline. The moon had just emerged from behind a sheer veil of cloud, bathing the  _Siren's Call_ in a watery wash of silver. On the shore, the lanterns and torches were extinguished one by one as Denerim settled down to sleep; the braziers on the city wall faint smudges of orange against the backdrop of night.

"I think my breeches fell overboard," she said gloomily, peering down at the dark waters of the estuary as they lapped softly against the ship's keel. "And my smalls. Oh no!"

Alistair laughed despite himself, kissing her sweaty cheek affectionately. Flora groaned, letting her forehead drop against his collarbone.

"What am I going to  _do?"_  she entreated him, indignantly. "How am I going to get back decently?"

"Borrow something from Isabela?" he suggested, releasing his grip on her hips as his sister-warden slithered down, pacing barefoot beside the length of the railing.

Flora shot him a quick, amused little glance, eyebrows rising to her hairline.

"Did you see any spare breeches in her cabin earlier?" she asked, with feigned innocence. "You were staring so  _intently,_  I thought you must be looking for something in particular."

Alistair grinned, unabashed, responding with a noncommittal grunt.

Flora eyed him for a moment, and then leaned out over the railing with one arm outstretched. Holding his gaze and trying her best to keep a straight face; she slid her palm underneath the figurehead's smooth breast, running a thumb over the carved nipple.

"Does this arouse you, then?" she asked, part in jest and part genuinely curious. "Me doing this?  _Mm, let me touch your body, wooden woman._  Ow, a splinter."

Alistair snorted, reaching out to guide her back onto the safety of the deck.

"As it turns out," he responded diplomatically, nudging a stray dark red curl with his finger. "I'm just a simple man, with simple desires. Aren't you curious as to what it would be like?"

Flora thought for a moment, chewing her fingernail absentmindedly.

"Dunno. I never thought about it before," she replied after a moment, amiably. "I liked the way she touched me yesterday, though. It felt nice."

Alistair had to take several moments to compose himself; taking a succession of deep and steadying breaths as his shaft gave a twitch of renewed interest.

"When they're finished in there," he said, a slightly rougher edge to his tone as he canted his head towards the cabin. "We'll go back to the Pearl."

Flora hissed between her teeth, gripping his shoulder and leaning out over the railing to squint down at the choppy water.

"I can't believe my breeches have  _gone,"_ she complained, indignantly. "Outrageous. Wait, do you think that's them!?"

Her finger thrust out towards a dun patch on the mirror-like surface of the water, tangled around the anchor rope. Alistair reached out and wrapped his fingers around her elbow, tightening his grip as she shifted from foot to foot.

" _No_ , darling."

"But they're right there- "

"Don't even _think_  about it."

"I'm a very good swimmer!"

" _Flora."_

His tone was final; the use of her full name a definitive denial. Flora eyed him for a moment, and then blew out her cheeks sulkily.

" _Madame du Poisson_  will walk back like this, then," she retorted, sauntering down the deck barefoot with the half-loosened shirt just skimming her thighs. "Good evening, locals. Why yes, I am returning to the whorehouse, how did you  _know!?"_

Alistair couldn't help but laugh, rolling his eyes as his sister-warden gave an amateurish little shuffle.

"Very nice,  _mi sirenita,"_ came a familiar Antivan murmur, simultaneously amused and approving. "Did you mislay half of your clothing?"

Zevran emerged from the shadows beside the captain's cabin, fully dressed and with hair smooth and pale against his dark leathers. A prim and pious Leliana stood alongside him in similar pristine condition, looking as though she had just spent the evening in prayer. Only the dishevelled pirate, yawning as she ran a hand through her glossy curls, gave away any indication of what they had spent the past two hours doing.

Flora stopped abruptly, gaping with embarrassment as she drew the shirt closed over her chest.

"They've gone," she mumbled, having some trouble fastening the buttons.

"I'm not surprised," added Isabela, the words blurring together as she let out a little hiccup. "Pretty girls tend to lose their breeches on the  _Siren's Call."_

The pirate's meaning went straight over Flora's head; the redheaded healer merely shot Isabela a look of mild confusion.

Alistair, greatly surprised that he did not seem to be blushing at the sight of two women, cleared his throat.

"I think we ought to go back now," he said, inwardly pleased at the evenness of his voice. "Flo is tired, and I'm about to fall asleep on my feet."

Flora shot him a little pointed glower, one arm clamped over her breasts. Alistair glanced back at her, and then pulled his own shirt over his head; manfully ignoring the delighted gasps of both Zevran and Isabela.

"Wrap this around your waist, my dear," he offered, feeling the heat of their desirous gazes prickling against his skin. "It's not a long way back."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I like seeing a bit of evolution in the Morrigan/Alistair dynamic - because of course, Morrigan was present outside Redcliffe when Alistair shamefully confessed his parentage and then vehemently rejected any possibility of him becoming king. I think she would have some grudging respect for Alistair stepping up to the plate.
> 
> So increasingly with all intimacy scenes between Flo and Alistair  we'll see something disguising the distinctive swell of Flora's belly – a shirt, the darkness, strategic blankets … although she's naturally slight (her canon height is 5'3), now that she's almost three months pregnant; it has a shape that can no longer be passed off as just a big dinner. Unless you're Alistair, who has most likely never seen a pregnant woman naked before! He's def stolen Zevran's little mermaid nickname though, get your own material Alistair


	221. A Tranquil Nightmare

The two assassins, Flora and Alistair took their leave of the  _Siren's Call_ ; Isabela's grumbling dwarf rowing them back across the estuary towards the dimly lit dock. Patrons of the Pearl were streaming in both directions beneath its hanging enamelled sign, too preoccupied with their own pleasure to take any notice of the Wardens and their companion.

Alistair, who could not get the image of his sister-warden perched half-naked on the ship's railing from his mind, had been hoping for privacy. Instead, he was somewhat perturbed when both elf and bard followed them into the rose-coloured chamber. It turned out that the neighbouring room had been booked, a fact gleefully explained by the elf as he sprawled lazily across the window seat. The bastard prince, grumbling to himself, spent several minutes arranging a blanket over the voyeur's window. Flora, divesting herself of the shirt around her waist, offered unhelpful advice from the bed. Finally, a sweating Alistair succeeded in obscuring the glass and immediately retired to the washroom to rinse the dust from his hands.

Meanwhile Leliana had dropped to her knees in prayer; murmuring the Chant as she clasped hands to ample bosom. The lay sister blew out the candles once she had finished, plunging the chamber into darkness just as Alistair returned from the passage. Stumbling forwards blindly, his hand groping around for the bedpost; he clamped his fingers instead around Leliana's silk clad breast.

Bright red and apologising profusely, he snatched his hand back as though burnt; while Leliana smiled through the shadows with the beatific patience of the Divine. The grimacing young Warden eventually navigated his way into bed besides Flora, who was snickering evilly at his embarrassment.

Alistair, denied the opportunity to take his sister-warden for a second time that evening, had to content himself with touching her body quietly beneath the blankets. Flora, who had never been very good at silencing herself, clamped a cushion to her mouth as he brought her to climax with expert little strokes.

Unable to resist, keeping the blanket pulled high, Alistair shifted the angle of his hips; sheathing himself surreptitiously and fully inside her with a soft groan of satisfaction. Aware that both elf and bard were listening, he found that he didn't particularly care, his attention focused solely on the girl beneath him. It was obvious what they were doing beneath the blankets – Flora always squeaked loud as a country girl being pleasured behind a haystack – but neither assassin interrupted; wanting to grant the Wardens some semblance of peace.

_The face of Arl Howe – skull like and malevolent, the features an anonymous blur, hovered in the background as he gripped the Chantry's lyrium brand. She tried to move but she was bound tightly, her fingers only able to produce the most insipid of sparks._

_The lyrium brand pulsed in the gloom, an innocuous sunburst that – when it made contact with her skull – would doom her to a half-life free from feeling and passion._

_They say that Tranquilisation is a form of decapitation._

Flora awoke with a startled gasp, pale eyes wide and staring into the shadows. The sheets were damp with sweat and tangled about her limbs; raw terror jangling in her nerves like the electricity she had never been able to summon. The shield was already swelling between her fingertips when she thought she saw a male outline moving through the shadows towards her.

"Stop!" she squealed, the word catching in her throat as she half-slithered, half-fell from the bed, bringing most of the bedding with her. "Get away from me-!"

Somebody lit a candle and the glowing red sunburst of the lyrium brand flared in Flora's memory. Her brain screamed at her to  _hide_ and she rolled underneath the bed, bringing the blankets with her.

"What in Andraste's name!?"

Leliana's alarmed voice drifted through the shadows, the bard's Orlesian accent more exaggerated in her startled state.

"Sister-warden having bad dreams again," murmured the elf from somewhere near the window, a faint note of melancholy reverberating through his reply. "Brother-warden will attend to her, I'm sure."

Alistair, woken abruptly from far more pleasant dreams, gaped like a confused fish.

"Wha – Flo?"

Slowly coming to his senses, he reached out to grope the bare mattress beside him; and then heard his sister-warden dissolving into tears of frustration –inexplicably, from somewhere  _beneath_ him.

"Flo?" he said inanely into the darkness, and then realised that she was underneath the bed. "Flora?"

Alistair slid to the edge of the bed, peering into the mass of shadows below. He saw her immediately, huddled in the fallen blankets with curlicues of golden light drifting from beneath her fingernails. Her cheeks gleamed with dampness as she gazed sullenly at him like a kicked Mabari.

"Sweetheart," he breathed, lowering himself down from the pallet mattress and onto the dusty floorboards. "Come here, sister-warden."

Alistair proceeded to slither deftly beneath the wooden slats of the frame, not wanting to think too extensively about what might be lurking beneath a bed in a whorehouse. Flora stared at him; Alistair held out his arm and gave her a little nod of encouragement. After a moment she rolled sideways against his chest and he folded her immediately within the confines of his arms.

"Good girl," he murmured as he patted her on her naked back, knowing from experience not to press her before she was ready. "Deep breaths."

Alistair could feel his best friend trembling against him, chest heaving erratically and heart racing like a panicked animal. Recalling how he had calmed spooked horses at Redcliffe as a boy, he began to whisper soft, soothing nonsense to his frightened sister-warden, pressing his stubbled chin to her bare shoulder. Every few moments he pressed his lips tenderly to her cheek, repeating this over and over until his mouth had kissed away all the dampness there. His fingers slid into hers, clamping together in their nightly ritual of reassurance; first begun in the dark wake of Ostagar.

_And after they had transformed into fish, the brother and sister roped themselves together by the tail. And no matter how the tide raged and pulled, it could not part them._

"My beautiful girl," Alistair breathed at last, sensing Flora relaxing a fraction as she wiped her face against the blanket. "I love your nose."

This was such an incongruous observation that Flora was jolted from her self-pity, blinking at her brother-warden while reaching to touch her own nose reflexively.

"My  _nose?"_ she asked after a moment, bemused. "Why?"

He kissed the end of it, tender even in jest.

"It's the loveliest nose in all Ferelden," he returned, pleased to see the corners of her mouth turning upwards through the gloom. "No, in all of  _Thedas."_

Flora laughed through her tears, then hiccupped wetly and sniffed, grinding her thumbs into her eyes. Alistair paused for a moment, then reached out and slid his fingers through her hair. His thumb ran over her eyebrow, then dropped to her cheek tracing the high bone beneath the skin.

"Was it… the Archdemon?" he asked after a moment, his voice soft and concerned.

Flora blinked, and then shook her head in a vehement side-to-side denial.

"No-oo," she breathed, thinking that the Archdemon would not have brought her to tears – not anymore. "I dreamed that Arl Howe was about to Tran- _Tranq_ \- "

Flora couldn't finish the sentence but Alistair knew full-well what she had meant. For several moments he seethed in molten silence, his fingers reflexively clamping down on hers until she let out a little gasp.

"Ouch!"

He immediately loosened his grip, sucking a ragged breath of raw and unadulterated anger into his chest. The earlier cheery tenderness had evaporated; replaced instead with a cold and simmering fury.

"I know there's a line of people waiting to get their hands on Howe," he muttered, acknowledging the grievances of Flora's elder brothers. "But, by the Maker, I  _will_  get my turn."

Flora, calmer now and slightly embarrassed by her tears, shot a little sideways glance at her brother-warden. He was lying flat on his back, staring up at the underside of the mattress with a contemptuous curl to his mouth. The thought suddenly struck Flora that the young man lying beside her on the dusty floorboards of a whorehouse bedchamber, could possibly become the  _King of Ferelden_  within the next fortnight. This notion was just as incongruous to Flora as Alistair's earlier comment about her nose had been, and – despite everything – she giggled.

Alistair, mentally withdrawing a bloodied sword from Rendon Howe's abdomen, blinked at her in confusion. She smiled at him, then sneezed as several particles of dust went up her nose.

"Come on, brother-warden," she whispered, nudging him gently in the ribs. "My eyes are itching."

He edged himself out from underneath the bed, rising to his feet as Flora clambered up with the aid of the bedpost. Both of them were dusty and dishevelled; Alistair still disrobed from their earlier coupling.

Steeling himself, not wanting to upset his sister-warden through any further display of outrage, Alistair reached out to clasp their hands together.

"Shall we go and rinse off, my dear? We're probably covered in all sorts," he murmured, keeping his tone light while simultaneously envisioning his fingers tightening around Howe's neck.

"Yes," Flora breathed, shooting him an odd look. "Your eyes look a bit… mad."

Alistair forced himself to smile down at her, bringing her hand to his mouth and kissing it. Flora gazed at him through the shadows for a long moment; briefly tightening her grasp before dropping his hand and crossing to where Leliana was reclining in the armchair.

"Sorry for waking you up," she whispered, reaching out to pat the bard's elbow. Leliana shook her head, the short orange braids flying about her ears as her pale blue eyes shone kindly in the darkness.

"It is nothing, _chérie._ Bad dreams visit us all. _"_

Flora went next to the window seat, head bowed in contrition as she prepared to apologise to the elf. Zevran reached up and pressed a finger to her mouth just as she was about to speak, keeping her lips sealed together.

" _Está bien, mi sirenita."_

Then, when she looked about to protest, Zevran shot her a stern look.

"Never apologise for that over which you have no control,  _carina_."

Flora smiled at him, wide Cousland mouth curving upwards. Pleased at seeing her cheerful again, Zevran tapped his finger against her lips.

"That's better,  _nena."_

By the time that the damp-haired bastard prince and teyrn's daughter had returned to the rose-hued chamber, their roguish companions were demonstrably asleep. It was still several hours before dawn; the slight part in the shutters providing a glimpse of ink-black sky.

Flora held up her hand to illuminate the dishevelled surface of the bed, tiny rays of light splintering from beneath her nails as her brother-warden arranged the blankets and cushions back into some semblance of order.

Once he was satisfied, Alistair gestured her forwards courteously; waiting until Flora had clambered beneath the covers before joining her there. Their fingers clasped together as he brought his other hand to cup the back of her head possessively; stroking her hair with practised familiarity.

Flora was on the verge of sleep when Alistair's voice filtered through the darkness, soft and pensive.

"Flo?"

"Mrgh," she replied, face pressed to his collarbone.

"Leliana found out where my sister lives. Well _, half_ -sister."

Flora lifted her head and gazed at her brother-warden silently, the strong line of his jaw visible in the shadows. A myriad of emotions fought for dominance on his handsome, clear face; apprehension mingled with anxiety, cut with an undercurrent of tentative hope.

"Would you come with me tomorrow? To see her?"

Flora nodded, feeling him exhale unsteadily.

"Of course," she whispered, giving his hand a reassuring little squeeze. "We'll go together."

He kissed her on the forehead, the gratitude palpable.

"I don't – I don't know why I'm nervous. You get on so well with your brothers."

"Not at first," Flora reminded him, pointedly. "Finian chased me around Redcliffe Castle with a mage cage. But it's not the same, there's nothing wrong with you."

Alistair hissed between his teeth, grip tightening on her arm as he drew his sister-warden closer to his chest. She could feel the steady throb of his heart, a reassuring and solid beat against her cheek.

"There's nothing wrong with you either, sweetheart," he murmured, pressing his jaw to the side of her head. "I don't give a damn what the Chantry says. You're Maker-made perfect."

Flora wedged herself more tightly against him, bewildered at the dampness that had risen suddenly to her eyes. Not wanting him to glimpse her tears, she turned her face against the strong muscle of his shoulder; yawning and setting her mind deliberately to the notion of sleep. The last thing that she felt before sinking into unconsciousness were Alistair's lips pressing affectionately into her neck.

  _I adore you,_ he breathed, the words warm and earnest against her skin.  _You're all mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Pregnancy hormones are getting to Flo, lol.
> 
> Also HELLOOOOO Goldanna! I swear I didn't forget she existed for two hundred chapters, lol. I know that there's some disparity in canon about Alistair's parentage - so for the purpose of my story, I'm going to go with the version that Fiona was Alistair's mother, but since she is ELF and therefore scandal, Babystair was passed off as the child of a Redcliffe servant who was pregnant but who died in childbirth, along with the child. Goldanna – about a decade older than Alistair – wasn't working in the castle at the time… possibly was sent away to work in Rainesfere… so when she heard that her mother had got pregnant (and subsequently died in childbirth) around the same time that Maric had visited, she made the assumption that Maric was the child's father. In actuality, Goldanna's mother slept with some other random person- so really, Alistair and Goldanna are not even half-related.
> 
> UGH it's so clunky, but it's the best I can do with the fucked up canon! It's never going to come up in my story obviously because Alistair is convinced that the servant woman was his mother, but I just wanted to try and sort it out in my head.


	222. Half-Sister Meets Sister-Warden

The next day dawned grey and drizzly, as did so many mornings in Ferelden's coastal capital. The gulls wheeled and cried mournfully in the sodden air, their sharp, black eyes focused on the fishermen as they set out in droves across the choppy estuary. The cats that dwelt in the docks had retreated sulkily beneath window sills and market stalls, twitching tails away from the puddles rapidly forming over the cobblestones.

Flora was woken by the sound of rain drumming against the roof tiles overheard; a far more pleasant awakening than the lyrium-branded nightmares of earlier. She could feel her brother-warden's body solid against her own, his arm wrapped around her waist and one strong thigh resting on hers.

When she opened her eyes, however, it was Zevran's face that greeted her. The tanned elf, petulance writ bare across his tattooed features, was sprawled on Flora's other side.

"It's raining _, again,"_ he complained, sensing her shift against the pallet mattress. "All the sky does in this blasted country is pour water upon its unfortunate inhabitants. Good morning,  _mi limonita."_

"Mmrgh," a bleary-eyed Flora grunted back, feeling Alistair stir behind her. More asleep than awake, he pressed his morning erection against the small of Flora's back, one hand coming up blindly to grope her breast.

Zevran flashed very white teeth in a delighted grin as Flora's cheeks flared; embarrassed sister-warden gave brother-warden a pointed nudge.

"' _listair_ ," she whispered, and the bastard prince reluctantly roused himself, untangling heavy limbs from her and stretching. He rolled an eye sideways to take in the elf reclining on Flora's other side; too used to the sight to be surprised.

Flora yawned once more, rolling over onto her stomach and waiting with some trepidation for its reaction. To her delight, her belly seemed docile enough; only issuing a faint twinge of nausea before settling down. She pressed her face against the pillows, feeling Alistair sit up beside her and reach for his breeches.

"This weather is intolerable," complained the elf, sliding deftly from the bed and stalking the confines of the room like a caged lynx. "I had planned to sunbathe nude on the roof this morning, in an attempt to restore some of the colour this dismal climate has drained from my skin."

This provoked a little shiver from Flora, who knew full-well the consequences for her own pallid skin if she dared such an activity. Alistair snorted, glancing around the otherwise empty chamber. The whorehouse was quiet below them, its workers either still abed, or out running personal errands.

"Leliana's out somewhere?" he asked, stretching the night's stiffness from his limbs as he stood.

"Gone to morning prayers, or so she claims," replied Zevran, rubbing a smear of dust from the gilt-edged mirror. "I suspect that is not all, but our lay-sister keeps her hand close to her buxom chest."

Flora sat up, clutching the blankets to her own more diminutive breast.

"My breeches went  _man overboard_ ," she recalled in dismay, her face falling. "They were the only pair I brought!"

Alistair gallantly offered his spare pair as a replacement; only for them to swamp Flora's hips to an almost comical degree. She hissed between her teeth as the overlarge garment dropped around her knees, clutching the bedpost as she stepped out of them.

Zevran, cackling, vanished off to procure a replacement from somewhere within the depths of the whorehouse. He returned a short while later with a pair of grey woollen breeches purloined from a kitchen servant.

"Have you always dressed in the clothing of a boy,  _mi florita?"_ the elf enquired, watching Flora hoist the trousers up over her hips. "I believe I have only ever seen you in a dress on two occasions."

Flora grimaced, perplexed as to why the breeches were a little harder to fasten around her belly than she was accustomed to. Alistair had poured himself a small tankard of ale and was leaning against the window frame, peering out at the rain-soaked estuary. His expression was still and contemplative; Flora recalled last night's expressed desire to see his half-sister.

"I wore a tunic and trousers in the Circle," she replied eventually, finally managing to secure the button in place. "And I never wore dresses in Herring. You can't haul in nets wearing a  _dress._  Or collect crab pots."

The two Wardens and the elf spent the first part of the morning playing Wicked Grace as the drizzle continued outside. Zevran, who seemed to have an endless supply of  _Angel of Death_ cards secreted up his sleeve, won every game easily. Alistair and Flora lost in equal measure; he with clumsy tactics and she with an inability to maintain an impassive expression.

Flora then spent an hour trying to memorise the next few paragraphs of Eamon's carefully crafted speech. Although she would not need to deliver it until the closing of the Landsmeet, she was worried about the number of lengthy and complex words.

"Teyrn Mac Tir's per-  _per- "_ Flora faltered, pulling fretfully at a loose strand of hair as she sat cross-legged on the floorboards.

"Perfidious," supplied Alistair helpfully from the armchair, the parchment in his hand. "Perfidious actions."

Flora gazed up at him, nonplussed.

"What does that even  _mean?"_

"Traitorous."

She scowled, her eyebrows rising in perturbed confusion.

"Why can't I just say traitorous, then? Why do I have to say per- _perfidious?_ It sounds too much like 'perfect', what if I say that by mistake?"

A reclining Zevran cackled, opening his mouth to interject. Flora pointed a nail-bitten finger up at him sternly, widening her eyes.

"Don't you start!" she protested. "I already have  _I am a naughty minx from Highever_ stuck in my head, thanks to you."

To Zevran's delight, the drizzle stopped partway through the afternoon. As though aware that it had much to compensate for, the ensuing sun shone down with an almost summer-like vigour. Puddles evaporated quickly on the cobbles and the surface of the jade-green estuary glittered with fragments of reflected light.

The elf headed straight for the open window, leaving a trail of discarded clothing behind him. Within moments, he had pulled himself with catlike agility up and out of sight, presumably heading for the sunniest spot on the tiled roof.

Feeling slightly guilty for leaving without an escort, the two unattended Wardens slipped out of the Pearl's rear entrance and into the maze of alleyways that connected the docks with Denerim's other districts. Alistair had a fragment of yellowed parchment in one hand, upon which a name and street was scrawled.

The fingers of his other hand were clamped tightly around Flora's own. The bastard prince was uncomfortably aware that his sister-warden was in a more vulnerable position than usual, unable to use her shield for fear of drawing unwanted attention. Alistair kept her close to him, especially when they joined the throngs of people gathered near the main marketplace.

Drawing to a halt beneath the porch of a closed smithy, Alistair gazed down at the scrap of parchment once again; before glancing around at the cluster of taverns and shop-fronts in the immediate vicinity. They were in a run-down district to the east of the market, the shoddy buildings showing clear signs of neglect.

"It should be here somewhere," he muttered, returning the parchment to his pocket. "This is the right street."

An anxious Flora was distracted by the increased number of guards on the streets, presumably in response to the recent disturbances. Although she knew that nothing about her appearance gave her away as a mage, she still kept her mouth closed and fists clenched; as though her magic might spontaneously spill forth and betray her.

_**We're behaving.** _

_Quiet!_

Finally, a harried woman with a handcart pointed out a ramshackle building at the end of the street. Alistair and Flora wove their way through a stream of people heading towards the market, finally coming to a halt before a patched wooden door. Alistair was pale beneath his tan, his eyes restless as he shifted from foot to foot. Flora squeezed his fingers tightly and he returned the pressure, doing his best to swallow his nerves.

"Right," her brother-warden said in a slightly strangled voice, his gaze searching Flora's face as though drawing reassurance from her familiar grey eyes and wide Cousland mouth. She smiled at him, impulsively lifting his calloused fingers to her face and stroking the back of his hand against her cheek.

Alistair took a deep breath, and then gave a decisive nod. Dropping her hand, he gave a tentative knock on the door.

There followed silence for several moments, and the two Wardens looked at one another.

"Nobody's home," he said eventually, an odd mixture of emotions mingling on his face. "Maybe we should try again tomorrow- "

Flora reached out and rapped her knuckles against the door with typical Herring bluntness.

"Rent's paid through next week!" yelled a woman's voice through the door, rough-edged and irritable. "Go away!"

Alistair froze as though hit by some mage's paralysis spell, his eyes meeting Flora's for a second before shooting back towards the door.

"We… aren't here to collect rent," he said hesitantly, directing the words through the half-rotted wood. "Could we come in?"

There was a pause, and then the door swung open. A woman stood in the threshold of a dingy room, her scrawny frame dwarfed in a water-stained gown. The air inside smelt of damp and mildew, racks of clothes propped up against every available surface.

"I ain't taking no more washing in till I finish this current batch," the woman continued irritably, tucking faded strings of ginger hair behind her ears. "But you won't find cheaper than me. It's worth the wait."

She had the look of one whom nature had intended to be pretty; but whose features had been coarsened by the toils and trials of circumstance. Her eyes, prematurely lined, went curiously from Alistair, to Flora, and then back again, narrowing.

"You haven't got no laundry with you," the woman said slowly, wiping her damp hands on her skirts. "What d'you want?"

"Are you Goldanna?" Alistair asked, a tentative vein of hope running through the words. "Originally from Redcliffe?"

"Aye," she replied slowly, her gaze narrowing in suspicion. "Used to work for the Guerrins, decades ago. Why?"

Flora caught sight of a bedraggled boy, perhaps about Connor Guerrin's age, lurking in a gloomy doorway. She smiled at him, and then blinked as the child curled his lip at her with an almost feral vehemence.

"I-I don't really know how to say this," Alistair continued, not noticing the boy. "But I… I think I'm your brother. Half-brother."

Goldanna gazed at him, her eyes narrowing shrewdly. If she was surprised, not a hint of it showed on her taut, pinched features.

"You're the brat that killed mother," she said slowly, a half-laugh forming in her throat. "But them up at the castle told me you died too."

Flora felt a lump of anxiety forming in her throat as she glanced sideways at her brother-warden's handsome, open face. She could see confusion dawning in Alistair's hazel irises, the furrows deepening on his forehead.

"No," he said eventually, shaking his head. "I… I didn't die. Who told you that?"

Goldanna ignored his question, her dark eyes flashing with bitterness.

" _Disgraceful_ , the way they treated me," she hissed, the words spat out and vitriolic. "I  _knew_  you was the king's brat. Should've just told everyone, 'stead of accepting coin to keep quiet. What do you want?"

Goldanna's voice increased in volume suddenly, her tone vehement and almost a snarl.

"You come to compensate me for taking mother away? Since you're a  _prince_ an' all. You come to pay me my dues?"

"No," retorted Flora, who had bitten her tongue up until that moment. "He's come to get to know you."

The woman laughed without humour, her thin lip curling upwards as she turned her piercing gaze on Flora.

"Maker, someone who sounds even more common than me," she commented nastily, letting out a contemptuous snort. "Never thought princes would stoop low as a gutter tart."

Flora, astounded, did nothing more than blink. She felt her brother-warden tense beside her, fists clenching at his sides. When Alistair finally spoke, his voice trembled with barely restrained anger.

"Take that back," he said, deliberate and slow. "She's my best friend."

Goldanna snorted, swiping the dirty little boy out from under her skirts as he clung to her.

"Like father, like son," the woman retorted. "Looks like you inherited his fancy for peasant wenches. Anyway, 'less you got a sack of coins for me and mine, I ain't interested."

The corners of Alistair's mouth turned down and he stared at the woman for a moment, the furrows indenting themselves more deeply on his brow.

"You… you just want money?" he clarified, the hurt raw and palpable. "You don't want to… to get to know me?"

She shot him a look of derision, crossing scrawny arms across her chest. Flora stood silently at Alistair's side, fighting the urge to deliver a traditional Herring head-butt to the woman's face.

"I don't want  _nothing_  from you except your coin," Goldanna hissed, her eyes moving over his tunic to gauge where his coin-purse could be secreted. "You owe me."

"Well, we don't have any coin," replied Alistair, suddenly sounding very tired. "But I'd like to help you with your children in another way… I could speak to- "

"Just get out," snarled the woman, flicking her fingers dismissively towards the door. "I don't know why you bothered to come in the first place.  _Get out_ , and take your little street whore with you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Flora always used to be dressed like a boy in Herring because her Herring-dad had no use for a girl – he needed a son to help him. So Flora always did all the jobs that the other fisherman's sons would do. In Flora's experience, until she went to the Circle, the only people who wore dresses were Chantry sisters. Arriving at Kinloch Hold was quite the eye-opener for her, with all the men and women in robes…!
> 
> AWWW poor Alistair! Goldanna is such a cow! Although actually, what's quite interesting is that Goldanna is vilified for her reaction here – her outright initial rejection of her half-brother (or who she believes is her half-brother) – yet when Flora first met Finian, her first reaction was to run away from him and deny their connection! Which wasn't very nice; although to be fair, he was also under the impression she was a dangerous sorceress and was waving a mage cage at her.
> 
> Alistair's sister-warden is not impressed with his half-sister, lol. Especially not after she's called 'gutter tart', 'peasant wench' and 'street whore' in the space of about sixty seconds, hahaha


	223. Arl Howe's Man

The moment that the Wardens emerged onto the street, the rotted door was slammed shut in its ill-fitting frame behind them. Alistair stood stock-still in the middle of the road, sad and grey beneath his olive tan. Flora gazed up at her brother-warden, feeling desperately sorry for him even as she considered returning to confront the hostile washerwoman.

_It would be worth getting arrested as an apostate to launch her across the room with my shield,_ she thought grimly to herself, but then Alistair spoke, his voice low and regretful.

"That's that, then," he said quietly, shoulders slumping. "What a waste of time. She was only after money."

Flora reached up to touch the side of Alistair's cheek, tracing the line of his strong jaw with her forefinger, not knowing what to say.

"At least she didn't chase you with a mage cage," she offered eventually, and he replied with a small, unconvincing smile.

"Oh well," he muttered, ignoring the grumbles of the passers-by as they were forced to divert around the stationary Wardens. "That's that, then."

She reached up to close the ten inches in difference between their heights; Alistair dutifully lowered his mouth to hers, but the kiss was brief and unconvincing. When he drew back, his eyes were shadowed with hurt, and Flora saw Goldanna's scornful derision writ plain on his features.

There was nothing that she could do except keep a tight hold on her brother-warden's hand as Alistair led her back towards the docks, his lips folded in a tight line. He made only the briefest response to her tentative comments, eyes fixed straight ahead. Flora spent the duration of the journey daydreaming about repeatedly punching, then healing, then punching Goldanna's nose.

When they eventually made their way back to the rose-hued chamber in the Pearl, a frantic Leliana immediately launched into a barrage of berating, in sheer disbelief that the Wardens would  _dare_  venture out alone now that Howe was known to be on his way back to the city. Zevran, who had already received sufficient lashing of the tongue for falling asleep in the sunshine on the roof, rolled his dark eyes sympathetically at them from behind the bard's rigid frame.

Flora, sensing her brother-warden's dejection, took the blame and therefore the brunt of Leliana's anger; claiming that she had wanted to go to the marketplace in order to find a monkey. Used to being lectured by her erstwhile teachers at the Circle, she let her features settle into an expression of vacant contrition as Leliana's castigation washed over her.

The brooding Alistair was quiet and sullen for the rest of the afternoon. His handsome face was set like a clouded sky as he leaned against the window frame, watching the activity in the docks ebb with the waning daylight. As the sun vanished below the western horizon, he had not moved yet from the window; although his expression was slowly transforming from sulky gloom to mutinous anger.

Leliana and Zevran took it in turns to help Flora memorise the Landsmeet speech; she had learnt most of the first page, but was making an increasing number of errors as she sneaked anxious little glances at her brother-warden.

"No, it's  _'distracted by the spectre of Orlais and the mirage of a threat from the west."_  Leliana corrected their healer, following her gaze. "Come on, you  _know_ this. Concentrate,  _chérie."_

"Sorry," mumbled Flora, returning her eyes to the bard and trying to corral her thoughts into some semblance of order. "' _The General has been fatally distracted by the spectre… of a monkey…"_

" _Florence!"_

"This speech makes no sense to me," complained Flora, her own face settling into mulish stubbornness. "I would never use these words, I don't know what half of them even  _mean_."

In spite of Leliana's glower, the young Cousland went to the basket of vegetables beside the window and picked up a raw turnip; taking a large and defiant bite as the bard's eyes narrowed.

"Mmm!"

"I think we have had enough line-learning for tonight, my Orlesian  _princesa,"_ Zevran murmured, watching Flora surreptitiously lick the dusty earth from the turnip's pale skin. "The words will not enter if the mind is unwilling."

Flora shot the elf a grateful look and he smiled sideways at her, blowing a little kiss.

"I don't  _need_  a sister, anyway."

It was the first that Alistair had spoken all evening; and it was a short, vehement utterance. They all turned to look at him and the bastard prince stared back, his eyes hard and glittering. The air of dejection had evaporated, leaving behind straight-backed defiance and a jaw set like silverite.

"I have a sister-warden. You're the only family I require, my darling."

Although the words were tender, Alistair's face was suffused with steely determination. He crossed the dusty floorboards in the span of a heartbeat, taking the aforementioned sister-warden in his arms.

Flora almost choked on the mouthful of turnip in her haste to swallow it, succeeding just in time as Alistair kissed her. His hands came up to grip her by the head, fingers winding themselves possessively in her hair; as though trying to anchor themselves together.

The bard and elf shared a look of mutual confusion at Alistair's comment; Leliana was immediately perturbed by this cryptic revelation.

Barely allowing his sister-warden pause to breathe, or to think coherently; Alistair reached up to grope her breast through her shirt, with fingers made clumsy by frustration and desire.

Leliana coughed, gripping the delighted elf's elbow and steering him purposefully towards the doorway.

"Let's give them some privacy," she murmured tactfully, as Zevran's head craned backwards. "I want to find out more about this supposed  _sister."_

The elf groaned, having just caught a tantalising glimpse of clothing being removed.

"He's a  _prince,_ " he complained, as Leliana firmly shut the door in their wake. "And he could be  _king_ in a matter of weeks. Royalty has many perks, but  _privacy_ isn't one of them."

"Then let's grant it to him before it becomes a thing of the past."

Much later, when the laughter and cries of the whorehouse had settled down to a husky murmur; Flora awoke with a dry throat and a strange sense of unease. The room was cast in shadow around her; but there was no such thing as  _true_  darkness when you were a creation mage of limited – but particular – skill.

The muted glow radiating from beneath Flora's fingernails showed her companions fast asleep and strewn about the room. Zevran was reclining against the window seat, half naked and carelessly elegant, platinum hair spread over the velvet bench. Leliana was curled on the mattress to Flora's left, some sort of green unguent mask plastered across the bard's lovely Orlesian features.

To her right, her beloved brother-warden was sprawled flat on his back, snoring softly; one hand clasping her non-glowing fingers. He had said nothing further about Goldanna's rejection, though his mouth had been occupied with other pursuits for the majority of the evening.

Gently extracting herself, Flora leaned over and kissed her best friend on his stubbled cheek, before slithering down to the end of the bed. Pulling Alistair's shirt down to her knees she went to the ewer on the dressing table, only to find that it was empty.

Casting a tentative look at her companions, Flora retrieved a pair of beribboned Orlesian bloomers and pulled them on beneath the shirt. Turning the key in the lock as quietly as possible, she slipped out into the upper passageway.

A soft giggle drifted from behind one of the adjacent doors, quickly hushed; but otherwise, the corridor seemed dark and deserted. Flora crept past the velvet chaise and began to descend the steps to the Pearl's lower floor. Unable to use herself as a light source for fear of being discovered, she was grateful for the candles resting on various scattered surfaces, planted within bottles of all shapes and sizes.

The bar downstairs was silent and bathed in shadow beyond the shell-beaded curtain. Flora could see the night greeter behind the water-stained front desk, the corset-clad matron stifling a yawn as she chatted with two excitable young nobles.

Flora continued down the wooden steps, which narrowed and became more roughly-hewn, clearly not intended for paying guests of the Pearl. The candles here were not artfully placed in glassware; they were wedged in ugly and functional iron candelabras, affixed to the wall at regular intervals. She emerged into a small cellar kitchen, lit by the remains of a fire smouldering in the grate. A pile of dirty plates and tankards stood on the table beside a half-empty bucket of glass bottles.

It took Flora a while to find the supply of fresh water, which she eventually discovered was pumped up into a stone well, located in a tiny adjacent scullery. She filled up all the water pouches that she had managed to scavenge from their chamber, clutching the small leather flasks to her chest as she emerged back into the kitchen.

A man stood there, leaning against the doorway that led to the staircase, a half-empty bottle dangling loosely from his hand. He was hiccupping, looking around as though lost; and although he was not visibly armed, Flora felt her breath catch in her throat.

He was clad in a distinctive livery of quartered mustard and ivory, with the shape of a brown bear stitched in the foreground. She recognised it in an instant, having seen the emblem stamped on the gold coins lining the pockets of various assassins.

_Arl Howe's man._

"'S'there more ale down here?" he asked, seeing her and assuming that she was a resident worker of the Pearl.

Heart pulsing in her ribcage, Flora shrank into the shadows of the scullery; horribly aware that her hair was like an organic banner that proudly declared her Cousland heritage.

"No –  _non,"_ she muttered, clutching desperately at her Orlesian  _Madame du Poisson_ persona.

The man shot her an odd, curious look, his interest piqued.

"You- you're… " he began, and Flora felt a single beat of terror. "Fuckin' _gorgeous."_

She exhaled with a relief that rapidly dissipated when he stumbled towards her; the bear appearing to move on his stitched retainer's jacket as he passed through the firelight. Not wanting to be trapped in the enclosed nook of the scullery, Flora slid out and circled the room; keeping the table between herself and the drunken retainer. She kept to the shadows, hoping that the colour of her hair was disguised by the darkness.

"How  _much_  are you?" he demanded, crashing a hip into the side of the table and knocking over a jar of spices. "I got coin."

" _One 'undred feeesh,"_ mumbled Flora, her accent wavering somewhere between Val Royeaux and Antiva City. She was horribly aware that she was unable to summon her barrier, since this would be an even bigger indicator of her identity than her Cousland fox-fur hair.

The man laughed, the sound wet and contemptuous in his throat as his eyes raked over Flora's body; the shirt and Orlesian bloomers unable to disguise the figure beneath.

"'S'that a  _joke?_ " he demanded, the words rising and running into one another. "I work for the  _–hic!-_ Teyrn of Highever. He put this coin into my hand personally an' told me to spend it well!"

_Don't say anything,_ Flora told herself sternly, sliding deftly around the corner of the table.  _Just don't –_

He made a clumsy lunge, hands out. She darted to one side and he crashed into a wooden preparation table, sending several earthenware bowls tumbling to the tiles.

" _Madame du Poisson!_ I have been looking everywhere for you, you naughty girl."

The familiar Antivan voice crept out of the darkness beside the steps, deliberately light and amused.

"The  _Kossith Akurkhan_ wonders where his evening entertainment has gone to."

Flora stared at Zevran, who was smiling as he leaned against the doorway with arms folded across his chest. Despite his amiable expression, there was something in the slender elf that reminded her of a coiled snake, ready to strike at a moment's provocation.

"Ooh," she said vaguely, not really understanding what he was alluding to.

Fortunately, a note of recognition had been struck in the drink-sodden retainer's brain.

"There's a  _Qunari_ here?" he demanded in mild trepidation, eyes rising to the ceiling as if he were able to see straight through the floorboards.

" _Sí,_ and he does not like being kept waiting. Come on,  _Madame."_

Zevran extended his arm, and Flora crept towards him, keeping as close to the shadows as possible while clutching the water-pouches to her chest. The retainer made no further protest, clearly not wanting to instigate an international incident with some massive grey-skinned denizen of Par Vollen.

Flora dropped her eyes to the floor as she passed the man, stretching out her hand towards Zevran. As he reached out to take it, she noticed that his fingers had been on the hilt of his blade; which itself had been half-withdrawn from its sheath. The elf took her hand without further comment, and Flora realised with some surprise that his tan skin was cold and damp with sweat.

Together, they headed in silence back up to the main floor and then ascended to the upper passageway. Despite the fact that the retainer had been left behind in the kitchen, Zevran kept her hand tightly clamped in his; relinquishing it only when it came to retrieving the key.

The former darkness inside the chamber had been replaced with the grey hued tones of pre-dawn, the first tentative fingers of sunrise creeping through the shutters. Alistair was still flat on his back, snoring loud and oblivious; Leliana curled like a cat two feet away on the mattress.

Zevran turned the key in the lock behind them, letting out a long exhalation as though he had been holding his breath. Closing his eyes, he slithered down to sit unceremoniously on the floor with his back pressed against the door. Flora sat down beside him, letting the water-pouches settle in her lap; the elf put an arm tightly around her narrow shoulders.

"You are putting premature grey in my hair,  _mi sirenita,"_ he murmured eventually, giving a wry and humourless chuckle. Flora grimaced, shooting him a little mournful glance of apology.

"I'm sorry," she replied, the picture of contrition. "I was just getting water."

The elf let out a sigh under his breath, and dropped his head down to rest against hers.

"Ah,  _cara,_ it is no fault of your own. But I suppose now we know that Rendon Howe is definitely back in Denerim."

Flora nodded, then startled in alarm.

"I have to warn my brothers," she breathed, wriggling out from beneath his arm and clambering awkwardly to her feet. "They'll be in the same district as him. I have to tell them that Arl Howe is here!"

The determined look on Flora's face suggested that she was about to set out across the city barefoot and clad in Orlesian knickers. She retrieved one of her boots from beside the dresser, and then strode across the floorboards to find the other.

Zevran reached out slender fingers and tugged at the trailing end of Flora's knee strapping, pulling her to a gentle stop.

"Hold,  _nena._ I will go."

Flora stared at him as the elf rose with far more grace and elegance than she had just done.

"You will?" she repeated, stupidly, and Zevran inclined his head.

"Yes,  _mi florita._ You are right; your brothers ought to be told. And you know I always enjoy an opportunity to visit your middle sibling."

He shot her the requisite leer, although she could see his mind working fleet and agile behind the surface grin.

"You'll go and warn them?"

"Yes, _mi corazon."_

"About Howe being back in the city?"

" _Sí."_

Narrowly avoiding treading on the discarded water pouches, Flora threw her arms around Zevran's neck. The elf stood at only a handful of inches taller than her; he was neatly able to rest his chin on her shoulder.

"Our bodies align too perfectly," he murmured in her ear, his voice deliberately low and lascivious. "Why have we not yet made love with one another,  _cara?"_

Flora drew back and gazed up at him solemnly, too preoccupied with her own thoughts to have paid heed to his comment.

"Howe knows you too," she said suddenly, her eyes searching his face. "Please be careful."

"I will endeavour to be so, my little flower."

"Endeavour  _hard,"_ she replied and he gave a small laugh, bowing his head in acquiescence.

The elf departed within minutes, slipping from the room like a silent shadow, his face set and determined. Flora sat on the edge of the bed, removing the one boot she had impulsively donned. Despite the fact that the dawning sun was beginning to edge fingers of light through the shutters, she decided to lie back down and try to gain a few more hours of rest.

_Leliana won't let us leave, anyway,_ she thought to herself, clambering back onto the bed and curling up against her brother-warden's side.  _Not once she learns that Howe is back in Denerim. We could lie in bed all morning and it wouldn't matter._

Alistair muttered something unintelligible in his sleep, reflexively reaching out to draw his best friend close to his side. Flora rested her cheek against his shoulder and yawned, trying not to worry too much about the prospect of Howe being only a stone's throw away from her brothers.

_Teagan said that Finian won at cards in the Gnawed Noble,_ she remembered suddenly, parting her fingers to let Alistair clasp them.  _They're not exactly being discreet. Do they_ want _to force a confrontation? I need to be there if they do._

Feeling anxiety twisting at her gut, Flora clutched Alistair's hand to her chest. Her brother-warden grunted in his sleep, tucking his chin on top of her head and yawning. Pressing her face against Alistair's sleep-warmed skin to feel the strong, reassuring thud of his heartbeat; Flora tried her hardest to put Howe from her mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So they're now definitely sharing a city with Howe, oh dear! Howe, prior to this, had been in his home territory of Amaranthine.
> 
>  
> 
> I know in game the Goldanna experience is what hardens Alistair, but since I've been hardening him (! too obvious) throughout the past ooohhhhhhhh hundred and fifty plus chapters, it doesn't have the same implication for my story. Instead, we see the result of him being hardened in his reaction - he's sad at first, but then angry, and then declares that he doesn't need a sister since he's got a sister-warden.


	224. Vulnerability

Flora woke some time later to the sound of Leliana and Alistair's conversation, light streaming across the bedchamber and illuminating the faded patches on the velvet bed hangings. The redhead was pacing back and forth, clad in her lay sister garb while incongruously spinning a wicked-looking blade between her slender fingers. Both bard and prince appeared locked in one-sided conversations, neither listening to the other.

"He's so  _infuriating,"_ Leliana was hissing out loud to nobody in particular, her pale blue eyes flashing. "Just  _vanishing_  in the middle of the night without saying anything! Irresponsible!"

"She looked at me with such  _contempt,"_ Alistair retorted in outrage, leaning against the window frame with arms folded across his chest. "Like I was  _nothing._  I can't get her expression out of my head! I was just trying to do my duty as a brother.  _Half-_ brother!"

A yawning Flora listened to the two concurrent arguments with increasing perplexion, pleating the blanket between her fingers.

"Zevran's gone to warn my brothers that Howe is back in the city," she said at last, when both had paused to take a simultaneous breath.

Bard and prince turned to look at her, Leliana's eyebrows rising as Alistair's face fell. Immediately, he rose from the window bench and crossed to the bed, planting himself beside his sister-warden and putting a protective arm about her shoulders. Howe's threat throbbed at the forefront of his mind like a poisonous growth:

_Rendon Howe intends to make the Cousland daughter Tranquil, and then marry her to legitimise his own claim._

"How do you know Howe is back in the city?" Leliana demanded, her nostrils flaring at yet another piece of information that she had not been privy to.

"I, ah," Flora said vaguely, realising too late that the circumstances of the discovery would most likely prove distressing for her brother-warden to hear. Still, it was too late to think of a more reassuring version of the night's events; and so she ploughed on regardless.

"I went to refill the water pouches last night," she muttered, the words coming out in a rush. "There was a man in the kitchens. He was wearing Arl Howe's badge, and… he said the arl had just paid him. To have a- a good time. He didn't recognise me, I don't think."

As expected, she heard Alistair let out a low hiss of anger, his arm tightening about her shoulders. Leliana leaned back against the dresser, her expression clouding thoughtfully as she turned this revelation over in her mind.

"I thought he'd be here tomorrow," she murmured, absentmindedly tugging a loose thread from the sleeve of her Chantry robe. "He probably wants to confer with Loghain before the opening of the Landsmeet."

The bard made her excuses while promising that she would not be going far. Both Wardens suspected that she was going to interrogate the madam who had been on duty the previous night; to glean as much information about the unwelcome client as possible.

"Flora," complained Alistair eventually, a slight tremor belying the steadiness of his voice. "Why didn't you wake me?"

She shrugged a shoulder, slightly sulkily.

"To get water from the cellar? I didn't think there would be any danger."

Alistair groaned, pressing his lips against the side of his sister-warden's forehead as he embraced her. Behind the expression of external concern, the bastard prince's mind was working rapidly.

"Without your magic, you're  _so_  vulnerable, Flo," he said suddenly; voice rising in sudden alarmed realisation. "Maker's Breath, do you even  _know_  how to use a weapon to defend yourself?"

Flora, who did not particularly like this line of questioning, gave a vague Herring-style grunt in reply. Alistair rose to his feet, prowling the confines of the room like something fierce and caged.

"Well, you're vulnerable without your sword," she retorted, belligerently. "Without your weapon and armour, you- "

Her brother-warden eyed her with some incredulity, letting the raw and powerful bulk of his body stand as sufficient answer.

"Flora," he said, entreating her in plain and pleading tones. "Humour me here, please. Can we demonstrate something?"

Thinking that at least he had been distracted from brooding over the obnoxious Goldanna, Flora nodded at him obligingly from the mattress.

Alistair took a deep breath, and then rolled over to position himself on top of his sister-warden, carefully straddling her hips whilst not putting any substantial weight on her.

"Are you demonstrating what you do every night?" Flora asked evilly, and Alistair let out a little groan as she grinned up at him.

"Be quiet,  _Ragenhilda,"_ he muttered, eyeing her sternly. "Now- what would you do in this position?"

"Take my shirt off?"

" _Flora!"_

"Sorry. Um, I suppose I'd just shield myself," Flora replied, the relentless questioning reminding her uncomfortably of years spent being interrogated in Circle classrooms.

Alistair groaned, remembering how both waterlogged marshes and Crow garrottes had conspired to rob his sister-warden of breath over the past few weeks.

_If she has no air, she has no magic._

Very gently, he leaned down and touched his fingers to her throat, feeling the slow, steady pulse of her heartbeat beneath the skin.

"What about this? What would you do?" he murmured, sliding his hands around her neck.

Ironically, he was touching her with far more delicacy and caution in this demonstration than he was wont to do in the bedchamber. Flora gazed up at him thoughtfully, as his fingers rested gently on her throat.

"I don't know," she replied honestly, giving a little shrug. "I suppose there's nothing I could do."

Alistair stared down at his lover and best friend, a sudden rush of anxiety flooding his face.

"I have to get you a dagger," he said abruptly as his mind worked rapidly to find a solution. "And teach you how to use it."

"Do  _you_ even know how to use a dagger?"

"Fine, we'll get Leliana to teach you, then. Don't be pugnacious, darling."

Flora, who clearly had no idea what  _pugnacious_ meant, smiled up at him in mild confusion. Alistair gazed back down at her, eyes searching her face while desire and frustration wrestled for dominance in his mind. Slowly, he reached for her wrists and brought them above her head, pinning her arms with infinite tenderness against the wall.

He kissed her three times one after the other; the second kiss was heated and more lingering; and by the third, Alistair's hand had started to steal beneath the edge of her shirt.

"You're so lovely, Flo," he murmured against her neck, fingers sliding up to cup the familiar curve of her breast. "I can't bear the thought of anything happening to- "

"The fraudulent priestess is continuing her investigations in the city," came a sudden, cold and wholly un-amused voice from the doorway. "I will station myself where I can see all entrance points."

Recognising the curt Qunari tone, Alistair withdrew his hand so rapidly that he sent a shirt button skittering across the floorboards. Flora sat up, beaming, absurdly delighted to see Sten standing stoic and deeply unimpressed beside the door. The bright silver slash of Asala gleamed on his back, resplendent in the midday sunlight. It was unclear how the Qunari had entered the whorehouse, or – for that matter – their presumably locked chamber.

"Sten," she breathed, absentmindedly fastening her shirt back up. "I thought you'd gone back to Par Vollen."

The Qunari shot her a mildly irritated stare.

"No," he replied, deadpan as always. "I am staying until the Blight is ended, as I have already stated."

Flora slithered off the bed and went to her pack, rummaging around between  _Exotic Fish of Thedas_ and the polished case containing the Cousland wreath.

"Are there any of Howe's men in the area?" asked Alistair, still fixated on the presence of the traitorous arl. "He's back in the city."

The ashen-skinned warrior curled his lip in mild contempt as he swivelled his stare over to Alistair.

"Once you stop delaying me with inane queries; I will be able to return outside and resume my watch. I merely came to inform you that the elf and the priestess will not be returning tonight."

"Aha!" Flora had found what she was looking for: one of the sticky pastries that she had purchased with Bann Teagan in the market the previous day.

Unwrapping the sugar-coated confection, she clambered gracelessly to her feet and presented it to the Qunari. Sten eyed it for a moment, then turned an unimpressed scarlet stare on Flora.

"You returned my sword," he said, un-amused. "Why present me with anything else?"

"Just  _try_  it," she entreated, smiling at him with winning charm. "You can spit it out if you don't like it."

The Qunari looked mildly repulsed but took the pastry, consuming it in a single fierce bite. He chewed for several moments, his face utterly impassive. Both Alistair and Flora gazed at him, enthralled, watching the warrior grinding the flaky dessert between his teeth. Finally, he swallowed with a solemn gulp; still saying nothing.

"Do you like it?" Flora asked, tentatively.

There was a long pause. Someone in the passageway giggled, a muffled conversation drifting through the door.

"It is… not displeasing," replied Sten stiffly, and Flora – unable to help herself – let out a squeal.

"You like it, you  _like_  it," she breathed, as the Qunari glowered down at her. "I found something that you like!"

Sten stared down at her, lip curling.

"I… will return to the watch point," he said after a moment, not bothering to wait for a reply before making an abrupt exit.

Undaunted, Flora turned her beam towards Alistair, waving around her sugar-coated fingers.

"I can't believe it," she enthused, delightedly. "Sten has a sweet tooth! I've found his weak spot."

Alistair smiled distractedly, annoyed at himself for not waylaying the Qunari and asking whether he could impart any of his skill with a blade to Flora. He had never seen his sister-warden with any weapon other than her own staff; and even then he had only seen her use it aggressively a handful of times. Eventually, he noticed that Flora was eyeing him with a slight scowl, clearly perturbed that he was not paying due attention to her success with the deadpan Qunari.

Reaching out, Alistair gripped Flora's wrist gently and brought her hand close to his face. To distract both her and himself, he took her sugar-coated fingers into his mouth one at a time; watching his best friend turn an increasingly vibrant shade of crimson. One thing led to another, and before long Alistair was fumbling to undo the buttons on his breeches as he knelt between her thighs. Flora was giggling and clutching a cushion to her chest to try and calm herself.

Suddenly, there came a loud  _bang_ as a door slammed somewhere in the depths of the whorehouse. The looming spectre of Arl Howe rose up once more in Alistair's mind and he reached out to clutch his sister-warden tightly to his chest. He could feel his heart surge forward in a panicked crescendo as he envisioned all sorts of creative ways that Howe's men could deprive his lover of air.

Flora stopped laughing abruptly, taken aback by the odd expression on Alistair's face. She could feel the frantic throb of his heart against her chest as he exhaled unsteadily, the skin at the back of his neck suddenly cold.

"Alistair," she whispered tentatively, not sure why she was speaking in hushed tones. "What's wrong?"

Alistair sat up, running a hand over the top of his rumpled head with a little grimace. Flora shifted around bodily on the mattress until she could rest her head in Alistair's lap and gaze up at him. He dropped a hand to caress the side of her face, every inch familiar enough that he could trace its sloping angles and planes from memory. Closing his own eyes, he swept a calloused thumb down the line of her jaw, feeling the delicate bone beneath.

Unable to help himself, he pictured a metal-clad fist swinging its way into the fine-hewn construction of his sister-warden's solemn, lovely face, and let out an inadvertent groan.

"Alistair?" Flora repeated, alarmed at the peculiar expression looming over her.

"Maker," Alistair breathed, shaking his head slightly. "Why is that blasted elf never present when you want him to be? Or Leliana. It sounds as though they won't be back until tomorrow."

Flora's stomach gave a loud rumble and she sat up, pressing the heel of her hand to her belly. She could feel the slight curve of her abdomen – firm and unyielding – and, as was her habit nowadays, removed her hand and banished it from her mind.

"What do you mean?" she asked, wandering barefoot over to the raw vegetable box that Leliana had been planning to transform into a seasoned stew. After a moment's contemplation spent crouched beside it, she picked up a raw potato and sunk her teeth contentedly into its cold, meaty flesh.

Alistair was so preoccupied with his own worries that he barely registered what his sister-warden was doing.

"I want them to teach you some basics with a dagger," he replied, frustrated. "You should carry a weapon, or… or wear some armour."

Flora shot the stack of battered Templar mail in the corner a slightly alarmed look, unable to envision herself in anything other than her normal uniform of shirt, boots and breeches.

"Huh."

From the passageway outside came a number of muffled voices as the other denizens of the Pearl went to bathe in preparation for the evening.

"I should go and wash too," Flora replied amiably, rising to her feet as she welcomed the distraction. "I feel as gritty as an oyster. A nasty,  _Amaranthine_ oyster."

When Alistair shot her a slightly agonised look, Flora pointed a slender, nail-bitten finger firmly back at him.

"I'll be  _fine,"_ she instructed, beadily. "Don't fret so much."

She stood up on her toes and he ducked his head to kiss her, necessitated by the ten inch difference in their height. He watched her go with anxiety thrumming raw in his veins, shifting from foot to foot. A moment later an idea struck him, brilliant and simple. A determined expression settling on his face, Alistair retrieved the ribbon-hung key and headed for the door himself.

A short while later Flora wrung out her hair as she wandered barefoot back along the upper passageway. Alistair's shirt hung to her damp knees, a trail of drips left scattered in her wake. The other courtesans of the Pearl were also returning to their rooms to prepare for the evening ahead. A muscular and lipsticked male dwarf clad in a fetching fuchsia gown raised a hand to Flora as he entered his own chamber; they had spent their time in the washroom conversing on the delights and peculiarities of Orzammar.

The lamp boys were also weaving their way up the corridor, chattering absentmindedly to one another. They were busy coaxing the myriad scattered candles into life; their soft amber glow far kinder to the Pearl's worn glamour than the harsh light of day.

Stopping outside their assigned quarters, denoted by a carving of a rose inlaid in the oak panel, Flora raised a fist to knock. She assumed that Alistair, in his newly paranoid mood, would have both triple locked the door and possibly wedged something beneath the handle.

The door swung open before her knuckles could make contact with the wood. The tan Rivaini pirate stood there, clad in her customary clinging shirt and leathers, a satisfied grin spreading over her face. Isabela's warm eyes, black and glittering as onyx stones, dropped up and down to survey a startled Flora with increasing approval as she took in the wet hair and bare legs.

"Did you think you were going to escape my clutches that easily, little bird?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Flora is basically useless without her magic – she can hit people on the head with her staff, but it's nothing more than clumsy flailing that works about 10% of the time. She's also – as is pretty apparent – in major denial about the firm little curve that her belly is beginning to sport. LOL she's been pregnant for 135 chapters, and in denial for about 105 of them (ever since she first felt sick waking up in Weep-Eyed Cave in the Brecilian Forest). IS THAT A RECORD?
> 
> Also, did you think you had seen the last of Isabela? YOU THOUGHT WRONG! And actually in game Isabela does offer dualist training, so it's accurate as well hoho
> 
> NB- Flora in no way shape or form is going to end up as a duelist. Let's just say it's a good thing that she can heal herself haha


	225. Three In A Bed

Flora allowed herself to be invited inside her own quarters, still taken aback at the Rivaini woman's presence. The room smelt of warm spices and rum, and Flora could detect a faint hint of alcohol on the pirate's breath as the woman drew her deeper within the rose-hued chamber. Isabela's fingers, each one sporting either a golden or bejewelled ring, were clamped tightly around the top of her arm.

She saw Alistair leaning against the window, the shutters already having been drawn to ensure privacy. A fire had been set in the grate, issuing perfumed cedar smoke up the chimney.

"Flo," he started immediately, seeing her vaguely confused expression. "The pirate – uh, captain –  _Isabela_ has agreed to teach you a few tricks with a dagger."

"Tricks?" Flora repeated, shivering as her wet hair dripped down the back of her neck. " _Tricks_ like a Mabari? How to balance it on my teeth? I saw Zevran do that once."

Alistair narrowed his eyes at his sister-warden, having little patience for her jests.

" _Flora!_  This could save your life in the future. Please, take it seriously."

Flora peered at her anxious companion as he shifted from foot to foot, the floorboards creaking beneath him.

"Alright," she said, compassion overcoming her humour. "Thank you very much, ma'am. Do we… have to pay you?"

Isabela, who had been retying the white linen shirt around her abdomen, shot her a mildly horrified look.

"Please, little robin, never call me  _ma'am_ again. It makes me feel as old as the hills. And, do not fret, I shall… collect my fee later."

Over the next two hours, the pirate made a valiant effort to teach Flora some basic self-defence with a dagger. Flora, who was inherently clumsy, ended up nicking herself more often than she landed blows on an imaginary assailant. After healing the fourth small cut that she had made to her own arm, she let out a little defeated grunt; only for Isabela to grip her chin between tan fingers and look her straight in the eye.

"Sweet thing, the world out there is full of dangers for pretty girls like you. You should learn to protect yourself."

Privately, Flora thought that she was  _more_  than capable of defending herself from the dangers of the world; but she could see the reassurance growing like a bright flame on Alistair's handsome face, and this was enough for her to bite her tongue and press onwards.

Finally, she had learnt sufficient basic defence to temporarily sate her brother-warden's anxiety. Alistair was beaming, delighted that he had played some small part in preparing his beloved best friend to face the  _dangers of the world_ – in the event that her magic ever deserted her.

Isabela, who was deceptively supple despite the full tan curves, had barely broken a sweat. Resting her daggers on the dresser, she poured herself a chalice of strong wine with a steady hand, while the exhausted Flora gaped like a fish out of water.

"Here, poppet. Drink this," she murmured, taking a single swallow before passing the chalice to Flora.

The pirate's dark eyes then proceeded to widen as Flora downed the entire vessel in several gulps; not aware that alcohol distilled itself to water beneath the young healer's tongue.

"Goodness," the Rivaini breathed, eyeing her with no small measure of admiration. "You downed that like a dwarf, petal."

The sweaty Flora replaced the chalice and slumped down on the bed amidst the dishevelled cushions and blankets. Alistair reached out to touch her bare calf affectionately; proud that she had made a visible effort to learn the basics.

"Well done, Flo," he murmured, smiling warmly at her. "I'm proud of you."

Flora grunted, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm her racing heart. The cedar wood burning on the hearth issued forth a perfumed miasma that seemed to weigh down the air, hanging in a scented veil between the ceiling beams. The room was dim, the fire casting tendrils of muted amber across the floorboards. Isabela let out a little sigh, sprawling down onto the mattress beside Flora. The gesture was calculated, despite seeming ostensibly casual. She watched Alistair's fingers as they lingered on his lover's non-strapped knee, desire and affection fighting for dominance in his warm hazel stare.

"So, with regard to my fee," the Rivaini pirate drawled, her voice soft and full of intent. "I have no need of coin, Alistair, so don't reach for your purse. However, I  _am_ curious as to the nature of the…  _invigorating_ magic that your little friend is able to impart. Leliana told me all about it."

Alistair, who had been midway through pouring a flagon of weak ale, nearly spilt it down the front of his shirt.

"She- she did?" he breathed, willing both hand and voice to steady themselves.

The pirate nodded, a catlike smile curving over her tan features.

"And, as my third decade approaches, I find myself tiring so  _easily,"_ she lied, her dark eyes liquidous and promising. "I should like to experience such  _invigoration_ ; recall the vibrant days of my youth."

It was a blatantly transparent excuse. Alistair took a long gulp of ale, hoping that the blush would have subsided from his cheeks by the time that he lowered the tankard.

"If Flo is alright with it," he croaked, trying his utmost to seem nonchalant.

Flora, sprawled on her back amidst the cushions, tilted her head to gaze up at the tanned Rivaini pirate lying beside her. There was a raw and earthy sensuality about the full-figured woman as she propped herself up on an elbow, supremely confident.

"It's fine," Flora replied, thoughtfully, then flashed a toothy beam. "I don't mind."

Isabela did not return the smile, her dark eyes already focused on the girl's wide Cousland mouth. For the third time in a minute she licked her own lips to dampen them. Moments later, she lowered her mouth to Flora's, wondering at how full and sulky the girl's warm lips were. They almost immediately yielded to Isabela's practised tongue, Flora opening her mouth dutifully to breathe the rejuvenative energy.

However, it quickly became apparent that the pirate was not interested in rejuvenative energy. The  _cure_ had quite clearly become a  _kiss_ within the first few seconds; Isabela's mouth working with deliberate intent against Flora's. Their lips moved like a pair of dancers, with the tentative amateur guided by an experienced senior. Tongues caressed one another with languid desire; twisting slow and sensuous. Flora was panting slightly, her cheeks flushed as the pirate stole the air from her lungs in the most pleasurable way.

The tankard dropped from Alistair's slack fingers but nobody paid any attention to the errant silverware, least of all the bastard prince himself. He was leaning forward on the armchair, the arousal already evident in his breeches. All of his fears about Howe, the growing anxiety about his sister-warden's participation in the final battle, even the bitterness over Goldanna's rejection – all suddenly seemed inconsequential in comparison.

"Take off her shirt," he commanded, the words thick and desirous as they emerged from his throat.

Needing no further persuasion, Isabela did as she was instructed. A lazy and languid smile curved the corner of her mouth as she savoured the release of each button. Once the last fastening had been worked free, the pirate slowly drew open the shirt to reveal Flora's small, bare breasts.

"Lovely," she crooned, pleased to see the nipples already stiff with arousal. Why don't you touch me, sweet thing?"

Flora reached up curiously to spread her fingers over Isabela's linen-covered right breast; cupping the mound and feeling its weight like she were appraising a large salmon at market. The pirate let out a low groan of pleasure under her breath, a nest of dark eyelashes resting against tan skin.

Growing bolder, Flora began to pluck at the strings of the tunic stretching over the woman's ample chest. With a little aid from Isabela's eager fingers, the pirate's heavy olive breasts were soon spilling free. Fascinated, the young healer began to touch them with exploratory fingers, nudging the large dark nipples to stiffness.

As pirate queen began to kiss fisherman's daughter with renewed passion, their bare breasts pressing together; Alistair abandoned propriety and freed his swollen length from his breeches. When Isabela wrapped her lips around Flora's nipple, he swore under his breath and began to stroke himself with helpless urgency. If anyone had asked him how he felt about Loghain Mac Tir at that particular moment; the bastard prince would have had difficulty recalling who the teyrn even  _was,_ let alone his supposed crimes.

Flora, full of uncomplicated desires, was squirming back helplessly into the pallet mattress. The small whimpers escaping her mouth surprised her greatly when she finally became aware of them – they did not even  _sound_ like her. Isabela's heated lips moved leisurely between her breasts, her fingers taking up the stimulation of parts recently left by her tongue.

The teyrn's daughter reached up to touch Isabela's breast once again, fascinated by its rounded heaviness. The nipple was larger than her own, swollen and dark in comparison to the pirate's tan skin; and was as hard as a pebble despite the inexperienced nudging of Flora's curious finger.

Then Isabela's mouth was moving downwards, kissing a daring path down the smooth line of Flora's stomach. The pirate took in the gentle, distinctly rounded navel without comment, shooting a curious glance up at the squirming redhead.

Flora was far beyond the point of registering nuances of expression, her hips arching upwards as heat and lust pulsed almost painfully between her legs. She felt her smalls being drawn down past her knees; and then her thighs were parted, and she was exposed to the chamber. Before she could grow chilly – the unattended fire had long since died - she felt something warm and soft envelop her, coaxing forth fresh surges of pleasure with slow, desirous laps.

Alistair's fist pumped up and down his length, the blood pulsing through his core as he stood beside the bed. Isabela's head of glossy dark curls was nestled between his best friend's thighs, her experienced tongue working enthusiastically. Flora was letting out odd little squeaks of arousal, her fingers reaching down to tangle in the pirate's tangled hair. Alistair leaned forward to kiss her, brief and hard, not wanting to tear his eyes away from Isabela's languid, teasing tongue.

"What a sweet little peach your friend is," the pirate murmured, raising her head to turn hooded, dark eyes on Alistair. "Zevran tells me that you take her several times a night. I admire your stamina, and…  _hm_."

The pirate's eyes dropped to Alistair's waist, raising a impressed brow.

"My, my," she admitted, whilst simultaneously doing something that made Flora squeal. "It seems that he  _wasn't_  exaggerating. May I?"

Alistair was beyond the point of comprehension, the sea wall of self-control collapsing as desire and arousal swelled up to submerge his brain. As though he were watching from the ceiling; he felt the Rivaini pirate's practised palm wrap around him and begin to stroke. He groaned despite himself, watching the older woman's tanned and many-ringed fingers stimulate his length with quick, expert motions.

Even as Isabela worked the bastard prince with her hand, his eyes were glued to the sweaty, trembling body of his sister-warden; her fingers tangled in the blankets as her hips rose involuntarily. Flora opened her eyes, the grey irises lit gold by the embers of the fire, and stared directly at her brother-warden in open invitation.

At some point Alistair must have discarded shirt and breeches; but the Warden would not even have been able to describe how he had got onto the bed and between his best friend's thighs. He no longer knew what had happened to Isabela, the blood thoroughly diverted from his brain and surging elsewhere. The only thing that Alistair cared about was that he was not yetsheathed inside his lover; a state that he wished to rectify as soon as possible.

In actuality, Isabela had slithered out of the way on seeing Alistair's powerful frame lunge forward, knowing how single-minded lust struck young men could. She arranged herself on the pallet mattress beside the gasping Flora, deciding to enjoy the show while waiting for Alistair to transfer his affections.

Once the bastard prince had sunk himself to the hilt between the welcoming thighs of his lover, he was lost in pursuit of pleasure, driving himself forward with relentless urgency. When the impatient Isabela intercepted a strong hand and guided it towards her breast or between her legs; Alistair groped her with boyish enthusiasm and ardour, but his attentions kept returning inexorably to his sister-warden.

After a while, the highly perturbed Isabela got up and poured herself a flagon of ale. This only served to heighten her irritation as the writhing pair on the bed did not even seem to  _notice_  her absence. The pirate possessed limited patience as a spectator; only tolerating several minutes of watching a Alistair thrust away, teeth gritted, before stalking out.

She joined Zevran in the spectator's annex, setting down on the velvet chaise and scowling petulantly. The elf had returned to the Pearl a short while ago, and had immediately retired to his voyeur's nook after eavesdropping on events through the door.

"Don't pout, Isabela. It causes wrinkles," he instructed, watching brother and sister-warden moving in practised harmony on the bed. "Anyway, I don't know why you're so surprised. It's clear that he wants only her."

Isabela let out a graceless snort, taking a gulp from one of the hip-flasks that she kept secreted about her person.

"Ah, well," she murmured, fastening the buttons of her shirt back up and giving an amiable shrug. "She's adorable; I love that big, sulky mouth."

Just then, the rhythmic thumps of the bedpost against the wall finally proved too much for the netting suspended overhead. The fixtures in two corners came loose from the wooden beams, and the entire frayed fishing net dropped down onto the bed. Accompanying the mouldering rope were several petrified starfish, a handful of shells, a string of tiny glass bottles on a rotting thread and a full-sized oar. Several loose skeins of rope drifted down in their wake, fluttering like parchment swept from a desk.

The oar hit Alistair on the head as sundry items rained down onto the bed. He let out a yelp of confusion, recoiling backwards as a shell bounced off his shoulder and into Flora's face. Flora, who had had a split-second of warning due to her prostrate position, began to laugh. Alistair gaped down at her in a mild stupor, his body not quite able to handle such a rapid deceleration from pleasure to farce. She reached up with sweaty fingers, removing a starfish from her brother-warden's rumpled hair.

"The decoration fell down," Flora explained, unnecessarily. "The ceiling net."

"I'm aware of that, my darling."

"Will we get into trouble?"

Alistair shrugged ill-temperedly, and she gazed up at him with anxious eyes. He glanced at her, then clambered to his feet; clutching the bedpost with a hand to steady himself as he balanced on the pallet mattress. Grabbing a fistful of the drooping netting, he lifted it back towards the ceiling beams and squinted at the broken fixtures.

"Pass me something to hammer this back in with, sweetheart," he called over his shoulder. "I can fix it."

Flora made no response, too busy gaping up at her brother-warden with her mouth half-open. Alistair's powerful, raw physicality – six foot and a fistful of inches of refined bulk – still tended to catch her by surprise on occasion. The men of Herring were built like barrels and wrapped in six layers at all times; and the men of the Circle often tended towards effete slenderness.

"Flo?"

"Sorry," she replied, leaning down from the bed and retrieving one of her discarded boots.

Handing it up to Alistair, she watched his broad, sweaty shoulders flex as he used the sole of her footwear to hammer the net fixing back into place.

Flora proceeded to crawl around the mattress retrieving the scattered starfish and shells; passing them one at a time up to her brother-warden so that he could arrange them back in the tangled netting. Since neither of them had a great sense of the aesthetic, the placement of decoration was more haphazard than meticulous.

Both Isabela and Zevran watched somewhat incredulously through the gilded mirror; the pirate's slender fingers sliding through the elf's loose, platinum hair.

Not one to hold petty grudges, Isabela had quickly overcome her annoyance that the threesome had devolved into a twosome. Now she was gazing in open-mouthed bewilderment as Flora gesticulated, directing the minute placement of a large, ochre starfish.

"They could get the attendants of the Pearl to fix that in a minute," she breathed, narrowing her eyes at the elf. "I thought you told me they were  _nobility_ in hiding from disapproving parents _._ They don't act like any nobles I've ever met."

Zevran grinned and the pirate smacked her fingers petulantly against his knee.

"Tell me," she cajoled, turning limpid dark eyes on him as her fingers began to slide up the inside of his thigh. "Who are they  _really?_ You know my ship leaves in the morning, I'll be the  _picture_ of discretion."

The elf tilted his chin, pretending to think about it.

"I'll tell you this much," he murmured, reaching down to caress one of her supple breasts through the loosely fastened tunic. "He – the one you currently see adjusting the angle of a starfish to meet  _madame's_ precise dictation – has every chance of becoming the King of Ferelden before the fortnight is out."

Isabela stopped unbuttoning the elf's leathers and gaped, her head swivelling around like an owl to stare back at the couple in the next room.

A sulking Alistair had just clambered down, standing beside the bed and working a small splinter from his finger with his teeth. His sister-warden gazed up at him from the dishevelled bedding, her eyes moving from muscled thighs to taut, defined chest, faintly marked with old scars. His manhood hung limp and heavy alongside his thigh; thoroughly deflated after their interrupted coupling.

Flora was about to slither forward and drop to her knees before him, when she had a better idea. Reaching for a loose skein of rope that had fallen from the netting, she presented it to Alistair wordlessly. Peering through her eyelashes to gauge his reaction, she let herself drop back onto the mattress, limp and compliant.

Alistair stared rather stupidly at the length of rope in his hands, then down at his sister-warden. She lay sprawled naked on the cushions with her dark red hair spread around her; pale eyes half closed, and full lips parting in an anticipatory sigh.

As he gazed at her, the Theirin dominance began to flare in the depths of his hazel eyes, jaw tensing and lip curling. With measured deliberateness, he gripped the rope in one hand while simultaneously reaching for Flora's wrists. Slowly, savouring each moment, he brought her arms above her head and affixed them to the bedpost; knotting the rope with tender care.

Stepping back, Alistair surveyed his work. The act alone of restraining his sister-warden was sufficient to revive his limp manhood, which now stood tall and proud as a ship's mast. He issued a brief instruction and she parted her legs obediently; prompting a painfully sharp inhalation of desire from the bastard prince. He began to stroke his length, fisting it with practiced expertise as he stared down at his naked and bound best friend.

"You're so beautiful, Flora," he murmured, eyes moving slowly along the curves and lines of her body. "I wanted you from the moment I saw you."

The next moment he had bowed his head to her breast, taking her nipple ardently in his mouth. She let out a little moan, squirming into the mattress with her arms pinned helplessly above her head. It took all of Alistair's monastery-instilled discipline to stop himself from spending over his own stomach.

Taken slightly aback by the extent of his arousal, he withdrew his lips and focused on fondling her with his fingers; coaxing her repeatedly to the edge of climax before cruelly removing his hand. He recalled how the pirate had used her thumb to put pressure on one point while fluttering her index finger elsewhere. When he emulated this to the best of his ability, his best friend let out a strangled gasp and arched her hips helplessly against his hand.

After a short while, Flora was almost in tears of pleasure and frustration; spreading her thighs and begging for him to take her in the crudest possible terms. Alistair finally relented, lifting her hips and sheathing himself inch by inch, deliberately slow.

Despite the measured pace of his entry, the sight of his sister-warden whimpering and bound beneath him proved too much for Alistair's restraint. Soon he was rutting away in a pace driven by primal instinct, eyes feasting on the rhythmic lurch of her small breasts as he bucked into her.

His lips drew back over his teeth and he uttered a strangled blasphemy, and then swore even more crudely as he felt the inevitable swell of pressure. Lifting her bodily from the mattress, he let out a feral growl and released himself inside her, buttocks clenching with the force of his climax.

To his slight perplexion, Flora immediately began to giggle juvenilely beneath him. Alistair rolled off her, eyeing her with some belligerence.

"What?!" he demanded, perturbed. "What's  _funny?"_

Flora grinned, emitting a single pulse of her shield to tear through the ropes binding her wrists. Sitting up against the cushions, she shot a glance at her brother warden's outraged face and couldn't help letting out a cackle.

"That  _noise_ you made just now, when you… you know," she whispered, wiping at the corners of her eyes. "GRRRRR!"

Alistair gazed down at her, and she repeated the noise with a little growl.

"GRRRRR! – you sounded like a rabid Mabari."

"A  _rabid Mabari?!"_ repeated Alistair in bemusement, and she giggled, nodding.

The old king's son stared at her for a moment, and then gave a wide and rather stupid grin; hair dishevelled and eyes bright.

"Maker's Breath," he said, wonderingly. "How is it that we're in the middle of a damned  _Blight_ , and I'm the happiest I've been in my entire life?"

"Grrrrrr, woof," offered Flora helpfully, and Alistair laughed; rolling back on top of her with another exaggerated growl.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So their genuine attempt at a threesome ends up turning into a twosome, which is rudely interrupted by half of the ceiling decoration falling on their heads! I think that's quite typical for both Flora and Alistair, lol
> 
> Alistair's dominance also takes a new turn with the wrist tying – which is actually so vanilla, I don't think it even classifies as bondage anymore! Now there are furry handcuffs sold in Victoria's Secret, I think it counts as mainstream haha. Incidentally, does one need a safe word if one can easily break out of any restraints in a magic-emitting heartbeat? Flora's safe word should be LOGHAIN – a word guaranteed to kill Alistair's mood hohoho
> 
> The hands getting tied up is unfortunately a bit of an ominous portent for what's to come – this is going to be the last light-hearted chapter for quite a little while! Stay tuned for… kidnapping! Imprisonment! Torture! And last but not least… Tranquilisation! OH DEAR what has Flora got herself into this time? Fucking dagger training was clearly useless!
> 
> Also sorry for the slightly naff name to this chapter – I still have pneumonia and it takes twice as long to edit these things, and I was just too knackered to think of a more clever title lol. Clickbaity as fuck!


	226. The Consequences of Compassion

The next morning dawned bright and optimistic; pleats of sunlight penetrating through the shutters, and illuminating the dusty floorboards. The Chantry bells were ringing in the distance, reminding the inhabitants of Denerim that morning service was less than an hour away.

For the most part, those who dwelt at the Pearl tended to ignore the summons to prayer, preferring to find absolution through other more salubrious means. The whorehouse was quiet and almost serene; until the peace was disturbed by the solid thud of three armed men's boots along the upper passageway. The pious Leliana, who was dutifully departing for the Chantry service, let Arl Leonas and two retainers into the rose-hued chamber as she left.

"Apologies for the early visit," the arl of South Reach said abruptly, flicking a finger towards one of his men. The servant crossed to the shutters and wrestled them open; a sudden over-abundance of sunlight spilling into the room.

Alistair groaned, having grown reluctantly accustomed to the lack of privacy. Yawning, he pushed himself up against the cushions; bare chested and sleep dishevelled.

"I'm used to it," he replied without rancour, glancing reflexively down at his sister-warden as she lay curled against his side. "What's the situation with Howe?"

Leonas strode the length of the chamber, pausing beside the window and peering out at the green-glass estuary. The gulls were wheeling overhead, calling out excitedly at the first catch of the morning being unloaded from salt-encrusted nets.

"He's back in the city. Loghain will formally open the Landsmeet by week's end," he replied, curiously noting the frayed ends of rope tied around the bedpost. "Eamon wants to see you one last time, Alistair. I volunteered to escort you."

"Again?" replied Alistair, grimacing slightly as he stifled another yawn. "I don't know what else we could possibly have to discuss. Our matching hairstyles as we enter the palace? Morning, darling."

This was directed at Flora, who was shifting fretfully at his side. Pale and bleary-eyed, she did not feel entirely _healthy_. Her stomach churned in her belly and her face felt as though it was prickling with heat, a sour taste congealing under her tongue. Alistair glanced down at her, and then inhaled sharply, ignoring Leonas' response.

"Sweetheart, you don't look well," he exclaimed, dismay flooding his face. "Let me get you some water."

Careless of his own nakedness, the bastard prince rose from the bed and crossed to the dresser, pouring a tankard of water from the half-empty ewer. The pallid and sweaty Flora leaned back against the pillows, clutching the blankets to her chest and wondering whether she was actually going to be sick. Only once she had established that the nausea was not going to manifest itself, did she flash a wan smile of greeting at Arl Leonas.

"Good morning, Arl Leonas," she whispered, taking the tankard gratefully from her brother-warden.

Flora's words roused the militaristic arl from his reverie; he had been staring at her with a conflicted, indecipherable expression.

"Did you not sleep well, child?" he asked her after a moment, showing due concern to the only daughter of his deceased friend.

"We didn't  _sleep_  much last night," replied Flora with customary Herring bluntness as Alistair nearly tangled himself in his own breeches. "That must be why I don't feel so well."

_And why the lad has a spark in his eye and a languid ease to his movements this morning,_ thought the arl; although he bit his tongue and merely gave a small nod.

Alistair watched her like a hawk as she drank the water, courteously removing the empty tankard before planting a kiss in the centre of her forehead. He was halfway through pulling on a shirt and listening to Leonas talk about the protocol of the Landsmeet vote, when he suddenly and abruptly cut the arl off.

"I'm not leaving Flo," he stated bluntly, eyes turning to his sister-warden as she sat in the tangle of blankets and took several deep breaths. "If she's not well enough to come, I'm not leaving her here alone."

"I'm not alone," pointed out Flora, gesturing to the adjacent room. "Zevran is here too."

Her stomach gave a roll of nausea and she swallowed, dropping her head between her knees and taking several gulps of air. Alistair paused in the buttoning of his shirt and gazed at her for a moment, naked conflict evident on his face. Raising her head with some effort, Flora smiled at him, trying to convey as much reassurance as possible.

"I'll be fine," she repeated, convincing herself as much as them. "I feel a bit dizzy. I'll just sleep for another few hours."

Alistair crossed over to her, rubbing his palm up and down her bare back; tracing his thumb over the freckled constellation on her shoulder-blades. He leaned down and pressed his lips to the back of her neck, brushing her hair to one side.

"Fine," he said after a moment, his reluctance obvious. "But you must promise me three things, my dear."

Flora gazed at him expectantly, and the bastard prince counted them off on his fingers.

"First: that you don't leave this room. Second: that you open the door to nobody we don't know."

She nodded, watching him fasten the top button of his breeches.

"What's the third thing?"

Having gone to retrieve his sword, Alistair crossed the room in a handful of strides and took his sister-warden's face between his calloused palms. Considerate of her nausea, he touched his lips tenderly to her forehead instead of her mouth.

"Be safe," he murmured, brushing a hand possessively over the top of her head. "Above all else."

Flora nodded, and then he was gone with Arl Leonas in his wake; leaving the room somehow darker for his absence.

She took several deep breaths, sitting on the edge of the bed. She could hear the muffled sound of the kitchens two storeys below, but – oddly enough – Flora's appetite seemed to have temporarily deserted her. The warped, blurred glint of the gilt mirror caught her attention and she pressed her forehead against the glass, squinting through into the adjacent viewing annex. To her mild surprise, the chaise and armchair were deserted; the elf was nowhere in sight.

Not sparing it too much thought, Flora turned her back on the sunlight streaming in through the window. She settled down on the mattress, pulling a cushion over her face and stifling a yawn. Despite the fact that it was mid-morning and the docks were teeming with life outside; she decided that a nap was the best cure for her nausea. Within minutes she was asleep, the blankets tangled around her limbs and her cheek resting against her palm.

Flora was woken several hours later by the sound of someone screaming, thin and high; blurring into the mournful calls of the wheeling gulls overhead. She sat bolt upright in bed, her heart seizing momentarily in her chest from the sheer anguish of the cry. Then there came several beats of silence and Flora exhaled unsteadily, hoping that the situation had – somehow – managed to resolve itself; that it had simply been a misunderstanding, someone had given someone else a fright.

The cry came again, so loud that it must have been within yards of the Pearl's entrance.

" _Maker, somebody do something! Please! My son is hurt!"_

Flora could hear the sound of shutters being flung open, as the other residents of the Pearl were roused by the desperate howl.

" _Maker, he can't breathe! Please, help!"_

There was no time for her to dwell on her promise to Alistair that she would not leave. Grabbing her breeches and yanking them on as she scrambled across the room, Flora rattled the door handle and realised that it was locked.

Shooting back towards the window, she clambered over the sill; the route down the trellis held no fear for one who had spent years climbing onto the Circle tower roof. The wooden fencing attached to the side of the building was sturdy and almost as easy to descend as a conventional ladder; Flora incongruously found herself wondering if it was purpose-built for the Pearl's patrons to make a hasty escape if necessary.

It took her only a half-minute to reach the cobbles, and then mere seconds to ascertain the source of the noise. A small crowd had gathered at the side of the dock; murmuring and muttering darkly to themselves as they clustered in anxious huddles.

"Wha' happened?"

"Melba's boy. Had a run in with some Marcher traders."

Flora sidled within the tightly packed bodies, breathing an apology as she trod on someone's foot. Their curse rung in her ears as she elbowed her way into the centre of the crowd.

A woman, wearing a butcher's bloodied apron and a raw, desperate expression, was kneeling on the flagstones. She was cradling a gangly youth in her arms; all long limbs and worn leathers, his face battered to a bloody pulp. When he tried to breathe, pink froth bubbled from between his lips.

"Please," the boy's mother entreated blindly, tears running freely down her cheeks as she clutched at her limp son. "He's not yet eighteen. Please help him, he can't breathe."

_**Think on your actions.** _

For a single beat, Flora felt a horrible lurch of indecision. A sense of déjà vu had settled on her shoulders like a mantle, and suddenly it could have been five years prior.

_A mortally wounded Templar gasping his last in Herring's tiny Chantry. Flora, fifteen years old, under strict instruction to give him only water and to make his passing as easy as possible._

_Instead, she had defied her dad for the first time in her life; mending the Templar's mortal wound and receiving a prison sentence in return when they came back for her._

However, it was only a single beat's worth of hesitation; and after a moment, Flora's natural compassion overrode her caution. She stepped forward from the ring of people, kneeling down on the cobbles beside the weeping mother and her injured son.

"Please," she whispered, lifting her hands as magic prickled beneath her fingernails. "Please, let me see him. I can help."

_**Good girl.** _

Energy was already rising in her throat, clinging thick and viscous to the back of her teeth. Flora opened her mouth to inhale and a glowing, golden drip rolled down her cheek.

The youth's mother withdrew, trembling, too frightened to truly comprehend the situation. Flora could hear the crowd react behind her as she bent over the boy's bloodied face, instinctually working energy between her weaving fingers. The atmosphere changed palpably; whispers darting back and forth like buzzing insects.

"She's a  _mage?!"_

"Get back, Will, it's an apostate."

"Must be on the run from a Circle. What is she  _doing?"_

"I- I think she's…  _helping_ him."

Flora ignored the muttered comments, more than used to narrowed glances and suspicious scowls. Instead she leaned down over the injured boy, deciding on which injury to fix first.

_**Ribs.** _

Obeying the small, soft whisper in the back of her skull, Flora began to coax her creation magic beneath the surface of the youth's mottled skin. Her eyes momentarily lost focus as visions of struggling lungs and shattered bone filled her gaze; then golden energy blossomed like sunrise inside the bloodied chest cavity.

It took only minutes for her to repair the ribcage and torn lung, the energy seeping outwards to blanch the bruises on his skin. Flora then turned her attention to the youth's face as his breathing settled into a steady, even rhythm; her fingers moving over his shattered nose and loose jawline.

_Inhale, exhale._

_**Quicker, child.** _

Flora duly increased the pace of the healing, feeling the inside of her throat prickling as energy surged upwards from her lungs. The tips of her fingers grew red and sore as she slid them over the youth's mangled face, hanging his jaw back in place and mending the fragmented nose. Finally, she slid her fingers up the back of his head, sealing the hairline fracture snaking its way up the inside of his skull.

She had let the sounds of the crowd fall away as she focused, but now that she was finished, they returned in full force. As Flora sat back on the cobbles, the boy's weeping mother clutching her bewildered son; the crowd's murmuring swelled.

A range of expressions gazed down at Flora as she looked around, realising in dismay that she was hemmed in by people on every side. Some were open-mouthed with astonishment on seeing the youth conversing with his mother, with only the remnants of blood on his face to indicate his past suffering. Others were muttering to their neighbours, confused and suspicious, darting little side glances at her. A small minority were white with fear, staring at Flora as though she were a live shark in the middle of a shoal of minnows.

"Apostate," called out a voice from the back of the crowd, high and accusatory. "Which Circle have you escaped from?"

"Stay away! Don't even think about casting a spell."

" _Witch!"_

Flora put her hand to her chest to reach for her Circle dismissal papers; and then realised that they were folded safely in her pack, beneath the bed in the Pearl's upper chamber. Additionally, she remembered that Loghain had called for the arrest of all Wardens as traitors – so even this might not save her. She opened her mouth, not knowing what to say in her own defence.

_I've broken my promise,_ she realised, with a horrible lurch of fear.  _I promised Alistair I wouldn't leave._

There came a small commotion at the periphery of the crowd, and the people parted like the waves before a ship's bow. Six guards in full armour advanced towards her with swords drawn.

"Apostate," hissed their captain, trying to disguise the tremor in his voice. "You're under arrest!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Flora proves quite spectacularly in this chapter that she does not learn from her own past 'mistakes' – when she was fifteen, she chose to heal the mortally wounded Templar, which resulted in her capture and removal from Herring to a Circle; and now she's publically outed herself as a mage in Denerim, which has resulted in her arrest! In both instances, she knew full well what the consequences would be.
> 
> Ironically, although both instances have led to negative outcomes, her irresistible compulsion to help is what attracted the spirits to her as a suitable vessel for their powers in the first place. In this chapter, the more reticent voice of caution (the one saying think on your actions) belongs to the Spirit of Valour; whereas the one who praises her actions is the Spirit of Compassion. Originally, I was going to have two different types of bolded text to distinguish between the whispers of the two different spirits – Valour and Compassion , but then I thought that Flora wouldn't necessarily be able to tell the difference – they both just sound like whispers at the back of her mind.


	227. You're Under Arrest!

The seagulls cawed and wheeled overhead, their sharp black eyes scouring the docks below for any morsels of interest. Flora gazed at the guards dolefully, confused about how to proceed. She supposed that she could expand her shield and break free, scattering the armoured men like skittles-

_And go where? Someone must have seen me leave the Pearl. Besides which, that won't exactly help the reputation of mages in the eyes of the people, will it?_

_"Madame du Poisson!_ " breathed one of the guards, with mingled awe and reproval. "You're a  _mage?!"_

Flora realised gloomily that the guard must have been part of the gate patrol that had vetted her and Zevran's disguised entrance into the city.

"You better not cause any trouble," hissed another soldier, looking just short of terrified as he advanced with sword upheld. "No… spells! Or incantations!"

The youth's mother remained silent, and Flora shot her a slightly reproachful look; having hoped that the woman would say at least a word in her defence. Instead – not wanting any trouble – the mother dropped her eyes to the wooden jetty, abashed.

"I won't cause any trouble," Flora muttered, when it became apparent that nobody was going to help her. She was still in slight disbelief at the predicament she had found herself in.

_Or, got myself into. Idiot, idiot, idiot._

Several sword-points hovered at her neck as a trembling recruit snapped a pair of rusting iron handcuffs around her wrists. Flora almost laughed at their flimsiness – she could have broken them apart in a single heartbeat with the expansion of her shield – but instead she allowed herself to be hauled to her feet.

"Walk, apostate," hissed one of the guards, not quite daring to nudge her with his sword. "No funny business!"

Flora, whose instinct was to be obedient, walked forward on cue. The crowd parted before them, their faces mingled with a myriad of emotion.

"Hey!" came a sudden cry, from a thickset woman clad in much-patched green wool. "My husband's got the Frost-cough. Could you fix that, mage?"

"Yes," replied Flora, and then yelped as a more daring guard nudged her in the ribs. "Ouch."

"What about broken legs? My hip hasn't been the same since I fell last Satinalia."

Flora nodded mutely, not wanting to get jabbed again.

The crowd shifted, an air of uncertainty running through them. Those who had been scared now looked uncertain; whereas those who had been uncertain now looked on the verge of sudden realisation.

"Oi, guards! It's a  _healer,"_ called one trader, setting his handcart down on the cobbles. "Don't be so quick to take it away. The likes of us can't afford the apothecary."

There was a definite current of anger running through the people now, which did not go unnoticed by the guards. Their captain cleared his throat, his sword swinging away from Flora to point outwards in a general warning.

"You dock-folk all better keep back," he snarled, eyes narrowed behind his helmet. "This is an escaped apostate, and she  _will_ be returned to custody, as ordained by Chantry law."

Flora, not hugely pleased to hear herself referred to as an  _it,_ found herself being taken by the arm and dragged along the cobbles in their haste to remove her.

"I can  _walk_ ," she protested, then squeaked as the sword-point nudged its way into the small of her back. "Ouch! Fine."

As they passed in front of the Pearl, Flora caught sight of several of its employees gathered in awe outside – including the proprietor, Madame Sanga. They were staring at her with startled eyes; Flora called out to them as she was hustled past.

"Please tell my friends what's happened," she pleased, breathless. "Tell Alistair I'm sorry."

Despite the ignominy of being hauled off in handcuffs before fishermen –  _for the second time in her life –_ Flora was not unduly worried. She knew that as soon as Eamon, Leonas and her brothers learnt of her arrest, they would seek to secure her immediate release.

They left the docks via a side alley, passing over a bridge and between two warehouses. As one would expect in the middle of the day; even Denerim's narrower streets were busy with traders, messengers and ordinary folk running daily errands. The guards, swords drawn, formed a tight knot around Flora as the crowds parted before them.

Flora, who did not usually like being the centre of attention, found her arrest – and the entire situation - so ridiculous that she couldn't help but respond to the curious stares of passers-by.

"All I did was steal a loaf of bread to feed my eight children," she intoned solemnly, assuming her most mournful expression.  _"_ Their fathers have all left me in the lurch, the fiends."

The captain narrowed his eyes at her behind his helmet, drawing his sword another inch from the scabbard.

"Quiet, apostate," he hissed as they drew closer to a squat, single-storey barracks perched on a street corner. "Stop drawing attention to yourself."

Flora wondered idly if she was supposed to be intimidated by the extra glimpse of smudged steel on display. In her opinion, the city guards seemed almost amateurish compared to the brutally efficient Templars that she was accustomed to from the Circle.

As they entered the barracks, the half-dressed guards inside sprung to attention at the entrance of their captain. Immediately their eyes swung towards Flora, whose stomach helpfully gave a loud rumble to announce her presence.

"What's this, captain?"

"Apostate. Caught her red-handed down by the docks, healing some kid."

"The VILLAIN!" chipped in Flora, wide-eyed and earnest. "How dare she  _heal_ someone without written permission from the Chantry?!  _Burn her immediately!_ "

The guard behind the front desk fumbled for parchment and quill, flushing slightly under Flora's pale grey stare. The striking redheaded girl was not the usual calibre of prisoner that he was used to questioning.

"Na _\- name,"_ he croaked, as the captain rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath.

In truth, Flora was rapidly tiring of the entire episode. One guard was prodding her a little too enthusiastically with the point of his sword, the rusted iron cuffs were hurting her wrists and she was aware that – already having missed breakfast – she was now on the verge of missing  _lunch_ as well. This was a wholly intolerable prospect for the greedy young healer.

"Florence Cousland," she replied impatiently, and got the expected response. There were a handful of sharp inhalations, and the captain of the guard darted a quick glance at his lieutenant.

"You're lying," the younger lieutenant said flatly, and Flora gave a little shrug; letting her autumnal Cousland colouring speak for itself.

The captain of the guard, a man in his forties who had seen the old teyrn visit Denerim on many occasions, fell into a momentary silence.

"We'll establish the truth of that," he retorted brusquely, gesturing for Flora to be escorted in his wake. "Abe, send a runner to the nobles' district and see if there's any truth to the girl's claim."

Flora sighed, now thoroughly fed up. She let herself be steered across the barracks and down a flight of stairs that descended into a musty, torch-lit cellar. It contained a half-dozen iron holding cells hollowed out of Denerim's subterranean earth; two of them occupied by snoring prisoners, and another by a sullen, silent elf.

The guard on duty stood hastily to attention as his captain arrived, curious eyes settling on the girl behind him. She was a refreshing change from the usual drunkards and belligerents they usually dealt with; although the obstinate expression on her face suggested that she might not be wholly compliant.

"Can I have the corner cell? It looks more spacious," Flora wheedled, determined to be as irritating as possible. With infallible logic, she had decided that the more annoying she made herself; the sooner they would contact one of her brothers, or one of the arls, to come and retrieve her.

The grim-faced captain had her escorted instead into the cage between the two snoring drunks, closing and locking the barred door behind her.

Clutching the rusted bars, Flora watched the captain retreat back up the steps; gesturing for the attendant guard to follow him as they conversed in low tones. She could just discern the words  _noble_ and  _Cousland_ standing out within their blurred mutterings. Taking advantage of their temporary absence, she broke open the handcuffs with a single pulse of her shield; before sticking her wrist through the iron bars and exhaling. The barrier expanded from her skin, the rusted bars of the cage door bending with a soft, yielding sigh.

By the time that the attendant guard returned, Flora was standing triumphantly in the corner cell; leaving the iron bars slightly uneven in her wake. The man gaped at her and she assumed an expression of feigned innocence.

"It looked roomier in here," she explained, sliding down the wall to sit on the straw-strewn dirt. "Sorry."

Ignoring the gaping of the guard, Flora closed her eyes and decided to practise Eamon's Landsmeet speech once again.

_My name is Florence Cousland, daughter of Highever._

_Don't say 'a naughty little minx'. Thanks for that, Zevran._

Some time later, she had recited her way through the majority of the first two pages; and there was still no sign of Eamon, Teagan or Leonas. One of her fellow jailbirds had woken up from a drink-induced slumber, and was engaged in a semi-entertaining argument with the attendant guard.

Flora listened to the guard's increasingly irritated responses for fifteen minutes, and then politely requested something to eat. The guard, relieved to be able to divert his attention away from the belligerent drunk, gave a short nod and went in search of some food.

She returned to the earthen floor of the cell, absentmindedly tapping curlicues of light up to the ceiling. Soon, her cell was glowing like Satinalia in the midst of the murky gloom; the small wisps of light clinging like morning mist to the iron bars.

"You're a mage?"

The non-drunkard prisoner, a slender, gaunt-cheeked female elf in the adjacent cell, gazed at her curiously.

"That's my crime," Flora replied with a slight shrug, watching the fragments of light fade away. She wondered how Connor was getting on at the Jainen Circle; where he would have been residing for some time now.

_I hope he's seen lots of tall ships on the estuary. I'll have to write him a letter and ask._

"What did you do?" she continued, gazing across at the blonde elf. Flora always found it difficult to ascertain the ages of elves – their skin was resistant to wrinkles, and they went grey later than humans. At a guess, she would have placed the woman in the cell beside her in her early middle years; faint lines were beginning to form at the corners of her eyes, and her braided golden hair was beginning to fade.

"Asked too many questions," replied the woman bitterly, leaning back against the wall of her cell. "There's something bad happening in the alienage – well, more than one bad thing. Some people are getting sick, others are going missing altogether, there's rumours of wicked magic and  _slav_ \- "

The elf was cut off by the return of the guard, who was wielding a loaf of bread. Not wanting to get too close to Flora, he launched the loaf through the iron bars; she clapped her hands together, missed, and the bread fell to the dirt.

This did not faze Flora in the slightest – for ten years of her life, she had eaten cross-legged on the floor – and after dusting off the loaf, she tore it in half. Stretching out her hand between the iron bars, she offered one part to the elven woman.

"Why don't the guards want to know about what's happening?" Flora asked as the elf took the bread gratefully.

"Ha! The alienage could be ravaged from the inside out, and they wouldn't care. Unless there's blood magic involved, and they've an excuse to go raping and murdering again."

Flora's mouth fell open almost comically, and the elven woman let out a soft snort.

"Well, to be fair, that last part isn't always the guard," she admitted, nibbling at the bread far more delicately than the teyrn's daughter had done. "Some of the nobles in this city are no worse than criminals. They deserve to be locked up in here."

This proved too subversive for the attendant guard, who raised his voice in the elf's direction.

"Prisoner Tabris, you shut your mouth!"

The blonde elf rolled her eyes as if to say  _I told you so,_ swallowing the last of the bread and leaning back against the wall.

Flora sat cross-legged in the middle of her cell, troubled at this new insight into the lives of the alienage's unfortunate residents. The female elf named Tabris did not make any further attempt at conversation; but began to hum quietly to herself under her breath.

Another hour slipped by, and Flora found herself yawning. Her limbs were still stiff from the exertions she and Alistair had put them through the previous night; although she had healed the pink marks left by the ropes around her wrists.

"Florence Cousland? The arl has requested that you be released into his custody."

Her eyes snapped open and Flora let out a little sigh of relief, clambering awkwardly to her feet as her knee gave a twinge of protest.

_Finally,_ she thought, too relieved to summon any smart comment. The cell door was unlocked and she was greeted by the points of three swords, the guards clearly taking no chances.

As Flora climbed the steps with the metallic tips of their weapons nudging at the small of her back, she wondered who had come to collect her.

_Who would tell me off more strongly, Leonas or Eamon? Arl Leonas would just glare and mutter under his breath. Arl Eamon has known me for longer, so probably would feel more comfortable with delivering a lecture._

Truthfully, the contrite Flora would have accepted any amount of lecturing. She realised how foolish she had been to leave the room unescorted in the first place; and was already anxious about how angry Alistair was going to be when he found out what had transpired. She emerged into the barracks, squinting slightly against the late afternoon sun as it spilled in through the open door and barred windows.

When Flora opened her eyes, the scene before her made so little sense that she wondered if she had fallen asleep in the subterranean cell; and was currently in the midst of a particularly realistic Fade-dream.

Neither Leonas nor Eamon were anywhere to be seen, although the barracks seemed to be filled with armed men.

They were gathered around a central figure, a man of slight, scrawny build, with gaunt and pock-ravaged cheeks. Stringy grey hair hung down to his shoulders, brushing the top of an expensive but ill-fitting velvet tunic.

When he saw Flora, he smiled, revealing blackened teeth ravaged by too many Orlesian sweets. His eyes were small and avian; currently alight with hard, blazing triumph.

"Florence Cousland," Rendon Howe murmured, his oily gaze settling on her face. "We meet at last."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: oooohhh shit just got real! Incidentally, Flora made some pretty stupid decisions in this chapter, which basically has resulted in her capture. She should never have gone so passively with the guards and just sat in the cell waiting to be collected – she knew full well that Howe was in the city. She's just institutionalised from being in the Circle; she's used to taking instructions from armed guards and just instinctively does what they tell her. Anyway, so after over 150 chapters of trying to get his hands on Flora, Rendon Howe has finally succeeded. It's particularly ew because he would have known her as a child, for the first 5 years of her life at Highever – as he'll say to her in a later chapter, I held you at your Chantry birthing service. EWWW.
> 
> So I think that in game canon, whoever Duncan doesn't recruit out of the origins gets killed? I don't know why I think that, if I read it on the DA wikia or something? Anyway, I'm changing that slightly for my story – Finian Cousland was the original Cousland, but he was at the University of Orlais when Duncan came to visit. Then at the Circle Tower, Flora (who is a weird hybrid of Cousland-Amell) got recruited instead of Amell and Solona. Did you spot the Amell reference in Chapter 3 – Arnette Amell was going to be Flora's roommate once Flora passed her Harrowing. I slightly forgot about the dwarf and Dalish origins in Orzammar and Brecilian, but there'll be a chance to incorporate them later. Then we have our Tabris cameo in this chapter, arrested for trying to bring attention to troubles in the alienage.


	228. Chains, Dungeons and Senior Wardens

In an instant, Flora recognised the stitched bear on the tunics of the men surrounding her, the yellow and white colours of their Amaranthine livery. Most damningly of all, her mind summoned a long-lost recollection of this scrawny man's face, laughing and drinking alongside the teyrn he would later betray.

"Arl Howe," she breathed, feeling icy fingers of fear pressing at the base of her spine _._

The floor seemed to tilt beneath Flora, the air rushing from her lungs as she exhaled unsteadily. Past caring what impression she gave of mages, she brought up her hands to shield herself, wanting only to put as much distance as possible between herself and-

Suddenly, Flora felt metal snapping into place around her neck, cold and smooth. Immediately the skin beneath went numb, as though she had pressed a shard of ice against her own flesh. The expanding shield between her fingers was extinguished in an impotent shower of sparks, and when she tried to summon her magic once more; it was as though she was calling into an empty room and expecting an answer.

The only response was an overwhelming surge of anger. Flora assumed that it must originate from her frustrated spirit allies, since she was far more terrified than enraged.

"Struggle all you like, you little slut" hissed Howe, lips drawn back over his teeth as he watched his men snap obsidian cuffs around her wrists. The black metal immediately began to gleam, hidden violet runes flaring into life as they made contact with the skin.

"These are Tevinter  _suffocation_  bindings. They use them to transport their most powerful magisters to prison in Minrathous."

As Flora stared at Rendon Howe in dawning horror with both neck and wrists numbed; the arl flashed his teeth in a skeletal grin.

"You think I haven't  _learnt_ from my past attempts to capture you?" he crooned in oily tones, leaning forward to brazenly pat his fingers against her cheek.

When she recoiled, he let out a guttural laugh, eyeing her with blatant contempt.

"So shy? I thought you happily  _gave it up_  to nobility," he murmured, covetous eyes sweeping up and down the slender figure that her man's shirt and breeches could not hide. "Everyone knows you're the Theirin prince's whore of choice."

The mention of Alistair was enough to send Flora into a well of despair as she envisioned him returning to an empty chamber, with no note and no explanation as to where his sister-warden had gone. She felt dampness prickling at the corners of her eyes as tears of fright and anger threatened to spill over her lashes. There was an odd metallic rattling coming from somewhere behind her; it took her a moment to recognise it as the sound of the chain-linked cuffs, quivering as her hands shook.

_**Calm yourself, child.** _

_It's Howe!_ her mind shrieked back noiselessly in abject terror.  _It's Arl Howe!_

_**Yes. Calm down.** _

_But he wants to Tranquilise me!_

_**You need to think clearly. Panic will achieve nothing.** _

Flora felt a sightless memory rise unprompted to the surface of her mind; the echo of waves against the shore and seagulls calling out mournfully, the soft whisper of the outgoing tide. She realised that her spirits were trying to soothe her with a sound that she had always found reassuring, and it was this realisation that calmed her.

_I'm not alone?_

_**We are still here.** _

Flora opened her eyes and stared at Arl Howe, letting her features settle into their customary solemnity.

"Well, I'd happily  _give it up_ to every noble in Ferelden before I shared a bed with you," she retorted, fluently melding Highever scorn with Herring rudeness. "And if we wait here much longer, my Theirin prince will come and extract your bowels through your nose."

The corner of Howe's eye quivered and he started to shout, before closing his mouth abruptly. The corner of his mouth curled in contempt and he made a rough gesture to his men, who came forward with armfuls of hessian sacking. The city guards were now looking rather uncertain, glancing back and forth between the furious arl and the pale, stubborn-faced girl.

"Perhaps… perhaps we should get the Templars involved," volunteered the captain after a moment, nervously. "The lass is a mage, after all. Chantry law dictates that- "

Howe turned quick as a whip; lip drawing back ferally over sugar-blackened teeth.

"I am the new Teyrn of Highever," he retorted vehemently, his spittle decorating the captain's helmet. "My word  _supersedes_ Chantry law!"

"Just because you  _steal_  something doesn't make it rightfully yours," Flora informed him, with false politeness. "Such as… ooh, Loghain's stolen throne."

The arl turned back on her, snarling, and made a quick movement with his hand. Flora felt something collide with the back of her head; and then the world exploded into whiteness as the voices of her spirits were extinguished.

Meanwhile back at the Denerim docks, Zevran had just returned to the Pearl. He had spent an enjoyable few hours parting with Isabela, who was planning to set sail for Kirkwall that afternoon.

The foyer was deserted as the elf entered, whistling a popular Antivan drinking melody to himself. Strolling along the upper passageway, he retrieved the ribbon-tied key and unlocked the Wardens' chamber.

"Alistair, you'll regret spurning my pirate queen's arms," he started, then stopped abruptly as he saw that the room was empty.

This did not cause the elf undue concern; Zevran merely assumed that the Wardens had left in the company of the nobles. Hungry after his exertions with Isabela, he decided to wander down to get something to eat from one of the dockside traders.

In the lower passageway, he collided with Leonas and Alistair. Alistair, who had spent the morning being measured and fitted for clothing befitting his princely status, was not in the best mood.

"If someone else gropes me with the excuse that they're measuring my inner thigh..!" he complained, ducking his gilded head beneath the hanging netting that clung to the ceiling. "Where's Flo?"

"She's not with you?" asked Zevran, dispensing with pleasantries as he sought to confirm what his eyes had already established.

Alistair's mouth dropped open and he turned to glance quickly at Leonas. The Arl of South Reach had his eyes narrowed, having read the elf's face quicker than the prince.

"No," Leonas replied curtly, with a swift shake of the head. "We left her in the chamber."

"With  _you!"_ Alistair retorted, the humour draining from his face like a leaking basin. "Weren't you here? We thought you were next door."

The elf also shook his head, jaw tightening imperceptibly.

"I have been on the  _Siren's Call_ since early morning," he replied with an Antivan shrug. Alistair inhaled unsteadily, with an effort to remain calm.

"Why would Flo go out on her own?" he hissed, the strain palpable in his words. "She told me that she wouldn't leave the room!"

There came a delicate cough from the front desk as Madame Sanga, proprietor of the Pearl, emerged from the office. A heavyset woman in her middle years, she was clutching a ledger to her chest and had clearly been in the middle of working on some figures.

"Merle's lad ran afoul of a Marcher gang," she said, wiping ink-stained fingers on her skirts. "They snapped him like a twig and left him to bleed out. Your pretty little redhead went to assist."

Alistair groaned under his breath, his eyes meeting Leonas' in mutual comprehension.

"Who saw her healing?"

"Everyone," replied Sanga, giving a mild shrug. "Someone called the guard – as you would expect – and she was arrested."

" _Arrested?"_ Alistair repeated faintly, reaching to put a steadying hand on the counter. "Maker's Breath. Flo's been  _arrested?"_

Leonas touched his arm, subduing his own concern to reassure the younger man. The fear and shock was rapidly draining from the bastard prince's face, replaced by a glinting, hard-edged Theirin anger.

"Calm, Alistair. The nearest barracks is only a short distance away. We'll go and retrieve her."

"How  _dare_  they arrest her," retorted Alistair, nostrils flaring. "She's  _my_ best friend."

"And if you become king, then she will be your mistress and somewhat protected," replied Leonas, his voice measured. "But you are not yet king, and people see her merely as an apostate."

"If anyone has laid a finger on her," the blond Theirin retorted through gritted teeth, clearly not listening to the arl. "I swear by Andraste, I'll have their head."

Flora felt the ache throbbing at the base of her skull, dull and insistent, even before she opened her eyes. Unused to such affliction – to the young healer, pain had always been a fleeting thing, quickly alleviated – she spent several moments acclimatising herself to the sensation.

Once she had become accustomed to the hurt, she opened an eye and shot a tentative glance around at her surroundings. It was so dark that it took Flora some time to make out shapes and forms amidst the shadows. The stagnant air was heavy and damp, edged with mildew.

She was in another cell, larger than the one in the basement of the barracks. There were no earthen walls here, merely solid constructions of grey Almarri stone; formidable and sturdy. There were no visible windows – Flora had the vague notion that the cell was underground – and a single iron-barred door was set into the stone. The cell contained only a bucket and a broken stool, the flagstones strewn with a token handful of stale straw.

There was no source of light inside the cell; the pale echo of torch flame drifting through the barred door from the external passage. Flora almost lifted her hand to cast additional light over the interior of the cell, only to realise that firstly, her hands were bound, and – more crucially – the Tevinter suffocation collar was still around her neck.

Flora shifted on the floor, the coldness of the wall passing through her shirt and seeping into her skin. The metal of the magister's torque was rough-hewn and ill-fitting, and she could already feel that the skin was irritated beneath it. Realising that her heart was fluttering like a trapped bird, she took a deep breath and willed herself not to panic.

_Just breathe. Assess the situation. Has he made me Tranquil yet?_

_**Not yet.** _

Flora exhaled, absurdly relieved that her spirit allies – although unable to directly intervene - had not deserted her. She made a tentative motion forwards, and heard a metallic clink from behind; her movement arrested by a chain linking the cuffs to an iron bracket embedded on the wall.

"I'm hungry," she said after a moment, speaking into the shadows and not expecting a response.

"They aren't generous with the food in this place, I'm afraid."

The man's voice drifted out of the darkness; thin, rough-edged and distinctly Orlesian.

Flora startled, glancing around to locate the source of the response. Eventually, she spotted a figure slumped on the floor at the far side of the chamber. She had mistaken it at first for a pile of sacking; but now she saw that it was an old man lying against the wall.

"Oh," she said after a moment, at a loss for anything else to say. "That's... upsetting. I'm  _really hungry."_

There was silence for a long moment, and then the man grunted, turning his face towards the weak torchlight filtering through the barred door. His cheeks were sunken and gaunt, overgrown facial hair tangling around his mouth.

"How long have I been here?" Flora asked, feeling an odd familiar prickle in the back of her skull.

_Darkspawn, here? Surely not. And it doesn't feel like Alistair, though it's similar to him._

"They left you here hours ago," replied her fellow prisoner, the words interspersed with hoarse, coagulated breaths. "Thought you weren't going to wake up. Your head is bleeding at the back."

Flora fell into a gloomy silence, not wanting to envision the state that her brother-warden must currently be in.

_I've been missing for hours!_

_**Calm.** _

"They  _will_  feed us, though, at some point?" she sought to clarify, swivelling her gaze back towards the slumped man. "I didn't have any breakfast. Or lunch."

He snorted, without humour. "Depends on how valuable you are to Howe. I've been here for months, kept alive at his discretion. As he rarely fails to remind me."

Flora shifted her arms to a slightly less awkward position behind her, feeling the metal cuffs dig into the fragile skin of her wrists.

"Well, he wants to make me Tranquil," she replied frankly, with a little roll of the eyes. "And then marry me to make his stolen title valid. So I suppose I'm somehow both important and completely worthless to him."

" _Marry_ you? _"_

The man – with some difficulty – raised himself up on an elbow and stared through the gloom towards her. A pallid shaft of light from the barred doorway fell across his face; Flora saw his pale blue eyes flicker with disbelief.

"I know I sound like a peasant," she explained, wishing desperately that she could scratch her itchy nose. "But I'm actually Bryce Cousland's daughter."

The man stared at her, eyebrows rising upwards. Then, with surprising agility considering his malnourished condition, he made his way across the cell and came to a pause before her. Flora saw that his chains were long enough to allow him free movement; in contrast to her own restrictive bindings. Lined eyes raked over her face, taking in the dark red hair and wide Cousland mouth, the high delicacy of Flora's cheekbones and the solemn set of her features. As most men did, he awarded her a second glance over; reluctantly admiring.

From this proximity, Flora could see that the man was younger than she had originally thought – perhaps in his early fifties, although his sunken cheeks aged him another decade. Stringy dark hair, more grey than brown and badly in need of a wash, hung to his shoulders.

"Maker's Breath," he breathed, in frank surprise. "You  _are_  one of the Couslands. I know  _I_ sound like an Orlesian, but I was actually born and bred in Highever."

In spite of the fear and hunger, Flora felt oddly reassured by their mutual connection. She smiled at him, shifting against the wall to relieve the pressure on her wrists. His eyes drifted over her once again, appraisingly.

"I remember the teyrn having two boys," the man murmured, stifling a cough. "But I left two decades ago. How old are you, sixteen, seventeen?"

"Nineteen," Flora corrected, feeling her stomach give a growl of affront. "Why would you leave Highever for  _Orlais?"_

Despite their miserable surroundings and situation, the man almost laughed.

"I wanted to join the Wardens, and the Orlesian chapter was more well-established. My old friend, Duncan, had only just begun recruitment for the Ferelden division. I'd always planned to return, but then I was promoted to Senior Warden and… I never made it back."

Flora's jaw dropped in shock; the familiar prickling at the base of her skull suddenly making sense.

"You knew _Duncan -_ wait, you're a  _Warden_ ," she breathed in disbelief, her eyes widening. "I'm one, too. Duncan recruited me, months and months ago – back in Kingsway, last year."

Not even the man's expression of abject disbelief could suppress Flora's excitement. The chain slid along the iron bar as she shifted her arms impatiently.

"Alistair will be  _so_  pleased," she continued, relief suffusing her face. "We thought there was only the two of us left. You know… you know there's a Blight?"

The man closed his eyes with a grimace, as though some long-dreaded fear had suddenly become horribly tangible. Several minutes went past with him sitting in silent rigidity, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm himself.

"I feared as much," he said after a moment, the bitterness raw in each word. "I've been having dreams – visions. Hearing –  _something_ – in the back of my mind. I thought I was being Called. It's the Archdemon, then?"

Flora nodded wordlessly, and the man let out a soft groan.

"When we stopped hearing from the Fereldan Wardens, our commander ordered me to take a unit to investigate. We were turned back at the border by your general's men. I managed to get through alone."

"We were confused about why the Orlesian Wardens hadn't come," breathed Flora, wonderingly. "You know – you know what happened at Ostagar?"

She felt the usual pang as she thought of her commander, slain and defiled at the base of the valley.

The man grimaced, a flicker of frustration passing across his gaunt features.

"Rendon Howe captured me with the  _pathetic_  excuse that the Wardens were proven traitors; and that their betrayal of the King at Ostagar led to their deaths. I take it that Duncan is… dead, then?"

Flora nodded, a single beat of sadness throbbing in her stomach. The man sighed, resigned.

"I feared as much."

There was silence for several moments and then he spoke again, with a profound sense of defeat.

"So in the months that I've been captured – and incidentally, tortured and starved – the Darkspawn have been running amok? Maker's Breath, Ferelden is doomed, then. It's too late to save it now, not now the Archdemon is- "

"Well, we  _do_  have an army," Flora interrupted hastily, and the senior Warden stared at her in abject disbelief.

"What?"

"Alistair and I have been using the old treaties. The mages, the dwarves and the Dalish have all agreed to help us."

"Just two of you have accomplished this? A pair of  _recruits!?"_

She nodded, flashing him a toothy smile through the shadows. "It took  _ages_. We've been all over Ferelden. A big change from being in a Circle!"

A tiny flicker of hope ignited within the senior Warden's pale blue gaze. He looked her up and down once more, noting the magic suppressant torque clamped around her neck.

"Alistair," he said slowly, recognising the name. "Tall, good-looking lad with blond hair? Tendency to make bad puns at inappropriate moments?"

Flora nodded, feeling sudden and unprompted tears prickling at the corners of her eyes at the mention of her brother-warden.

"I was present at his Joining," the man murmured, his gaze distant. "That was a bad one – he was the only recruit to survive. He's here in Denerim too?"

She gave another nod, willing herself to remain straight-faced and solemn.

"I'm Riordan, incidentally," the senior Warden said abruptly, realising that they had not yet exchanged formalities. "And who are you, fair-faced little Cousland?"

"Flora," she replied, feeling like a traitor for not adding  _'of Herring'_ as a suffix. "It's nice to meet you, despite… despite everything."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OK, so I had to come up with a reason why Howe was able to physically capture Flora; because despite her always referring to herself as a 'defective mage', she's actually incredibly difficult to capture. In previous chapters, I've included incidents where she's been deprived of her magic – through being underwater, or being throttled – but this is the ultimate: a silencing choker from Tevinter. I don't know if anything like this actually exists in game, but it made sense to me; since they are such a mage-heavy society, there has to be a way for them to neutralise threats from mages under arrest, right? Anyway, the collar stops Flora from drawing magic from the Fade, but – to her immense relief - it doesn't stop 'her' spirits from communicating with her. Their intention is to keep Flora calm, so she doesn't completely lose her shit at being in such a dreadful situation, lol.
> 
> I'm changing the order of game events slightly to fit my story better! I've also changed the location of Flo's imprisonment – she's not in the Arl of Denerim's estate dungeons, she's in Fort Drakon, the ancient prison tower at the edge of Denerim. This worked better in my mind for a number of reasons: the main one being that the Kendells estate must be near to the Guerrin estate, and the Bryland estate, and it seems like a much less secure location to keep prisoners. Fort Drakon is literally a fortress, and seeing as Howe has some pretty important prisoners, it seems much more defensible. I mean, Howe has to assume that the Warden will have people coming to rescue them (and not just 2 companions like in game lol)! Anyway, it also works out better for my own plot reasons hohoho. Also, it's a nice bit of foreshadowing because of course Fort Drakon is where the ultimate showdown with the Archdemon will occur.
> 
> I didn't make any of the Riordan backstory up – he was raised in Highever, so presumably would be familiar with the Cousland family until he left to join the Wardens. He also was present at Alistair's Joining. Since he's been in prison since Ostagar – which was months and months ago – I assume he's gotten pretty weak and gaunt, but he's also got tainted blood so hasn't completely succumbed.
> 
> Poor Alistair, lol. He's going to freak the fuck ooooout
> 
>  
> 
> OK just realised the title of this chapter sounds like it could be the name of an XXX BDSM novel about the Wardens. OH WELL


	229. A Dinner Date With Arl Howe

Riordan opened his mouth to reply, and then they heard booted footsteps in the corridor outside, echoing against the subterranean stone.

Flora cringed back against the cell wall, Howe's threat looming large in her mind. With no magic to defend herself, she felt utterly and completely helpless. Riordan, whose mind had not diminished in sharpness from the months spent in captivity, had also already made the connection between the silencing torque, Flora's position as a Cousland, and her explanation of Howe's intentions.

Despite his malnourishment and lack of weapon, the senior Warden made a valiant effort to block the two guards as they entered with swords drawn.

" _She's a Grey Warden_ and there's a Blight, you fucking idiots!"

"Get back, Orlesian scum! We're not here for you."

A seething Riordan was held back at sword-point as the chain linking Flora's cuffs to the wall was unlocked. As they hauled her across the flagstones, she made another valiant effort to summon her shield; desperate to feel the prickling sensation of golden energy rising beneath her fingernails.

When there came only numbness in response, Flora felt a sickening lurch of nausea so powerful that she felt her knees weaken. As the world began to sway around her, one guard had to clutch at her arm to keep her standing. When he swore angrily, his voice sounded muffled; as though she was underwater and he was standing on the shore.

_**Calm yourself.** _

_How?!_ she thought back angrily, the tears threatening to spill forth once again.  _I'm all on my own._

_**Untrue.** _

"Don't harm her, you bastards!"

Flora could hear Riordan's outraged shouts rising from the cell, followed by a pained grunt as he received a metal-fisted blow to some part of his body.

Then, nothing but silence came from the darkness behind her and she let out a little sharp exhalation of panic. As the guards hauled her down the corridor, she considered struggling, or making their task more difficult by going slack and forcing them to drag her.

_**What would that accomplish?** _

_Nothing. I'd be dragged before Howe on my knees. Let's not give him any ideas._

So instead Flora walked between the two men, pain throbbing both in her knee and the back of her skull. The long corridor was uncompromising and stark, lit by bracketed torches and punctuated by iron-barred doors. The air had a stagnant dampness to it that seemed to confirm her earlier suspicions that they were underground.

Flora caught the occasional glimpse of prisoners huddled inside the cells – many of them dressed in the crumpled remnants of fine attire – and she wondered whether these were nobles who had opposed Howe's over-mighty ambition. The sheer number of cells suggested that they had taken her to a prison rather than a private residence.

They began to ascend a series of winding stone steps, and Flora suddenly recalled the name of the ancient Tevinter tower that dominated Denerim's skyline.

"Are we in Fort Drakon?" she asked, inhaling unsteadily as a sharp jab of pain shot through her knee.

"Yeah. Why're you so  _slow?_ My aged mother could climb stairs quicker!"

Flora gritted her teeth and ignored the comment; focusing instead on the fragment of information.

_I wonder why we're not in Howe's own residence in the noble district? He must have his own holding cells there._

_**Less defensible.** _

_He's worried that my friends – my brothers – will come for me. Which they will._

_I hope they burn Howe's house down when they find it empty._

Irrationally cheered, Flora glanced around at her surroundings once again. They had crossed into a more domestic part of the fortress, designed for residence rather than restraint. The décor was still stark and plain – it reminded her a little of South Reach fortress – but the doorways were constructed from wood, rather than iron, and she could smell the aroma of a kitchens nearby.

"I'm starving," she said to one of the guards, who let out a grunt and ignored her.

To her despair, they passed the archway from which the tantalising smells were drifting; instead heading down a narrow side passage. One guard took out a huge bunch of keys, unlocking the third door on the right before shoving her roughly inside.

The doorway appeared to lead to someone's private quarters, a neat and functional series of chambers. The furniture was utilitarian in nature, barely softened by threadbare furnishings. A bed stood in the far corner of the room.

Flora paused, feeling small fingers of fear clenching around her heart. She was wholly unused to feeling either vulnerable or helpless; and now she was experiencing an overwhelming excess of both.

Receiving a shove in the small of her back for the hesitation, Flora was nudged into the adjacent chamber. A washtub, already filled, was positioned in the centre of the tiles; with clothing flung over a nearby chair.

"Get undressed," instructed one guard sharply, and Flora shot him a slightly pitying look.

"How am I meant to do that with my hands bound?" she asked, then received another shove for the impertinence.

"Theirin whore's got a point," muttered the second guard, rummaging for the loop of keys. "S'long as the Tevinter thing stays on, Howe said she can't do nothing."

The first guard held the point of his sword to her side, delighting in nudging the metal tip against her shirt as his associate unlocked the handcuffs. The moment that she felt the iron restraints drop away, Flora exhaled; flexing her wrists and gloomily inspecting the raw skin beneath.

_I could try and take them on – two armoured men with swords – but what chance would I have? Without my magic, I'm just… I'm weak._

_**You aren't weak. But don't try anything.** _

"Sure you don't want to take  _this_ off as well?" she asked without much hope, gesturing to the violet-runed collar around her neck. From the way her skin was itching and prickling, she assumed that the metal had been imbued with coarse-grained lyrium.

"We don't even have a key for that thing," offered the younger guard, more susceptible to a pretty face than his more experienced partner. "Howe has it."

Flora mentally filed this away for future reference then headed towards the washtub, pulling at her shirt buttons with clumsy fingers. As one who had spent four years in a Circle, she was wholly used to being observed while bathing; if the guards had been eagerly awaiting any shyness or discomfort, they would be disappointed.

Shooting them a disdainful stare over her shoulder, she dropped the shirt around her waist and stepped out of her breeches; grimacing slightly as she saw how swollen her knee had become underneath the strapping.

Behind her, Flora heard the younger man inhale unsteadily. The sound was followed by the fumbling of fabric, and the older man let out a contemptuous snort.

"You've no restraint, Bert. You never seen a girl naked before?"

Flora ground her teeth together and kept her back determinedly turned, trying to ignore the throaty, wet sounds from behind her.

_You might be weak, but you're not like the arlina,_ she thought, remembering Leonas' spoilt and petulant daughter from the Denerim marketplace.  _You're harder than that. You were made in Herring, not Highever._

To block out the noise, Flora began to regale the men with  _Bones in the Sand,_ a traditional Herring wedding song.

" _His ribcage was shattered on the unforgiving rocks,"_ she warbled, splashing her hand against the surface of the bathwater to keep time.  _"And a starfish made a home inside her skull!"_

Immediately there came several groans of protest, both guards distraught by such horrendous caterwauling. A sword-tip swiftly jabbed against Flora's shoulder and made her cease; but her aim had been accomplished – there came no more suspect sounds from either man as she completed her bathing.

To Flora's disgust, a primrose-yellow gown had been laid out for her to wear, the bright shade reminiscent of Howe's own colours. At first she refused flatly to put the dress on; only relenting when the senior guard threatened to put it on her himself.

Fuming silently, Flora pulled the dress on over her head, yanking the flimsy material down over her chest with a vicious tug. Hearing the fragile fabric rip, she felt a little flare of triumph in the back of her mind.

"Does he want her cuffed again?"

"Don't know. Assume so."

Grumbling under his breath, the senior guard stepped forward and snapped the cuffs shut around her wrists once again. The only comfort was that this time her arms were bound in front of her, rather than pinned uncomfortably together at the small of her book.

With bare feet and dripping hair, she was escorted out of the smaller chamber and back along the stone passageway. They passed several other guards as they went; each one surveying her curiously before their eyes settled on the runed torque around her neck. Flora kept her chin raised, valiantly doing her best to ignore their open stares.

They passed between a pair of stone lions guarding an iron-barred door, which opened to reveal a set of chambers marginally better appointed than the one she had bathed in. A series of ugly portraits of previous Denerim arls compensated for the lack of windows; the furnishings were a hybrid of Antivan and Orlesian.

Arl Howe was sitting at a table in the centre of the room, leaning back in his chair and blatantly not listening to a sallow-faced youth chattering away opposite. The adolescent seemed vaguely familiar, and after a moment Flora recognised him as the Howe son who had visited the Pearl several days prior. The table was set before them, tarnished silverware laid out neatly in three made-up places.

Flora eyed the third place in alarm, disbelief rising in her throat like bile.

_Sit and eat with the man who murdered my parents? Who had Fergus' wife and child killed?_

_No, no, no._

Momentarily struck dumb, Flora came to a halt in the doorway. One guard nudged his sword into the small of her back; such was her shock, she barely felt it.

"Ah,  _Florence_."

Howe twisted his head towards her without turning his body, his gaze snake-like and predatory. There was nothing welcoming in the cold little smile on his face, the contempt for Bryce Cousland's daughter obvious.

"Come and sit down."

The seething Flora was so busy picturing the ceiling candelabra crushing Howe's skull that she did not hear his command. It took another jab of the sword before she stepped forward; her gaze distant as she imagined plunging a fork directly between the traitorous arl's eyes.

When Flora roused herself from her homicidal fantasies, she realised that the arl was talking to her.

"… look good in Amaranthine yellow," he finished, smirking without humour. She shot him a look of pure malevolence, before being guided roughly down into her seat by a guard's gloved hand.

The younger Howe, who looked about her own age or slightly younger, darted Flora a nervous look from beneath sparse eyelashes. She pointedly ignored him, staring down at the silverware and wondering how it could best be utilised in her defence.

" _Deeply_ unfortunate that it came to this. I'd hoped to resolve the matter without- "

"How am I supposed to eat with my hands bound?" Flora asked bluntly, interrupting the elder Howe mid-flow.

The traitorous arl glared at her with naked contempt, his pale eyes sliding over to the guards.

"Take off the cuffs. Keep your swords drawn."

"Though I  _will_  try and kill you with this spoon," Flora continued, hastily. She knew that she would not be able to resist lunging across the table once her hands were free, and did not particularly want to be impaled by the guards.

Rendon Howe scowled, the strain of being civil blatant on his pock-marked face.

"Fine," he half-snarled back, thin lips curling back over his teeth. "I'll enjoy watching them feed you. Bryce Cousland's daughter, bound and helpless, forced to  _open her mouth_ for me. Maybe I'll strip off that dress too, make you sit there naked."

Flora was about to lunge bodily across the table, bound hands and all, when a soothing murmur materialised in the back of her skull.

_**Calm down.** _

_But I hate him,_ she thought wildly, watching nervous servants ladle soup from a tureen into the bowls before them.  _I hate him!!_ _I'd happily feed him to the Archdemon._

_**Still, give him no cause to hurt you.** _

Flora exhaled slowly, muffling Howe's words as she used to do with her old Circle instructors. Instead she gazed down at the soup in the wide, shallow bowl before her. It was a lurid shade of orange – perhaps pumpkin, or squash – and had a greasy sheen to its surface.

" – if Bryce Cousland could see his daughter now, dining with the Howes!" the man was gloating, salting the soup with slender, almost feminine fingers. "See, there's always a chance for  _reconciliation- "_

There came a sudden splash as Flora planted her face squarely in the soup bowl, scattering silverware as orange liquid splashed over the table. When she sat up again triumphantly, soup was covering both her face and the primrose dress.

**…**

_**Really?** _

Arl Howe's own expression crashed into anger and he stood abruptly, throwing his chair back against the flagstones with a clatter.

" _You little bitch!"_

The next moment the arl had rounded the table and grabbed Flora by the shoulders, hauling her to her feet. Lifting his hand, he delivered a stinging slap to her face; before shaking her until the teeth chattered in her head.

"You just  _wait_ ," Howe snarled, spittle decorating her pumpkin-covered face. "My rogue Templar is arriving tomorrow. Once you've been Tranquilised, you'll do as I say.  _Whatever_ I say, you shameless Cousland whore."

The scrawny man made an angry gesture towards the guards, his face thunderous with anger.

"Take her back to the cell."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: It's not a very nice update though, poor Flo; the imprisonment was quite difficult to write, especially since at this point she's three months pregnant – although still in major denial, haha. She is managing to keep her chin up so far, even in the company of perverted guards and traitorous arls. She's a Herring girl, after all, and northern ladies are built tough. Lol at her face-planting into a bowl of soup to avoid the company of Arl Howe at dinnertime, haha. But it worked!
> 
> Bones in the Sand is incidentally the song that she was singing when they were travelling to Denerim, and the spirits literally gagged her by sending energy up her throat because her singing voice is so awful.
> 
> Oh dear, the rogue Templar and his Tranquil brand are arriving tomorrow! But who could the Templar be… I wonder if anyone can work it out? It's someone who's been brought up before in this story – no, not Cullen, lol can you imagine? But it's someone who has a pre-existing connection to Flora.


	230. A Form of Decapitation

Flora, momentarily paralysed by the mention of the Templar, made no protest as the two guards grabbed her roughly by the arms. They hauled her back down the stone corridor like a sack of potatoes, soup running down her face and still-damp hair dripping between her shoulder-blades. The cuffs on her wrists cut painfully into the skin as they dragged her, leaving raw pink patches where the metal had chewed against her flesh. Flora barely noticed, cast into gloom by the prospect of impending Tranquilisation.

She was shoved back into the cell hard enough to make her stagger, momentarily blinded by the sudden plunge into darkness. The door slammed shut behind her and she blinked back sudden tears, slowly growing accustomed to the gloom.

"Flora?"

The voice was thin and pained, and it was enough to distract Flora from her own troubles. She caught sight of the senior warden sitting against the far wall, the side of his head bloodied.

"What did they do to you?" he asked in alarm, seeing her damp and bedraggled, with an odd, lumpen substance over her face and chest. "Were you beaten?"

Flora shook her head, absurdly cheered as she recalled the arl's outraged expression.

"No," she replied, going to sit close beside the older man. The senior Warden reminded her somewhat of Duncan, and his presence was oddly comforting. "It's soup. I couldn't stand the thought of eating a meal with that- that  _bottom-feeder,_ so I… "

She made a little gesture, emulating her face-first plunge into the bowl. Riordan let out a raw and incredulous bark of laughter, despite their desperate circumstances.

"Maker's Breath," he remarked, shaking his greying ponytail as he leaned back against the stone. "You're a strange one, child."

Flora glanced sideways at the senior Warden, her pale eyes moving over the dried blood caked across his forehead.

"I could heal this in a second," she said wistfully, lifting her fingers to the wound. It was horribly disconcerting to feel no prickling mist rising beneath her nails, only a dull numbness in its place.

"You're a healer?"

Flora nodded, her bound wrists dropping to her lap as she swallowed; feeling her throat moving against the runed Tevinter collar.

"That's the only thing I  _can_  do," she said frankly, licking pumpkin soup from the corner of her mouth. "Heal and shield. The other Wardens used to call me a  _one trick pony._ They used to make  _horse_  noises at me, until Duncan told them to stop. Less polite than that, though."

Riordan was silent for a moment before speaking, his words carefully chosen.

"What were the circumstances of your recruitment?" he asked, his tone deliberately casual. "Did Duncan explain why he chose you, if your repertoire is so limited?"

Flora closed her eyes, recalling the desperate Jowan, the blank-faced Tranquil and the dagger plunging through the air in a predatory curve.

"I shielded someone when they were about to get hurt – well,  _more_ hurt," she explained, feeling a peculiar throb of sadness as she remembered Jowan's anguished expression. "I suppose he thought I was… brave for putting myself in danger to save others? Dunno."

"Ah, I see your game, Duncan _"_ murmured Riordan, as though speaking to an old friend.

"What?"

"Nothing, young sister. Come, let's get that stuff off your face."

Some time later, Flora sat back against the wall, tired yet too miserable to sleep.

Several yards away, Riordan was reclining on the straw; his wasted frame unbound by fetters or chains. They had spent a fruitless hour trying to pry the neck-collar open, the Warden's tainted blood granting him strength despite his state of near-starvation.

However, all they achieved was a raw patch on Flora's neck from the constant manhandling of the metal torque. Gloomily, she added this to her litany of injuries; consisting of the lump on the back of her head, the redness on her wrists and now the soreness beneath her chin. As a healer, she had never tolerated a wound on her person for longer than a few minutes – until now.

_I woke up in Alistair's arms this morning,_ she thought miserably to herself.  _And now look at me. I'm so stupid, this is my own fault._

_And Howe's Templar arrives tomorrow._

**_Stay calm. Don't panic._ **

"Riordan?" she said in a small voice, her words drifting through the gloomy cell.

"Yes, young one?"

"Do you know any… jokes? Or funny stories?"

The senior Warden eyed her with some perplexion, his brows drawing together.

" _Jokes?"_ he repeated, bewildered.

Flora nodded, swallowing her sadness with difficulty and smiling at him.

"There's quite a strong chance that I'll be Tranquilised tomorrow," she said, trying to inject a note of false cheeriness in her tone. "I'd like to…  _feel_ as much as I can before that happens. All the emotions."

Riordan was silent for a moment, his lined eyes searching Flora's fine-boned, pallid face.

"Well, there's one story I have," he said at last, obligingly. "Though Duncan would throttle me if he knew I was telling you. It's from when we were both junior recruits…"

The story ended up being a convoluted tale about the young warden-recruits smuggling a naked dwarf into the senior officers' quarters. This was so unlike Flora's memories of the stern-faced Duncan that she couldn't stop giggling; trying to reconcile her solemn commander with the juvenile prankster from Riordan's memory.

In return, Flora told him her joke about Templars and mages being unable to get along because they kept  _going in_   _circles;_ which only elicited a bemused stare from him, but made her laugh.

"I first told that joke to Alistair when we were going back to recruit the mages," she said finally, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. "He didn't find it funny either. I don't think I'm very good at jokes."

The thought of Alistair sobered her, and Flora fell into a pensive mood; wishing that she could reach up and touch the silver locket around her neck.

"I hope he's alright," she said out loud, tilting her head wistfully back against the stone. "I don't think he will be."

"Alistair?"

Riordan, who was both observant and shrewd, had already divined that the two warden-recruits were involved more intimately than the traditional bonds of brotherhood dictated.

Flora nodded glumly, a hard lump rising to her throat.

"I promised I'd be there to help him," she whispered, remembering how she had assured her brother-warden that she would be at his side even if he did become King. "He doesn't  _need_  me, though. He's strong enough to rule alone."

This caught Riordan's attention and he raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Rule?" he enquired lightly, pale eyes settling on Flora's refined Cousland profile. "What do you mean?"

Flora sighed, squinting down at her bound wrists as her fingers curled limply in her lap.

"He's the old King's son," she said, remembering how Alistair had confessed this to her like a shameful secret, on the road to Redcliffe many months prior.

Riordan's second eyebrow rose to join its mate as he mulled over this information. Summoning the memory of Alistair's face, he could see the resemblance between the young recruit and painted portraits of King Maric. They had the same strong jawline and uncompromising turn of the mouth, their broad-shouldered frames putting them both a head taller than most men.

"Ah," he said after a long moment, shifting on the dusty flagstones. "That'll make it easier to gain the Royal Army's support; if he manages to oust General Mac Tir."

"He will," Flora replied stubbornly, visions of her brother-warden's handsome face flooding her mind. "He's more capable than he thinks. Much more capable."

Although she wanted to  _feel_ as much as possible before the dreaded lyrium branding, it was too painful to think overlong on her best friend. Instead, she thought of her home; summoning fond memories of grey skies and lashing waves, a reef of jagged rock protruding like a snarling mouth above the waves.

"I wasn't raised in Highever," she said suddenly, nearly able to feel the salt-dried rope of the crab baskets against her palms. "I was raised in a village called Herring, on the north coast."

Hesitantly at first, but then with growing confidence, Flora began to talk about the place that she still regarded as home. She spoke about the small two-room shack that she had lived in for ten years; and how she had never stayed in a castle bedchamber that was as water-tight as the hut that her dad had built. She spoke about her Herring-parents, who accepted a year's worth of gold but would end up raising her for over a decade.

Unsure quite how Tranquilisation worked, Flora turned over the memories of her Herring-parents' faces; irrevocably blurred after five years of separation. She polished them as best she could, hoping that they would survive the cauterisation of her emotions.

Only once Riordan had fallen asleep did Flora allow herself to think about her companions, methodologically summoning them one at a time to the forefront of her memory. For each one, Flora brought to mind the three things that she liked best about them; hoping - despite all evidence to the contrary- that some ghostly echo of her regard might survive.

Flora had just finishing thinking about how Oghren had made her laugh even in the most abhorrent depths of the Deep Roads; when a familiar pair of kind, hazel eyes drifted to the surface of her memory, warm and insistent. Flora inhaled unsteadily, the sadness swelling in her throat so solid and lumpen that she thought she might choke on it.

_Alistair._

Taking a deep breath, knowing that this would be hardest of all, Flora summoned the memory of her best friend and brother-warden. Her heart was hammering in a thunderous staccato and yet she welcomed it; being evidence that she was still capable of  _feeling._

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

Flora remembered the first time that she had embraced him, lunging forward impulsively in the church at Lothering; when she did not know what words to use to assuage his distress and so resorted to physical touch. When she had pressed her mouth to his at Satinalia, it had been purely on the spur of the moment, without forethought or consideration of consequence. She had been startled at the fervour of his returning kiss.

_Was it really so unexpected?_

They had abandoned separate bedrolls after the nightmare of the Circle, locked in platonic embrace like twins curled together in their mother's belly. Their excuse had been that they were brother and sister-warden, bonded both by blood and oath, closer than either siblings or conventional lovers. Yet Alistair had sometimes looked at her in a distinctly  _unbrotherly_ manner; his laughing mouth justifying their closeness to others while his eyes expressed a desire to be closer still.

When the Wardens had ventured into the Deep Roads, they had done little more than exchange shy adolescent kisses; but the sordid depths of the Darkspawn's territory had prompted an unnaturally rapid intimacy. By the second night back on the surface they had been naked in each other's arms; and then within the next week they had lain together in the ruined shell of Ostagar.

_The three things I love most about Alistair,_ Flora thought determinedly to herself; unwilling to yield to despair.

_His kindness, his bravery, and his desire to protect the things that he loves. That's why he's accepted his position as heir to the throne, not because he wants power but because he wants to protect Ferelden._

_**And even a mage can be safe if they are the mistress of a King.** _

Her mind returned to the previous night and how Alistair's face had blazed like a brand in the darkness above her; bright and determined as he pressed her into the mattress. Despite the circumstances, Flora felt a small twist of lust deep in her gut. She welcomed it, knowing that after tomorrow's Tranquilisation, desire would be yet another foreign concept.

_Brother-warden had first touched sister-warden intimately in the sordid depths of the Deep Roads, fondling her breast through the thin fabric of her shirt. When her nipple stiffened obediently beneath his thumb he had looked almost comically surprised; as though he had never believed himself capable of bringing pleasure to a girl._

A guard in the passageway let out a loud belch as he strolled past the barred door; the light in the Wardens' cell flickering as his bulky physique passed in front of the torch.

Flora, who had been mentally admiring Alistair's drill-honed physique, shot the guard a scowl through the iron bars. Even as she glared, she could feel the tell-tale prickle of dampness rising in the corners of her eyes once again. This time, Flora made no effort to suppress her tears; aware that by the next evening she might never have the motivation to weep again.

For the first time since her first few weeks at the Circle, Flora cried herself to sleep; arms wrapped tightly around her knees and head bowed low, a small knot of grief and fear lodged in Fort Drakon's darkest cell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ugh! What a horrible situation to be put in – a bit like the night before an execution, except almost worse in a way… anyway, Flora in this chapter is basically trying to remember as much as she can before all emotion is stripped from her memory. So she's thinking about how much she loves Herring, what she likes best about her companions – it's too hard for her to think much about Alistair. Also, her shitty joke makes a comeback, lol.
> 
> So tomorrow…. It's Templar time! Uh oh!


	231. The Day Of Tranquilisation

Flora was rudely awoken the next morning by something hard and spherical bouncing off her skull. For a white, blinding moment of panic she had no idea where she was; her frightened eyes registering stone walls and barred doors before the rush of unwelcome memory returned. Since the prison was lit by torchlight, there was no way of knowing what time of day it was – or even if it was day at all.

"Breakfast," snarled the guard, lobbing something similar in shape towards Riordan. Flora leaned out with some difficulty, picking up the earthy object with her bound hands. The primrose dress had not borne its first night in the cells well; stained, torn and dirty, it looked little more than a servant's work-tunic.

"This shit again," muttered Riordan, stretching limbs stiffened from cold and sleep. "Howe thinks it's funny to feed his prisoners unprepared food."

To the senior Warden's surprise, Flora was beaming as she inspected the raw turnip.

"Young sister, it's covered with  _dirt,"_ he pointed out, releasing a contemptuous hiss between his teeth. "Brush it off before you- "

It was too late: Flora had already sunk her teeth eagerly into the raw vegetable, dirt and all. She devoured the entire turnip within two minutes, licking her fingers to pick up dropped crumbs from her bare knees.

Riordan gazed at her, somewhat bemused.

"You're weakening my case to have our food cooked properly," the senior Warden observed wryly, brow furrowed as he watched Flora licking the dirt off her fingers.

"I like it," she replied stubbornly, shifting slightly against the stone wall.

Then, to her dismay, Flora felt the first insidious traces of nausea creeping upwards from her stomach.  _No,_ she thought firmly to her own innards.  _Don't you dare. This is neither the time nor the place for shenanigans!_

Unfortunately, Flora's stomach rarely obeyed her commands; it had often delighted in humiliating her by rumbling loudly within Circle classrooms. Now it gave another slow, sickly roll and she took several deep gulps of air in succession.

"Flora?"

She shuffled across to the far side of the cell, already tasting the rising bile in her throat. Hunching over, Flora retched mingled turnip and stomach acid onto the damp straw, feeling tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

When it seemed there was nothing left to purge, Flora stayed crouched over for several moments, dazed and miserable.

"Sorry," she whispered hoarsely to the stone wall, unable to heal the soreness in her throat as she would usually do. "I didn't mean to do that."

Then the senior Warden was at her side, utterly unfazed by the mess. He offered her his stained water pouch without further comment; Flora gulped several mouthfuls down gratefully.

"Was it the raw turnip?" Riordan asked some time later, once they had returned to their normal positions against the wall.

"No," Flora replied indignantly, shaking her head. "I like raw vegetables. Especially the ones with  _earth_ on them. I don't know why, I never used to."

"Well then, are you unwell?"

"No-o," she replied, less certain this time. "I don't think so. I've been sick in the mornings for months now, but it doesn't seem to be getting _worse,_  exactly."

Riordan glanced over at her curiously for a moment, his eyes thoughtful.

Flora took a gulp of water, filled with a new sense of determination. Clambering to her feet with some difficulty, hands still chained before her; she began to feel her way along the walls.

"I have to get out of here," she breathed, fingers sliding over the uneven blocks of stone. "Do you think there could be a… secret passage?"

The senior Warden shot her a slightly incredulous look.

"I've been in this cell for months," he replied bluntly, taking back his water pouch. "I've checked every inch of it. Solid as the fucking Anderfels."

"Hm," mumbled Flora, the wheels of her mind turning rapidly. "Alright then, I'm going to... seduce the guard."

Ignoring Riordan's incredulous snort, she sidled over to the door and draped herself against the iron bars in her best seductive manner. The guard was yawning, leaning back and inspecting a smudge on the thumb of his glove.

" _Helloooo_ ," Flora called, flashing her teeth in a slightly demented grin. "Helloooo."

Not really sure what to do next, she assumed her best 'come hither' expression and peered at the guard from beneath her eyelashes.

"What's wrong with your  _face?"_  said the guard, looking at her in disgust.

Abandoning the seduction attempt, Flora returned to the rear of the cell and knelt down in front of Riordan. Her knee gave a twinge of protest and she grimaced, gritting her teeth against the one hurt that she had never been able to heal.

"Can you try and get it off again?" she pleaded, rolling her eyes downwards towards the torque around her neck.

"Young sister, we've tried already."

"Please? They're going to  _Tranquilise_  me!"

Riordan groaned under his breath, but reached up obligingly. Despite the boniness of his fingers, the Warden had retained his taint-enhanced strength; he tugged hard at the collar until she yelped in pain.

Five minutes later, they had achieved nothing, except for exacerbating the raw ring of skin around Flora's neck. Riordan withdrew his fingers as he saw beads of blood seeping from beneath the Tevinter device.

"Enough," he said sharply, as Flora sat back on her rear with a grunt of frustration. "It won't open by force."

"But only Howe has the key," she replied, a note of despair creeping into her voice. "And he won't take it off until I'm Tranquil."

Riordan had no reassuring response for her. The senior Warden gave a tight nod, lips folded tightly together.

Flora let out a little sigh, shuffling back across the straw on her rear to lean against the wall.

"There has to be  _something_ I can do," she said to herself, determinedly. "I just have to think of it."

Several hours later, no solution had presented itself. Flora had heard sickly coughing from the next cell; according to Riordan, it housed a young noble named Oswyn. He was the son of Bann Sighard, liege lord of Dragon's Peak, and had ended up in a Fort Drakon cell after discovering that Loghain had ordered the retreat  _before_ the King and Wardens had been overwhelmed. Oswyn had apparently been told this by a friend in the Royal Army; the next day, the nobleman had been drugged and dragged off in Howe's custody.

"The lad's been racked to within an inch of his life, poor sod," muttered Riordan, canting his chin towards the wall dividing the cells. "Don't know how much more he can take. He's badly hurt, from the sounds of it."

"I could heal him in a second," Flora replied glumly, watching a rat scuttle along the stone wall. "Have you thought of any way to escape yet?"

The senior Warden let out a humourless bark of laughter, the grey in his hair rapidly overtaking the brown.

"No, young sister. Believe me, I've exhausted all possibilities."

Flora raised her chained hands, scratching disconsolately at her nose.

"Maybe when the guards bring lunch, there'll be an opportunity then!"

This time, Riordan's snort of amusement was genuine.

" _Lunch?!"_

To Flora's dismay, there would indeed be no lunch forthcoming. The hours dragged by with excruciating slowness; with nothing to distinguish one from the other except the volume of the unfortunate Oswyn's groans as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

Mid-afternoon, Flora heard the cell next door being unlocked. This was accompanied by a moan of protest from the unfortunate prisoner within, made inarticulate by pain and fear.

"Don't cry," she heard one of the guards snarling, vehemence in his tone. "This is what you get when you spread  _false rumours_."

Flora scrambled awkwardly to her feet, crossing the cell and pressing her face against the barred door. She caught a glimpse of a young nobleman – he couldn't have been much older than Finian – sagging in the grip of two guards. Bann Sighard's son was clad in the stinking remnants of finery, his visible flesh covered with a number of both new and poorly healed wounds.

"They aren't  _false_ rumours!" she protested through the bars, her eyes wide and indignant. "Loghain did abandon the King before the battle was lost. I was there!"

The weak youth barely had enough strength to raise his head, bloodshot eyes meeting hers for a split-second. One of the guards – an unshaven, ale-bloated man in his middle years – turned angrily on Flora, half-drawing his sword from its sheath.

"Shut up, Theirin whore," he retorted, lip drawing back ferally over yellowed teeth. "You're lucky I'm busy, or I'd come in that cell and give your mouth something to occupy it."

Flora hissed at him through the bars like a scalded cat, watching with impotent frustration as they dragged the weeping noble off to the torture chambers.

"Young sister," came Riordan's wearied voice from behind her. "Don't draw their ire any more than necessary. I'll be forced to defend you, and I'm not sure I can take another beating."

_**Listen to him.** _

Reluctant to sit back down, Flora rattled her wrist cuffs between the iron bars; the metal clattering like a discordant instrument.

"It's not a  _rumour, you stupid seagulls,"_ she howled down the corridor towards the receding backs of the guards. "It's true! Will it take the Darkspawn overrunning the city to make you realise that there's a Blight?!"

Some time later, the guards returned with the unfortunate Oswyn. He was near unconsciousness, blood dripping in viscous gobs from his mouth and nose, feet trailing along the stone as they dragged him like a sack of turnips.

Flora, once more pressed against the bars of the door, had never felt quite so helpless. She had tried periodically to summon the expanding shield to her fingertips, which only resulted in a dull numbness beneath her tongue.

Once the guards had thrust Bann Sighard's son down onto the stained straw, they turned towards the cell containing the Wardens.

"Your turn, you mouthy little cat," muttered one of them, as several others trooped in to keep Riordan at sword point. "You won't protest so loudly after we're done with you."

Flora, who had been periodically yelling Herring's foulest obscenities through the bars for the past few hours, found herself struck dumb with fear. Riordan could do nothing but watch, two sword-points at his neck and two more wedged into his gut, as his fellow Warden was manhandled from the cell.

"You leave her alone!" he was snarling, twitching like an untamed Mabari; half-minded to risk being jabbed to make an effort to halt them. "Bring her back, you bastards!"

It was too late: a horrified Flora, struck almost rigid with terror, found herself removed from the cell and escorted along the corridor. Partway down the stone passageway, her weak knee gave way beneath her and she stumbled; only for one guard to yank her up by her tangled hair.

Their journey was not a long one, the torture wing being adjacent to the dungeons. They passed a number of small doors, behind which a variety of horrific noises were emanating. Flora, heart throbbing almost painfully within her chest, heard an elven voice whimpering in helpless protest from behind one door. It was followed shortly by a human shriek of pain, interspersed by maddened cackles.

The guards thrust Flora into an adjacent cell, which was filled with the rusting tools of the torturer's trade. Lit by a fire blazing in the corner, the amber light flickered malevolently over some of the worst devices that man could think up to inflict pain on his brother.

It was to the central wooden rack that they tied Flora, removing her cuffs and shoving her wrists into the eroded manacles. To her relief, the guards then began to withdraw; actual torture seemingly not part of their agenda.

"You're lucky that Howe wants you untouched and unblemished," hissed one portly, wart-chinned guard as he prepared to leave, eyes trawling up and down Flora's figure in the torn remnants of the primrose dress. "We could have had so much  _fun_ together. Fun for me, that is."

For a moment, he looked tempted to disobey his orders; one gloved hand sliding up her thigh as he glanced over his shoulder to check that the door was shut.

"Quite a fall from grace for  _you_ though," he murmured, fingers edging greedily upwards. "To go from being fucked by a prince, to being fucked by Gareth of Honnleath."

_**Tell him you'll still be capable of informing the arl of any mistreatment.** _

"Tranquil don't lose their memory," retorted Flora, summoning a shred of defiance. "What will Arl Howe do when he finds out you've been groping his property? I think he might use  _that_ on you, actually."

She jerked her chin towards a particularly sinister tool on a nearby table, which resembled a pair of small shears.

The guard reluctantly withdrew his hand, spitting at her feet before taking his leave.

Exhaling unsteadily, Flora was left alone with only her thoughts and the screams of the fellow prisoners for company. For a moment she tasted raw panic in her throat, sour as rising bile, her vision clouding over with panic.

_**You must stay calm, child.** _

_My name is Florence Cousland, daughter of Highever,_ thought Flora determinedly, recalling the opening line of the Landsmeet speech penned by Eamon.  _Acting Warden-Commander of Ferelden._

Zevran's  _naughty little minx_ comment popped into her mind and she almost laughed, despite the circumstances.

For the next two hours, Flora recited the Landsmeet speech repeatedly to herself; at first in her head, and then out loud. Despite the circumstances, her memory did not fail her – she managed to recall the entirety of the first two pages, before losing her train of thought at the last paragraph.

"And that, noble Landsmeet, is why Loghain must  _immediately_  be keel-hauled behind a fishing boat, and his body left on the Hag's Teeth for the gulls," she improvised, cackling quietly as she gazed up at the stone ceiling. "Although he'd probably give them indigestion."

The only benefit to being fettered and bound to the upright rack was that the chafing rawness of Flora's wrists was a distraction from the throbbing of her weak knee.

Suddenly, the lock turned in the wooden door and every coherent word fled from Flora's head. Howe's rogue Templar stood in the doorway, silhouetted in closed-face helm and pauldrons; sporting the distinctive Chantry flecked sword on his breastplate.

_**Your only weapon left is your words. Don't panic.** _

Flora raised her chin, lifting her face to the firelight and preparing to launch into a blistering verbal offensive.

_How dare you wear the Chantry symbol,_ she rehearsed feverishly in her head as the rogue Templar reached up to remove his helm.  _I've passed my Harrowing - this is an illegal Tranquilisation!_

With helm clutched in his hands, the Templar stared at her; unshaven features contorting in shock. Flora gazed back at him, her eyes wide and planned tirade forgotten.

" _You!?"_ they both said in simultaneous incredulity.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: But WHO?! 
> 
> So in this chapter Flora has tried literally everything she can think of to escape – from secret passages, seducing the guard, to yanking the collar off by force. It all fails!
> 
> Still, she's a Herring girl – and Herring girls are sturdy creatures, not easily cowed. In a village like Herring, life could get very grim; but its inhabitants just got on with it – they took whatever the Waking Sea threw at them in their stride, they didn't have the luxury of despair. Flora has this characteristic too – she grits her teeth and just ploughs onwards despite the hardships! She's also calmed by Riordan referring to her as 'young sister' – it reminds her of Duncan.
> 
> Haha I don't know if this is a thing in America, but literally every city you go to in Europe has at least one Medieval torture museum, full of terrifying bits of rusted iron designed to inflict maximum pain on an unfortunate victim! The shears that Flora points out to the guard to stop him from groping her are inspired by a particular device I saw in a torture museum in Hungary – I don't know the name of the device (all the signs were in Hungarian), but let's just say you could call them COCK-CHOPPERS, lol
> 
> AAAHH I just googled 'penis torture instrument' to try and find the real name for cock-choppers, and all the images on the screen are definitely not Medieval historical artefacts! My eyes are bleeding! I can never unsee this! I was just trying to be historically accurate, aaghhhhhh


	232. The Hand That Wields The Brand

The Templar looked older than Flora remembered; although to be fair, she had not laid eyes on him for nearly five years. He also looked much the worse for wear, eyes bloodshot and deep lines of bitterness carved into the puckered skin around his mouth. Considering that he had been mortally wounded during their last – and only - encounter, the fact that he now looked  _worse_ was a remarkable feat.

_His back was broken in three separate places, the vertebrae severed from the spinal nerves. She had brought him back from the brink of death, and in return he had betrayed her to his Order. They had arrived in Herring the next morning and taken her to the Circle in chains, like a common criminal._

"Andraste preserve me," the man said slowly, and Flora could almost smell the residual alcohol on his breath as he took a measured step towards her. "It's  _you,_  isn't it? The young mage from Trout."

"Herring," she whispered back, mind racing. "You're Howe's Templar? What  _happened?"_

The man shot her a look shot through with bitterness.

"Is it so obvious I've left the Order, then?" he retorted, crossing to the table and shoving the instruments of torture impatiently to one side. "Well, what if I have? It's all  _your_ fault, anyway."

" _My_ fault?" repeated Flora, so bemused that she almost forgot that she was bound to a rack in Howe's torture chamber. "How is it  _my_ fault?"

The rogue Templar let out a humourless, horrible laugh, sweeping the remainder of the tools to the tiled floor with a clatter.

"Your fucking _face_ ," the man replied bleakly, reaching into the pack he had brought with him. "When we arrested you…it haunted my dreams; I couldn't sleep for the guilt… chewed me up from the inside. I don't know why - I was doing my  _job._ And the Maker has forsaken me. The prayers have no meaning."

He rambled like a professional drunk, bitter thoughts spilling unrestrained over unhealthy, grey-tinged lips.

Flora stared at him, her mind racing faster than Finian's favourite racing mare.

_I never thought he would feel guilt for betraying me to the Chantry. I suppose I did save his life._

_**The guilt has ruined him.** _

"So now you earn coin by breaking the law?" Flora challenged, her heart skipping a beat as she saw him remove the lyrium brand from his pack. "I've passed my Harrowing. Howe just wants to force me to marry him, but I'd rather marry… I'd rather marry the  _Archdemon!"_

The Templar ignored her, nudging his sword into the brazier to coax more heat from the coals.

"I bet Howe is feeling smug," continued Flora, desperately. "He must be proud to have a pet Templar on his leash!"

"I am no  _pet!"_ the man retorted angrily, letting the brand sit idle on the table as he turned back towards her. "I need coin to live. Besides, I owe you  _nothing_."

"You owe me your  _life!"_ Flora pointed out, her voice rising even as her heart beat a rapid staccato of panic against her ribs. "I saved you, and you betrayed me to the Chantry."

From the man's silence, he could think of no counter-argument. Instead, he removed fragments of lyrium with trembling fingers from a protective case; his hand shaking as he tried to slot them into the brand.

"Please," she continued, changing tactics and gazing entreatingly at the unshaven man. "Please, don't do this. There  _is_ a Blight, no matter what General Mac Tir and Howe might say. I'm a Grey Warden now, I have to stop it.  _Please_."

The once-Templar ignored her, finally slotting the final fragment of lyrium into the brand after several failed attempts.

"Haven't you heard the rumours?" Flora said desperately, trying not to look at the iron sunburst that would irrevocably cauterise her capacity to _feel_. "The rumours of something horrible happening in the south? Haven't you seen the refugees from Gwaren and Lothering? They aren't allowed in the noble districts, but you've seen them in the taverns, haven't you?  _Haven't you?"_

The man was silent, but his fingers were bone-white as they clenched the long arm of the brand. Flora, sensing his indecision, pounced on it.

"Howe is  _wrong,_ and so is the General," she hissed, her own racing heartbeat deafening in her ears. "There is a Blight, and I'm one of the few people that can stop it."

_Somehow. You still haven't quite worked out how, yet._

Slowly, the iron brand lowered itself back to the brazier and the man turned to face Flora. She took a deep breath, aware of how much rested on this singular moment.

"I forgive you for sending me to the Circle," she said steadily, digging bitten nails into her palms. "But if you do this, there'll  _never_  be any forgiveness. No redemption,  _no_  coming back! You'll be known to history as the man who… who betrayed Ferelden!"

"I love my country," he retorted angrily, teeth bared like a provoked Mabari. "How dare you imply otherwise?"

"Then help me save it," she implored, pale eyes searching his drink-sallow face. "Please. There's something awful coming. Can't you feel it?  _Please."_

There was a long, taut moment where the rogue Templar did nothing but gaze at her, his jaundiced eyes both resentful and curious.

"The rumours are  _true?_ The Darkspawn are coming? _"_  he asked at last, and Flora nodded frantically, her expression open and honest. "Maker preserve us. What… what should I do?"

"Can you get this collar off?" Flora asked, feeling a lurch of relief so strong that it almost made her dizzy. The man left the brand on the table and crossed the cell, gloved fingers moving over the Tevinter collar. Although the violet runes flared into life beneath his lyrium-blooded fingers, the torque itself remained stubbornly clamped shut. Flora remained very still as he breathed against her, eyes moving over the stubble on his cheeks and the rosy varicose veins gleaming beneath the florid skin.

"It needs to be unlocked with a key," the Templar said at last, shaking his head. "I assume that Howe has it."

When Flora nodded glumly, the man's shoulders slumped in defeat.

"That's that, then," he muttered bleakly, stepping away from her. "You'll never get out of here without your…  _magic_. I can't help you."

There was a heavy silence for a moment, the Templar looking as though he sorely desired a drink.

"Howe needs to take this off," Flora said suddenly, an idea flaring to life in her mind. "But he won't do it until I'm Tranquil."

The Templar shot her a derisive look, as though to say  _obviously?_

"Or if he  _thinks_ I'm Tranquil," she continued, the words running into each other in her excitement. "Can… you pretend to Tranquilise me? I can definitely act Tranquil, there were lots of them at the Circle. Howe would have no reason to doubt that you've done it, he doesn't know that we've met before."

The man looked at her, incredulous.

"You want to  _pretend_ to be Tranquil?"

Flora nodded, at this point willing to attempt anything to divert the inevitable.

"But what about the…?" He gestured vaguely towards his hairline, where the Chantry's lyrium sunburst was traditionally emblazoned on the foreheads of the Tranquil.

Flora thought for a moment, squirming absentmindedly against the metal cuffs pinning her wrists to the rack.

"Brand me without the lyrium, then," she said at last, recalling how he had needed to insert the crystal fragments into the iron casing. "It'll look the same."

"You're insane," the man said flatly, a note of incredulity creeping into his words. "All that magic has fried your mind beyond repair. You want me to  _brand_ you?"

Flora nodded impatiently, canting her chin towards where the brand sat abandoned in the brazier.

"Please," she repeated, turning her restless Waking Sea eyes on him. "If Howe takes the collar off, I can defend myself. You  _know_ I can."

_You lunged at me with your sword in a clumsy attempt at a summary execution; I shielded myself and you fled into the night. My dad and the other men went out to look for you; and if they'd found you, they would have killed you._

"What will you do if he does take it off?"

Despite the derision in his tone, the man was already turning back towards the sunburst brand; removing the lyrium crystals with far steadier fingers.

"I'll kill Howe," Flora replied without hesitation. "And free his prisoners. There's another Warden in the dungeon."

"How are you going to kill Howe? I was told you were a healer," the man continued, replacing the lyrium carefully back in the case.

Flora shrugged; she had not thought that far ahead.

"Dunno. Improvise? Whichever way, it'll be a mercy to him," she said frankly, shifting her wrists to alleviate the pressure on the raw skin. "Because I would do it quickly. My brothers – or my brother-warden – would drag his death out for days."

_Would Alistair torture a man? Before, I would have said no. Now I think he might._

"I'm Dennis, by the way," the man said, slightly awkwardly. "I don't know if… we were ever properly introduced."

"I'm Flora."

Mage and ex-Templar gazed at one another for a moment, recalling a small village Chantry with sandy tiles and an eternal flame constantly harassed by the northern wind.

_He had struck her across the face; she had fallen back in shock and dismay._

Abruptly, Dennis picked up the iron brand; rolling the long metal stem between his fingers. He went to the brazier and inserted the head into the flames, letting it collect the heat. Flora swallowed, trying to prepare herself for the pain.

_It can't be worse than breaking your arm._

"Why is Howe bothering with this whole charade, anyway?" asked Dennis suddenly, watching the metal slowly blossom with reddish light. "I don't understand. You're a bonny lass, but no-one important. Why does he want to force you to marry him?"

Flora grimaced, feeling beads of nervous sweat breaking out on her forehead.

"My full name is Florence Cousland," she said through gritted teeth, unable to stop staring at the brand as it rested on the coals like a sleeping dragon. "You're  _sure_ there's no lyrium left in there? Can you just… double check?"

The rogue Templar's eyebrows shot skywards, nearly dropping the brand as he removed it from the flames.

"Andraste's Tits," he remarked, frankly. "A teyrn's daughter, and a  _mage?"_

"Being a mage isn't exclusive to the poor and unfortunate," retorted Flora, recalling Connor Guerrin. "Can you try not to set my hair on fire?"

Dennis stepped towards her, with the brand clutched in his steel gauntlet. Flora felt her heart quicken, instincts screaming for her to recoil from the red-hot metal.

_As soon as Howe unlocks the collar, I'll be able to heal the burn. It's only a temporary pain._

_**Like your knee should have been?**_ came a pointed little whisper.

 _Quiet,_ she thought furiously back.  _It'll be different._

"Ready?" asked Dennis, and she knew that he was asking if she were ready for  _both_ the pain, and the charade to follow.

Flora took a deep breath and nodded; he produced a leather strip from his pack and gestured for her to open her mouth.

"Bite down on this."

She took it between her teeth, feeling the thud of her frantic heartbeat racing in her ears. The ex-Templar lifted the brand, which hissed and spat like sizzling meat; redder than the sunrise over the Hag's Teeth.

_**Hold your breath. Don't flinch.** _

Flora closed her eyes, filling her lungs with air and feeling the lack of magic as a hollow void inside her. She heard the man step closer, sensed him come to a halt before her.

"On the count of three," she heard Dennis say, the heat from the brand pulsing outwards in waves. "One…  _two…."_

In a swift, decisive motion he pressed the empty sunburst brand to Flora's forehead. Immediately there was a sizzle as the red-hot metal met her skin, and she let out a strangled shriek of pain. Her teeth clamped down hard on the leather, tears immediately welling in the corners of her eyes as her entire body recoiled in shock.

Her head felt as though it was on fire, waves of rawness emanating through her skull as the smell of singed flesh pervaded her nostrils. In contrast to previous injuries, no anaesthetising golden mist rose forth to dull the agony. The leather strip fell from her mouth and she let out a hoarse sob.

_**Breathe, child. It's only a burn.** _

Dennis dropped the brand clumsily on the table before emptying his water pouch over Flora's head. The trickling coldness both soothed the pain and helped to calm her, rolling down her sweaty cheeks. Despite this, she still cried for several torturous minutes, sagging limply against the metal cuffs.

"Oh," she whispered eventually, the pain throbbing sharp and insistent in the centre of her forehead. "Oh, that's  _horrible_. Ouch. Does it… does it look authentic, though?"

The Templar lifted his gauntlet wordlessly and Flora stared at her reflection in the smeared steel. The Chantry sunburst was seared into her forehead, red and raw; lurid against her typically northern pallid skin.

"That's only half the act," he warned her, hastily slotting the lyrium crystals back into the brand in case it was checked. "Are you sure you're prepared?"

Flora took a deep breath, making a vain attempt to thrust the pain to the back of her mind.

"Ouch," she said, realising in dismay that it stung even to raise her eyebrows. "Yes. There were lots of Tranquil at the Circle, I'll mimic them. I just need to convince Arl Howe enough so that he removes this stupid collar."

Dennis nodded, gazing at her with an unreadable expression.

"I'll inform them that the deed is done," he said, slowly. "Don't give them any cause to doubt me."

Flora shook her head, taking a deep and steadying breath.

"I won't," she whispered, the pain like a blade embedded in her skull. "I can do this; I  _know_ I can."

_For Alistair. For Ferelden._

_**Good girl.** _

He gave her another nod, before turning on his heel and opening the cell door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Did you guess who the Templar was? It was the one who revealed Flora as an apostate, when she was fifteen years old and Herring's little secret! The one who she healed, despite being told not to, which resulted in her exposure and arrest. The ensuing guilt has driven this man away from the Templar Order, and to drink! Which was good for Flora, because ultimately it allowed her to convince him not to Tranquilise her.
> 
> So this is Flora's plan: to pretend to be Tranquil, convincing enough that Howe believes the magic-suppressant collar to be redundant and takes it off! Fortunately, Flora doesn't have any problems looking vacant; she spent four years looking vacant at the back of a Circle classroom, haha. She looks vacant every time Eamon starts talking XD


	233. Howe's Greatest Triumph

While the Templar was gone, Flora closed her eyes and summoned the memory of Owain, the Tranquil whose life she had saved at the Circle. She remembered the way he spoke; the dull tone and the dead eyes. Pether, the Tranquilised emissary who had journeyed with them, had a strange way of looking through people as though they were not really there.

_They say that Tranquilisation is a form of decapitation._

"It's done," she heard the Templar saying, the sound of approaching footsteps echoing down the passageway outside. "Now, my fee?"

"Howe's got the payment," a guard replied, as the two men entered the cell. "He'll see you later this evening. Maker, that's an ugly mark."

It was the same wart-faced guard who had leered at Flora earlier that afternoon. Now, he approached with curiosity and revulsion mingled on his florid features, eyes focused in the centre of her forehead. Leaning forward, he snapped his fingers rudely in front of her face, with a little snort.

"Helloo- _oo_ ," he taunted, tweaking her nose. "Anybody home?"

_I hate you,_ thought Flora, evilly.  _I hope you drown._

_**Stop thinking so strongly. It'll show.** _

She stared vacantly forwards, imagining that she could see straight through the guard's armour-clad chest to the wall behind him.

"Now that obnoxious mouth can be put to good purpose," continued the guard, a lewd grin spreading over his face. "The arl will be greatly pleased."

_The Tevinter snapper is a mid-sized saltwater fish with a herbaceous diet of weed and plankton,_ thought Flora stubbornly, teeth gritted.  _It can be found either in rock formations or coral reefs._

Recalling this particular entry from  _Exotic Fish of Thedas_ occupied Flora for the duration of the journey to the chamber where she had been taken the previous night. This time, another dress had been laid out for her – a rust-coloured knee length gown of expensive-looking silk – and a filled bathtub lay waiting on the flagstones. The two guards took off her handcuffs, the senior officer gesturing towards the bath with an expectant grin.

As was expected, Flora made no word of protest as the guard and his companion watched her bathe for the second evening in a row. A cold, hard knot of anger was slowly forming in her stomach; although she was careful to ensure that no hint of it reached her face. Wringing her hair out mechanically, she stepped from the bath and went to put on the rust-coloured gown. The guards were so preoccupied with various other parts of her anatomy that they failed to notice the distinct curve of her abdomen.

"Will she obey anyone, or just Howe?" one guard muttered to the other, eyes trawling her body, greedily. "I wouldn't mind giving her a few  _instructions_ , if you know what I mean."

_The Tevinter snapper is commonly mistaken for its cousin, the Minrathous sliver,_ thought Flora, determined not to allow a hint of emotion to manifest itself.  _It has a speckled pattern on its fins._

Fortunately, the senior guard was scared enough of Howe to obey the arl's order to the letter.

"Idiot! Don't you suggest anything. She's Arl Howe's property now," he snarled, elbowing the younger man sharply in the ribs. "He won't be happy if he finds out you've been messing around with her."

The junior guard, who had never encountered a Tranquil before, was determined to test out his theory.

"Brush your hair," he snapped, thrusting a wooden comb in her direction. "It's a fucking mess."

Flora reached out and took the comb, tugging it through her hair while keeping her features carefully neutral. As she worked the teeth through the tangles, she wondered if she should make a lunge for a sword now that her hands were unbound.

_**No. You need the traitor arl to take off the torque. Patience.** _

She kept combing methodically through her hair until it was straight and slick, soaking the back of the rust-covered silk.

"Alright, enough!" muttered the guard, snatching the comb away impatiently. "Let's take her to the arl."

_Don't stab him with a fork,_ Flora chanted silently to herself as she trotted obediently down the corridor between the two guards.  _Don't throw anything. Don't be reckless._

Torches flickered at intervals within iron brackets on the wall; casting pools of inconstant light over the flagstones. Fort Drakon, as Denerim's most substantial prison complex, had an entire wing designed for the residence of the warden and staff. It was to these domestic quarters that Flora had been brought the previous night, and she recognised the plain, utilitarian décor as the guards escorted her towards the dining chamber.

A rough wooden table had been laid with three places, a lone candlestick making a valiant effort to punctuate the shadows. No food had been brought out, but a bottle of ale was standing expectantly on a side table.

"Arl Howe will be along presently," said the senior guard, pushing Flora into the gloomy chamber with more force than was necessary. He gripped her shoulders and turned her towards him, pointing his finger in Flora's face as though lecturing a disobedient Mabari.

"Stand here. Don't touch anything."

_I hate you,_ Flora thought to herself as she feigned a dutiful nod.  _I want to shove my fist up your nose._

The two guards withdrew, the door closing in their wake. Flora immediately cast her gaze over the table to see if there was anything that she could use as a weapon. Unfortunately, the knives laid out beside the empty platters were laughably small and rounded, offering not even the slightest sliver of threat. There were no windows that she could attempt to climb from; besides, she had no idea how high up they were.

Suddenly, there came the sound of footsteps and male voices in the corridor outside. Flora quickly arranged her features into neutrality, facing the table and taking a deep, steadying breath.

_Don't headbutt Arl Howe. Don't try and stab him with a fork. Just play the part of a Tranquil until he takes the torque off._

"Wait until you see this," Howe was saying gleefully as the door opened. "It's bound to put a smile even on  _your_ face."

"I am in no mood for frivolity," came the terse reply. "What is this you've dragged me out here to see?"

Flora felt the pit of her stomach plummet, the blood suddenly running ice-cold in her veins.

_No. It can't be._

_It can't be!_

"This is no frivolity," came Howe's triumphant reply, his voice now coming from immediately behind her.

"This had better be worth it. Turn around, girl."

_It is! It's him! It's HIM!_

_**Stay calm!** _

There was no mistaking the order. Flora turned around, features frozen in passive neutrality, and gazed up into the hawk-like, un-amused stare of Loghain Mac Tir.

He looked older than she remembered from Ostagar, the grey now dominating his once-dark hair. The only symbol of his regency was a thin golden band around his forehead; otherwise, the general was clad in unassuming and functional armour. The lines were carved deep into his face, the corner of his lip curled in a scowl of disapproval.

Immediately Flora felt a surge of blind hatred, focusing on the man who had abandoned her commander to die for futile and selfish purposes. She wanted nothing more than to hurl herself at the traitorous general, to claw at his eyes with her bitten nails and pummel his face to a pulp with her fists.

_**Don't let even a hint of it show, or all is lost.** _

It was the most difficult thing that Flora had ever had to do in her near-two decades of life; and yet she managed it, staring vacantly at Loghain as though he were a stranger in the street.

One of Mac Tir's eyebrows quirked as he leaned down, staring her directly in the eye. He reached out with an abrupt, gloved hand to brush the hair away from her forehead and it took all of Flora's self-restraint not to recoil in revulsion.

To her mild surprise, Loghain did not share Howe's expression of gloating triumph as he stared at the sunburst brand on her forehead. Instead, regret flickered momentarily through his gaze; brief as lightning in a summer storm.

"You've made her  _Tranquil?"_  he stated gruffly after a moment, the disapproval ringing strong in his tone. "What a Maker-damned waste. The girl was exceptionally talented."

Howe scowled, clearly not expecting the general's disapproval.

"Talented or not, she's a  _Cousland,"_  he retorted, lowering his scrawny frame into one of the chairs. "And – if you had forgotten – she's been using those gifts on behalf of the Wardens, and that bastard Theirin."

Loghain grunted, letting his hand fall away from Flora's forehead. He gazed down at her a moment longer, his dark eyes boring hard into her pale grey stare.

"Do you remember me, girl?" he asked after a moment, eyebrows drawing together.

"Yes," Flora whispered, keeping her voice soft and monotonous.

_I remember you taking me to your tent and then feigning an attack on your servant to test the strength of my shield._

_Two of us can play pretend._

"Howe, you're a fool," Loghain said at last, turning away from her abruptly. "This ridiculous obsession with eradicating the Couslands will bring only ruin."

The atmosphere hummed with tension, the scrawny arl glowering across at the un-amused teryn.

"Pour the ale, girl," he ordered sharply, barely glancing at her. "For both of us."

Flora, wanting nothing more than to break the bottle over Howe's head, did as she was told. She could feel Loghain's eyes on her, his expression unreadable.

"It would have been kinder to have her killed," he said after a moment, taking a long gulp of ale. "What's the contraption around her neck? Looks Tevinter."

Howe nodded, a smug smile curling the corner of his mouth.

"Minrathous. Took me months to get my hands on it. They use it to subdue their most powerful magisters in court."

_Unlock it,_ Flora hissed in her own mind, standing awkwardly to one side like a life-sized doll.  _Take it off, crabface._

The silent servants brought out a tureen of soup and Howe delighted in having Flora serve it for them; nodding smugly at Loghain as though to say  _see? see how she waits on me now? A teyrn's daughter!_

Tempted to joyfully fling the scalding soup over the crotches of both men, Flora restrained herself with difficulty, hoping that her desires were not writ too plainly on her face.

"In a way, she's almost a  _greater_ threat to you now," Loghain commented icily after some time. The general had barely touched his dish, and the atmosphere was not a comfortable one. Howe was eating messily and defiantly, soup trickling down his hairless chin; small, mean eyes flickering restless between the general and the pale-faced girl.

"Eh?"

"There's rumours that she's the bastard's lover. If he were to marry her now, it would be an alliance of a Theirin to a Cousland. A Cousland who, by  _your_ hand, is no longer a mage. I can think of no more dangerous a pairing."

Howe's thin upper lip curled, and he reached out to intercept Flora as she replaced the soup tureen on the table.

"It's a moot point," he snarled, pulling her with possessive and uncaring hands onto his bony knee. "He won't. She's  _mine_ , now."

_**Don't react.** _

It took every inch of Flora's willpower not to recoil as she felt the man who had murdered her parents place his hand on her thigh, his thin, liver-coloured lips brushing over her neck.

_Take the collar off. Take it off, you bottom-feeder!_

Perhaps driven by some strange form of compassion – after all, he too had a daughter – Loghain let out a soft huff of distaste and stood up from the table.

"Get your hand off her, it's fucking disgusting. I've  _never_  condoned this," he stated bluntly, the end of his sword colliding with the chair leg. "It's not right. It's not  _Fereldan._ We aren't Tevinter."

The arl opened his mouth to hiss a response, but then a Howe-liveried retainer burst into the room, breathless and wide-eyed.

"Arl Howe," he gasped, as the general's hand automatically went to the hilt of his sword.

Howe's face curdled and he stood, thrusting Flora away roughly from him.

"What is it, man?"

The retainer gestured towards Flora, and for a sickening moment she thought that she had been found out.

"Her companions have taken your son – Thomas – hostage. They're demanding her release in exchange."

Loghain let out an utterly humourless bark of laughter, casting a look of derision over his shoulder at Howe as he departed.

"You've brought this on yourself, Amaranthine," the general stated at the doorway, entirely without pity. "I warned you that it was going to come down to the Landsmeet now. But you insisted on this charade."

"Arl Howe?" The retainer took a deep, trembling breath. "They've also burnt your city estate to the ground."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OOOOHHHHHH SHIT it's Loghain! He's been like a constant, gloomy presence over the story so far, but it's actually been over two hundred chapters since he actually, physically appeared in the flesh! I really like Loghain as a character – he reminds me a lot of Richard, Duke of Gloucester (who becomes the infamous Richard III), who is literally one of my favourite people to write about ever for work, haha.
> 
> Anyway, much like Richard III, I like Loghain because he's not a Disney villain – far from it; he's a real shades-of-grey morality character. For example, in this scene Howe (who I've portrayed as an utter wanker) is gloating and triumphant over this apparent last humiliation of the Couslands - but Loghain doesn't approve at all. He sees it as 'un-Fereldan' to turn your political enemies Tranquil (he would have preferred Flora just being straight up killed, lol).
> 
> It's quite ironic how Flora – who always loses at Wicked Grace because she has no poker face – manages to remain neutral in the face of the man who she literally thinks is Thedas' version of Satan, haha.


	234. Farmer's Son and Fisherman's Daughter

It was fortunate that nobody was looking directly at Flora, since for a split second, she could not keep the glee from her face. Howe let out a low growl of rage, florid vitriol flooding upwards from his collar to set his face aflame. He seemed to be more irritated at the destruction of his Denerim property than at the kidnapping of his louche younger son.

"Lock the girl in my quarters here," he snarled, checking that his sword was strapped to his belt. "Keep a triple guard on her. She has an Antivan Crow as a companion, remember."

_You're the one that hired Zevran in the first place,_ Flora thought, her delight turning to frustration as she watched him leave.  _Take the collar off!_

However, the collar was the last thing on Howe's mind as he followed Loghain from the dining chamber, a string of curses spilling from his lips. The two guards, whom Flora had secretly named Wart and Moustache, glanced at one another, before shrugging.

"'Spose we'd better take her, then," the senior – Wart –muttered, raising his eyes to where Flora was standing motionless.

She was gazing at her feet, trying to keep her eyes averted from the stack of fresh-baked bread rolls on a central platter.

"I require food," she said flatly, purging the longing from her voice with effort. "I haven't eaten since yesterday."

The senior guard let out an irritated grunt, making a quick gesture with his hand.

"Take what you need," he instructed and Flora picked up two rolls, resisting the urge to stuff her cheeks like a squirrel hoarding nuts. "Hurry up."

The smell of fresh bread rose tantalisingly as the guards escorted Flora down a maze-like series of passageways. They ascended a flight of stairs, light spilling over the stone steps from several arrow-slit windows. Based on what Flora could glean from the occasional glimpse, Fort Drakon appeared to be made up of a quadrangular building spread around a central courtyard; with the distinctive Tevinter tower rising from the northern wing. The dungeons were submerged within the marshy ground, where no light or heat from the sun could reach. Administrative quarters were housed above the stench of the cells, although the cries of the tortured and despairing pervaded even the solid stone architecture.

Eventually they ascended to a tiled corridor with chequered flooring, the walls plastered and the rushes fresh. This passageway had a distinctively domestic air compared with the dank melancholy of the dungeons; its wide-spaced doors indicating sizeable chambers beyond.

The guards came to a halt beside a large door decorated with the painted Howe suit of arms; Flora had to resist her Herring-instilled urge to spit on it. Unlocking the door with the largest key in a jangling bundle, the senior guard nudged Flora inside a bedchamber that reminded her oddly of Arl Bryland's at South Reach. It had the same plain, utilitarian air; the fine-hewn furniture contrasting with white plastered walls and plain floorboards. A double bed, blankets twisted and unmade, sat squatly in one corner.

Inwardly, Flora thought that she would rather sleep in the dungeons with the company of the rats, than in Arl Howe's bed. She kept this disgust prudently from her face, coming to a dutiful halt in the centre of the chamber.

"Can't we tell her to take off her dress again?" asked the younger guard eagerly.

Flora wistfully envisioned him crashing through the wall, propelled by her expanding shield. Fortunately, the senior guard was aware that the end of their rounds was approaching. He shook his head impatiently, scratching at the wart on his upper lip.

"Get your mind from the gutter, boy. The night watch will be here soon."

The younger guard scowled, deprived of another opportunity to gawk shamelessly at the girl's body. Out of pure and petty spite, he reached forward and snatched one of the bread rolls from Flora's hand. Eyeing her, he consumed it in three slow, deliberate bites.

Flora, feeling rage swell in her throat, forced it back down with some difficulty. Instead, she kept gazing straight ahead; trying her best not to look directly at the bed that must belong to Rendon Howe. Then the guards departed and she was left alone, several locks clicking shut in their wake.

For a moment she stood there, wanting desperately to cry, or laugh with relief; to allow her face to collapse from the night's enforced rigidity. However, uncertain whether there might be a spy-hole cut into some subtle corner, she maintained the blank expression as she sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was lumpen and uncomfortable, unevenly stuffed with rags and covered with suspicious stains.

_What if Howe comes back and wants to… sleep on here with me?_

_Or,_ not _sleep._

The thought of lying with the man who had commanded the murder of her parents and Fergus' family was enough to make her stomach spasm with revulsion. She imagined his hangdog face bobbing above hers, sweaty and contorted with lust; the bile rose in her throat like acid.

_**Don't deliberately disgust yourself.** _

Flora relaxed slightly as the familiar voice curled in the back of her skull. She hadn't heard from her spirit allies since leaving the dining chamber, and had been vaguely worried that the torque was beginning to restrict their communication.

_Could I kill him with my bare hands? Could I somehow get his dagger?_

_**You're not strong or skilled enough.** _

Flora sighed inwardly, careful not to let her glumness show on her face. Reaching down, she loosened the leather strap around her knee and retied it more securely. The joint was swollen and sore, but it was just another minor inconvenience to add to the litany of raw wrists, burnt forehead and bruised skull.

_Why did I spend so much time at South Reach lazing around and eating?_ she thought furiously to herself, exhausted but reluctant to use the traitor's bed.

_I should have asked Leliana to teach me how to kill a man with my bare hands. I could have been training with a dagger._

_I was too confident in my magic. I thought I'd never need anything else. Now I'm Howe's prisoner!_

Flora could sense a sob about to break free from her throat, and muffled it by ramming the bread roll into her mouth. She could feel her heart racing with regret and fear, pounding hollow in her ear drums as she determinedly chewed through the doughy bread.

_**Stop! You aren't supposed to be capable of despair.** _

_Settle down, girl._

Yet this time, it was not the spirits' voices that calmed Flora down, but her Herring-father's lined face manifesting clearer in her mind than it had done in months. He gazed down at her, skin reddened by saltwater and the northern winds, his beard a wiry grey tangle.

_You're upset because you wanted two bread rolls and got only one? When the harvest went bad, you survived on less. You used to sleep on the floor, remember? In a damp, freezing hut that welcomed in the wind like a treasured guest. You bore those conditions happily for ten years._

_Are you badly hurt? No. Are you in immediate danger? No. Then stop squalling. You're no spoiled nobleman's heiress. You're a Herring girl, and you can get through this._

When the night watch arrived to station themselves either side of the entrance with hands on the hilts of their swords, Flora was sitting at the simple desk, gazing down at the arl's correspondence.

One of the guards – a thickset woman with shorn hair and a belligerent expression – immediately let out a huff of disgust and strode over.

"Here, brat! What are you doing?"

Flora turned around, managing to communicate insouciance through her wide, sullen mouth and high-boned cheeks alone; her eyes moving pale and blank over the heavyset woman.

"Arl Howe instructed me to improve my letters," she intoned, keeping her voice and expression neutral. "He finds my illiteracy intolerable."

The guard foundered in the face of the infamous Cousland stare, then glanced around the plainly decorated chamber. Spotting a distant bookshelf, she retrieved a slender tome and shoved it irritably towards Flora.

"Well, you don't have to read the first thing you see, idiot," she retorted with a huff. "This is more suitable."

"Ain't like she got a choice, captain," muttered the second guard, who had once had a distant relative Tranquilised. "They don't have no opinion."

Flora assumed her best Circle classroom blankness, gazing down at the words inscribed on the tome's leather cover.

" _G- gwar- Guard… Patrol – Ssh- Scuh- "_

" _Guard Patrol Schedule,"_ snarled the short-haired woman, striding back over to the door. "Looks like a riveting read.  _Enjoy_."

Flora laboriously made her way through the first two pages, which described Fort Drakon's main patrol patterns in tedious detail. Taking a quill and some parchment she began to copy out the words; not wanting to risk coming up with her own sentences in case some fragment of desire or emotion manifested itself.

Fort Drakon began to settle down for the night, the prisoners' screams finally dying down as those responsible for tormenting them retired to the barracks. The two guards remained quiet, gritting their teeth as Flora enunciated rows of increasingly dull logistics, painfully slowly.

"This is your fault," muttered the soldier to the captain, shooting her a resentful glower through his helmet. "You gave her that Maker-damned thing. If I have to hear one more thing about designated latrine patrols, I- "

Suddenly the door was shoved open and the two guards stood to attention. Flora felt a small jolt of alarm, snaking down her spine like a mage's lightning spell.

_**Don't look round. You're not supposed to be curious.** _

When the visitor spoke, however, their words were not shaped by Howe's nasal Amaranthine tongue. Instead, the room was filled with a rough, northern accent that Flora recognised immediately.

"Leave," the man said curtly, in the tone of one used to being obeyed without question.

Her stomach gave a horrible lurch; carefully, she arranged her features to display no hint of surprise or disgust. She heard the guards leaving the room, their metal footsteps hollow against the floorboards, and then the sound of the door shutting.

"Come here, lass," instructed the man, tersely and without patience.

_Do I have logical cause to disobey?_ Flora thought frantically to herself, knowing that Tranquil could disobey if they believed that an instruction would bring harm to themselves.

_**No, you don't. Don't let your hatred show, now.** _

Taking a deep breath, she turned around and crossed the chamber barefoot, grateful that the candlelight blurred the raw fury in her eyes. The room was dim enough that Loghain's gaunt features were hidden by shadow; the straightness of his back belying the grey streaking through his dark braids. Flora came to a halt before him, acutely aware of the incongruity of their situation.

Prior to today, the last time that they had laid eyes on one another had been beside the Tower of Ishal at Ostagar, the day of the fateful battle. Loghain had been hovering behind Cailan with the customary glower; barely sparing the young female recruit in the ill-fitting Warden garb a glance. Instead, the general had been focused on the discussion between the king and Duncan, cutting in with the occasional acerbic remark.

Flora felt a sudden pang of sadness as she recalled her Warden-Commander, who was now six months dead. He had been the first person outside of Herring to name her highly restricted magic as a strength rather than a limitation.

_If not for Loghain, Duncan might have survived. Alistair and I wouldn't have needed to do everything on our own._

"So: we meet again, Bryce Cousland's daughter," said Loghain eventually, his dark eyes moving over Flora's Highever-crafted features. "I always wondered what had happened to you. The teyrn was full of ambitions to marry you to Maric's son, and then... he never spoke your name again. Then - you show up at Ostagar, of all places."

He reached out and lifted her chin to the candlelight, brushing the hair away from her forehead once again to see the fresh pink burn of the Chantry sunburst. It was an oddly intimate gesture, and Flora felt her stomach curdle with the effort of keeping still. 

The inscribed lines on Loghain's forehead deepened, lips drawing tighter with disapproval.

"I always respected your father," he said, slowly. "Although we didn't always get on."

_And yet you've allied yourself with the man who murdered him,_ Flora thought, struggling to keep the fury from blazing nakedly across her features.  _Get your hands off my face or I'll bite your fingers off!_

"You must have thought me a true villain after Ostagar," he said eventually, letting her chin go. "I can only imagine."

Flora remained silent, feeling her fingers tighten into involuntary fists. Despite the fire blazing in the hearth only yards away, she suddenly felt very cold. The thin rust-coloured silk gown only fell to her knees and left most of her shoulders exposed; she manfully restrained the urge to shiver.

"Despite what you might think," Loghain continued, turning his stare to the injudicious flame. "Everything that I did, I did to protect my country."

Flora gritted her teeth and wondered if she was strong enough to push the general into the hearth.

_**You're not. Don't try it.** _

Loghain was silent for several long moments, gazing into the hearth pensively as though he could find answers in the wistful trails of smoke.

"My spies told me that you and the Theirin bastard are lovers," he said, after an elongated pause. "Or,  _were_."

Flora wanted to kill him for daring to utter Alistair's name. Instead, knowing that she would retain a colourless bank of memories even after the Tranquilisation process, she nodded slightly.

Loghain let out a humourless bark of laughter, glancing sideways at her.

"And your Warden-Commander claimed not to play political games when he paired you two up," he murmured, top lip curling. "Ha!"

Flora made no reply, merely gazed across at the plastered wall and tried her best to think about guard patrol schedules and exotic fish; anything to stop the rage from flaring to life on her face.

The logs hissed and spat in the hearth, throwing several sparks onto the rug. Loghain brought a booted foot down on top of the orange flecks before the material could begin to smoulder. The firelight played across his hollowed face, highlighting the myriad of lines and crevices embedded there. He seemed to have aged a decade since Ostagar, yet his eyes remained fierce and bright as those of a man half his years.

"Cailan would have invited Orlais over our borders in response to this non-existent threat," he said abruptly, glancing sideways down at the silently glowering Flora. "I swore I'd never see their army set foot in Ferelden again."

_Nonexistent threat?_ thought Flora wildly, recalling the Archdemon lurking at the edges of her dreams and the swarming hordes flooding out of the Deep Roads.  _Nonexistent threat?!_

"I grew up in Oswin during the occupation of Orlais," Loghain said slowly, the words emerging reluctant from his throat. "My mother was raped and killed by Val Royeaux  _chevaliers."_

Flora, unable to help herself, glanced sideways at him.

At the same time Loghain's dark gaze flickered down and their eyes met. Flora fought the compassion from her face, but she knew – with sinking stomach – that she had not been fast enough.

_Did he see that?_

_**He saw.** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So it was Flo's compassion that got her into this situation in the first place (healing the injured youth at the docks), and now her compassion has blown her Tranquil cover – in front of Loghain Mac Tir, no less!
> 
> Also, all that stuff from Loghain's backstory is actual canon, lol. Oswin (where he grew up) is located in the north of Ferelden; and I think it's a pretty interesting parallel with Flora – since he also grew up in relative poverty as the son of a farmer. 


	235. The Traitor And His Tranquil

Something peculiar passed over the general's face and he rotated slowly to face Flora, reaching out to grip her elbow. One sharp tug and she was standing before the hearth; the firelight lighting up her features like sunset over the Alamarri Plains. Loghain took her face in his hands and angled his gaze down at her, directly into Flora's wide, Cousland grey eyes. As though in a dream, he reached out and touched the Chantry sunburst with a roughened thumb, nostrils flaring as he felt the burn's lack of depth and substance.

Flora flinched, pain shooting through her skull. Loghain withdrew his hand and stepped back; the look of sheer surprise on his face would have been comical if it had not also meant her exposure.

He stared at her a moment longer, expression unreadable; then cleared his throat, his gaze flickering away.

"Howe plans to bed you tonight," the general said abruptly, sparing her further inspection. "I'll keep him occupied. He'll not lay hands on you, lass."

Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode across the chamber, rapping his fist sharply against the wooden door.

Flora, agape, watched the guards allow the general out with their heads bowed respectfully.

"Tell your master that collar needs to come off," Loghain snarled at the shorn-haired captain. "It's pointless now, and it's cutting into her skin. Unless he wants her dead from infection within the week."

The door shut, leaving a stunned Flora alone in the shadowed chamber. Drifting to the end of the arl's bed she sat down abruptly, lost in a mire of fear and confusion.

_He knows I'm not really Tranquil!_

_**Yes, you showed yourself quite plainly.** _

The spirits were clearly irritated, although not hugely so. After all, it had not been rage or fury that had given Flora away; but  _compassion_  – one of the qualities which they themselves embodied.

_Why would he recommend that the Tevinter collar be taken off? He knows what I'm capable of. He's seen it._

Flora groaned, sinking back onto the mattress while pressing her thumbs into her eyes. Fear was both physically and emotionally draining, as was maintaining the pretence of being Tranquil, and she was wholly exhausted.

_Brother-warden, I miss you. I wish you were here._

_No, actually I wish I was with you. This place is awful._

It was too painful to think on Alistair, and almost as bad to think of her Cousland brothers; who must have been going out of their minds with rage at the prospect of their sister helpless in the clutches of the man who had murdered their parents.

_**Not entirely helpless.** _

_Oswin,_ Flora thought to herself as she gazed up at the ceiling.  _No wonder Loghain's voice sounds familiar. That's about two day's walk west of Herring._

Taking a deep breath, tiredness seeping through her bones; Flora rolled over onto her side and curled up on the mattress, past caring that it was Arl Howe's bed.

_I don't trust Loghain an inch,_ she thought to herself sleepily, reaching down to pull the blanket over the rust-coloured dress.  _But I don't think he was lying when he said he'd keep Howe away._

_Well, we'll soon find out._

As she settled back against the cushions, Flora breathed a quick prayer to Andraste, who had also been a girl from a fishing village before her own capture and imprisonment.

_Help me to be as brave as the Chantry claims you were._

_**Rest, child.** _

She thought that it would take a long time for her to fall asleep. However, weariness crept up on her like an assassin in the shadows and soon she was snoring with her cheek pillowed against her palm.

While the fisherman's daughter slept without interference; the slow night patterns of Denerim revolved around her. A dark-feathered bird winged its way around the tower of Fort Drakon, a fierce yellow eye directed into each barred window in meticulous turn. Several miles away in the Royal Palace, Howe raged and fumed at a disinterested Loghain; while simultaneously wondering why the general had summoned him for such a late-night audience.

Two assassins finished scouring the last of the city's plentiful jails and dungeons, returning to the Guerrin manor to confirm what the witch had already discovered: that their healer was imprisoned within the ancient Tevinter fortress on the city boundary. This did nothing to calm a wild-eyed Alistair Theirin, as he spent a second night oscillating between incandescent rage and boneless, debilitating terror. It had taken the combined persuasion – and physical strength – of Eamon, Teagan and Leonas to restrain the bastard prince from storming Howe's estate single-handedly. He was supported in this intent by the Cousland brothers; Fergus nearly getting into a scuffle with Arl Bryland as the latter tried to prevent him from leaving.

Five hundred yards from the Guerrin estate, the ashes of the Howe manor lay still smouldering. Its remains had already been picked over by Denerim's silent shadows; the skeleton of stone foundations lay exposed like burnt bones beneath the night sky.

Flora, ironically, slept the soundest out of her companions. Since the torque stopped her mind from entering the Fade, her rest was undisturbed by any calibre of demon. The lumpen pallet mattress reminded her strangely of her bunk in the Circle tower, and the woollen blanket was more luxury than she had ever had in Herring.

Seven hours of dreamless sleep was rudely disturbed by the wooden door crashing open and colliding with the wall, sending fragments of plaster drifting to the floorboards. Flora sat bolt upright in gaping alarm, momentarily forgetting that she was supposed to be incapable of such a response. Fortunately, Howe was so distracted by bellowing at a guard he had discovered half-asleep, that he failed to notice Flora's wide-eyed surprise.

"I should run you through," snarled Rendon Howe, attire crumpled and greying hair dishevelled. "Leave you as I found you."

By the time he had turned his gaze on Flora, she had arranged her features back into careful neutrality.

The arl, snapping a series of instructions to a frightened retainer, strode into the room with the aroma of yesterday's clothes. As his servants scrambled to prepare a bathtub and procure a fresh change of linen, Howe's eyes trawled unashamedly over his Tranquil possession. Flora was sitting rigidly upright in bed, the silk dress clinging to her bare shoulders and the blankets nested around her waist.

"I held you when you were born," he said after a moment, the corner of his liver-coloured lip curling upwards. "Did you know that, girl? I attended your Chantry naming ceremony."

Flora kept her features carefully blank, thrusting the immediate revulsion to the back of her mind. The arl began to undress without care, unbuttoning his tunic to reveal a tangle of grey hair on his chest.

_Loghain didn't tell him that I'm not really Tranquil._

"You were an intolerable little brat as a child," he continued, unfastening his breeches as she forced herself to look straight at him. "Always running about, yowling and causing a nuisance."

_Ugh!_

_**You're been healing men for years. You are not unfamiliar with their bodies. Don't react.** _

"I  _had_  planned to sample what you've been giving so freely to Maric's bastard," Howe breathed, his eyes raking greedily over Flora as two servants clad in Amaranthine livery manhandled his bath into place. "But the general required my attendance tonight."

_I'm going to kill you quickly,_ thought Flora, her eyes gazing straight through the arl.  _And that's because I'm a nice person, because you deserve to die very slowly._

_Take the collar off!_

The arl, who had the pot-belly and scrawny legs of an old man despite only being in his fifties, clambered within the bath and sunk down beneath the waterline with a sigh.

"Your companions have made a fine mess of my estate," Howe murmured, tilting his head back against the metal rim. "And they've taken the most useless of my children. I mourn the loss of my manor more."

Despite herself, Flora felt a small pang of pity for Thomas Howe; younger than she was and undervalued by his own father. She did not think that Alistair – even in the depths of despair – would stoop to hurting an adolescent; but she could not say the same thing for Leliana or Zevran.

_And what about Fergus? He lost a son to Rendon Howe's men._

"Come here,  _Lady_  Cousland," the treacherous arl murmured, a leer creeping into the edges of his tone. "I find myself in need of assistance."

_!_

_**Stay calm. You've seen plenty of men unclothed; you're a healer.** _

Flora took a deep, steadying breath and swung her legs out of bed, shuffling across the floorboards in typical unassuming Tranquil fashion. The arl presented her with a washcloth, bending his bony shoulders forward to reveal a liver-spotted neck. The ridges of his spine pushed upwards against papery skin, the flesh white and soft. Flora took the washcloth with trepidation, suppressing the urge to be sick over the arl's back.

Gritting her teeth, pretending that she was washing the flagstones in some Circle passageway, Flora began to rub the flannel in circular motion between the arl's bony shoulder-blades. To distract herself, she began to inwardly recite her Landsmeet speech once more; careful not to let her lips actually shape the words.

_My name is Florence Cousland, daughter of Highever._

Flora had just got to the part where she denounced Loghain, when Arl Howe stood up without warning in the copper bath, turning around to face her. Water streamed from his scrawny form as he stared down at the dark-red head of Bryce Cousland's daughter.

"How do I compare, you little whore?" he asked abruptly, reaching to grip her hair in his fingers before pulling her face up. "To Maric's bastard son?"

If the context hadn't been quite so horrific, Flora would have laughed in incredulity. Realising that she could not let the derision show on her face, she took the question in true Tranquil fashion.

"He is twenty years of age, and you are… older," she stated, eyes determinedly focused on the bathtub as she interpreted the arl's question in its most literal manner. "He has blond hair, and you have grey hair. He is a Theirin, and you are a Howe. His manhood is lengthy, and yours is -  "

" _Enough!"_ interrupted the arl impatiently, shoving her head away. "I don't have time for this shit."

The arl dressed with the aid of his retainers; Flora remained kneeling beside the bathtub with her heart thudding loud in her chest.

The sound of a woman clearing her throat caught her attention, and she glanced up to see the shorn-haired captain awkwardly trying to get Howe's attention.

"My lord," the female guard muttered, keeping her eyes averted as Howe finished buttoning his tunic. "General Mac Tir instructed me to advise you – that the Tevinter collar ought to be removed. There's a danger of infection, apparently."

Flora bit down on the instinct to stare, gazing determinedly down at the limp washcloth clutched between her fingers. Howe grunted noncommittally, sitting on the end of the bed as a retainer slid on his boots one at a time.

"Aye, Loghain said the same to me last night," he murmured and Flora gaped inwardly, fingers tightening on the washcloth. "Well, it'll have to wait, I left the key in my Palace quarters. She won't succumb to infection before I return this evening."

Flora was consumed with conflicting emotions; delight that the arl had been fooled by her Tranquil pretence, yet frustration that she must maintain the act for the rest of the day.

Howe took his leave without sparing Flora another glance, issuing instructions to the guards that she be locked in the chamber until his return.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So to continue on my Loghain ramblings from a few chapters ago, he's definitely not some one-sided Disney-esque villain. He's a shrewd man who knows that everything is going to be resolved, one way or the other, at the Landsmeet now – not with this Howe-instigated farce.
> 
> Also eugghhhhh Arl Howe, so nasty!


	236. The Couslands Send Their Regards

Flora let out an inner sigh of relief the moment that the arl departed, leaving two men standing watch at either side of the door. The sight of Rendon Howe's scrawny body, pale as the underside of a fish belly, was emblazoned in her mind; she summoned the memory of Alistair's olive-toned, muscular physique to try and purge the unwanted image.

She spent the next few hours sitting on the bed, appearing to be doing nothing more than stare into space. In fact, she was reciting her Landsmeet speech; the first two pages of which she had memorised already. An unidentifiable stew accompanied by a stale hunk of bread arrived midday, and Flora forced herself to eat it with measured disinterest.

Afterwards, her thoughts returned to the fellow Warden locked in the lower cells. Flora reached out tentatively with her mind to see if she could feel the familiar prickle of Riordan's presence. When she felt nothing in return, she tried to reassure herself that it was due to the distance rather than anything more sinister. To distract herself, she resumed her reading of the  _Guard Patrol Schedule._ Once Flora had laboriously worked out the meaning of specialist vocabulary such as  _itinerary_ and  _garrison,_ it made for relatively simple reading.

By the time she had reached  _protocols for patrolling under active siege_ , the sun was sinking low in the sky; the darkening view across the western Alamarri Plains distorted by crude iron bars over the window. Flora had grown tired of the  _Schedule_ and was sitting on the bed, gazing into nothingness and trying to disconcert the two guards at either side of the doorway.

"What do you think she's thinking?" whispered the junior to the senior, his eyes wide and fearful.

_About how I'm going to use Arl Howe's shrivelled manhood as bait the next time I go fishing,_ Flora thought evilly, her features arranged in careful coolness.  _Although it'll be a futile exercise, since nothing will be attracted to it._

"Are Tranquil even  _capable_  of thinking without being instructed?" replied his colleague; displaying spectacular ignorance.

Sighing just loud enough to be audible, Flora shifted on the bed and both guards jumped a little. She turned her solemn, pale gaze on them, taking some malicious pleasure in their discomfort.

_You wait,_ she thought to herself.  _If you're scared of me without my magic, wait until this collar comes off._

A short time later, there came a muffled yell from outside, drifting up from the courtyard. This in itself was not unusual, since evening was when the torturers returned to their charges for one final 'questioning' before nightfall. However, when the shouts were repeated, increasing in tempo and joined by several others, it became clear that these were no prisoners' screams.

The two guards looked at one another, quick darting glances from the corners of their eyes. Flora wished that she could sidle over to the window and peer down to the courtyard below. Unfortunately this would indicate  _curiosity,_ which she was not supposed to possess.

The guard captain was under no such constraint. She strode across the room with brows drawing together, pressing her face to the bars.

"Maker's Breath," the woman breathed, astonished. "There's a  _crowd_ in the courtyard. They're armed."

The other guard abandoned his post at the door and rushed to join her, gaping through the iron bars.

"There must be fifty of them," he observed, eyes widening. "They've brought  _mages_. And – Andraste preserve us – is that a Qunari?!"

Flora felt her stomach give a little jolt of excitement. It was fortunate that both guards were still staring out of the window, and could not see the flicker of transparent delight that passed across her face.

As if on cue, Rendon Howe burst into the room, a strange light carving out gaunt hollows on his face. He went straight to Flora, grabbing her ungently by the elbow and hauling her upright.

"Your friends have come to offer a trade," he hissed, voice thick with gloating. "You in exchange for my son, whom they hold in an undisclosed location. Little do they know! Time to show them what their Warden has become, I think."

He dragged her along the stone passageway, breathing hard and speaking no further. When she stumbled he cursed at her, clipping her impatiently around the back of the head.

_Take the collar off,_ Flora thought, outwardly placid as her heart beat an urgent staccato against her ribcage.  _Take it off. This has gone on long enough._

The shouts from the courtyard were louder now, taking on a dangerous edge.

Howe sneered, cold fingers tugging her along by the wrist as they headed towards a set of large wooden doors. Terrified guards, under strict orders to remain in place, cringed back against the wall.

"Why are you shrinking away like Chantry sisters?" demanded the mad-eyed arl, yellow teeth bared. "The portcullis is down. They can't get inside the building."

_Take the collar off!_

_**Patience.** _

"Wait till those Cousland brats see their sister," Howe continued feverishly, yanking her towards the double doors "See what she has become. I might make you pleasure me before them, just to see the looks on their faces."

_Take the collar off,_ thought Flora wildly, the desperate nature of the situation only just occurring to her. Her brothers, friends and companions were gathered below; and she was about to emerge before them half-dressed and compliant in the company of Howe, with the Chantry sunburst emblazoned on her forehead.

_They don't know I'm not Tranquil. They'll think that-_

And then there was no more time for doubt; the two of them were out through the doors and into a fine evening drizzle. They were standing on a stone balcony two storeys above the courtyard, the balustrade low enough that those below could easily see what was transpiring above. As they emerged, there was a ripple from the crowd; several shouts rising above the general hubbub. They wielded weapons and blazing torches, but were unable to get past the iron portcullis leading into the main body of the fortress.

Flora spared them only the briefest glance, scanning the faces of those present to check that there was no adolescent boy amongst them. She caught the briefest glimpse of Finian's face pale with fear and revulsion, and Leliana's contorted in rage; to her relief, she did not see the face of her brother-warden.

"Why have you come here, Cousland?" yelled the traitorous arl beside her, his hand gripping her elbow hard and possessive. "There is nothing left of your sister to reclaim. I have made her mine in all ways."

There was a collective inhalation and Flora gazed numbly down at the range of faces; thrust forward by the arl's impatient hand. She saw Wynne's slow shaking of the head, the regret crashing over Eamon's face like a slammed door; the two dozen uncertain soldiers clad in Guerrin and Bryland livery.

She saw Alistair, standing beside her brothers, and the expression on his face was more terrible than the Archdemon itself. He was staring up at her desperately with his face bright as a burning brand, eyes boring into hers as they searched for any hint of recognition.

_Alistair!_

_**Look through him .** _

It was the hardest thing that Flora had ever had to do in her life, and yet she managed it: staring back down at her brother-warden with eyes cold and uncaring as chips of ice. Alistair visibly flinched, the blood draining from his face as he almost lost his balance.

Flora looked away, feeling the drizzle soaking through the thin rust-coloured dress. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something small and silver glinting in Howe's hand.

_The collar key! Can I grab it?_

_**No. He will kill you before you can unlock it.** _

"Bryce Cousland's daughter is  _mine_ , as is her claim to Highever," snarled Rendon Howe once more over the increasing rain, his voice made harsh by triumph. "I didn't care for her mind, so I destroyed it. Her  _body_ , on the other hand…this I am most interested in."

The arl yanked her bodily towards him and Flora, still paralysed by the glimpse of the key, nearly recoiled in horror as she saw his sallow face lowering towards hers.

_Is he going to - ?!_

_**Let him.** _

Flora, who had always heeded the advice of her spirits, obeyed the instruction. She made no attempt to pull away as the treacherous arl pressed his thin-lipped mouth against hers. To her relief, by the very nature of her 'Tranquilised' self, she was not expected to return the kiss with any desire. Instead, she let her mouth drop open passively and tried not to gag as his stale, papery tongue thrust against her own. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one hand rising towards her neck.

_This is the man who ordered the murder of my parents!_

_**Not long now.** _

Just as his other hand dropped greedily to her breast Flora heard the metallic sound of a key clicking in a lock, and a sudden pressure was relieved from around her neck. For the first time in three days, she was able to take a full breath of air, her lungs expanding to their maximum capacity.

The arl withdrew, yellow teeth bared in a sadistic grin of delight as the hand holding the key lowered.

"Now kiss me back," he ordered gleefully, revelling in the agony and rage that their display was igniting in those below. "Act like you mean it this time, I want to see the bastard squirm."

Flora, feeling the familiar, wonderful prickling of magic rising in her throat, reached up obediently. She placed her hands on either side of Rendon Howe's face, her fingers spreading over his cheeks; then leaned forward as though to relay something intimate. He bent his face towards her, thin lips curving in a smile.

" _The Couslands send their regards,"_ Flora whispered, thumbs sliding into the corners of his mouth. For a split second, pure, raw fear flashed in the arl's pale eyes.

The next moment her shield burst outwards from her fingers in joyful expansion, shattering the man's head into fragments. Blood, bone and brain matter scattered in every direction, and she was soaked almost immediately by arterial spray.

The arl's body, its neck now a ragged and gushing stump, swayed gently. Flora, tasting blood in her mouth, raised her knee and shoved it brutally into the corpse's crotch.

The headless body toppled back over the balcony, limp as a doll; fell two storeys and crumpled on the cobblestones before her companions. Twitching, it began to disgorge what remained of its lifeblood in spurting gobbets.

Flora scooped up the discarded Tevinter torque and flung it over the balcony in the arl's bloody wake.

"I'll meet you downstairs _,"_ she bellowed down at the gaping crowd, before turning on her heel.

The two guards that had accompanied them were standing at the doors, their faces white as the fragments of skull that now littered the balcony. They stared at her, jaws dropped in sheer incredulity.

" _Move!"_ Flora screeched at them, rapidly losing patience with the entire situation. She felt no triumph over the arl's gruesome end; her brother-warden's tortured face hovering at the forefront of her mind.

The guards fled in terror and Flora barged her way back inside. Fortunately,  _Guard Patrol Schedule_ had included a series of maps detailing the layout of Fort Drakon. Summoning the floor plans to the forefront of her memory, Flora was able to navigate her way down through the maze-like passageways with relative ease.

Howe's retainers scattered before her in horror, wheeling away down side-passages and crashing through doors with whimpers of fright. Flora was vaguely confused as to  _why,_  until she caught a glimpse of her bloodied self in a polished suit of armour. The golden shield was expanding and contracting around her like a second skin, in time with her own quick, determined inhalations; and the sensation was more comforting than a favoured childhood blanket.

The guard that Flora had nicknamed Wart made a futile lunge at the top of the steps leading down to the dungeons. She barely needed to think before her shield expanded violently outwards, sending him crashing senseless against the wall.

"If anyone else wants to stop me," Flora kindly informed the rest of the prison guards, several of whom she recognised from her own night in the cells. "You're welcome to try."

Nobody else wanted to. The terrified footsteps of the last guard disappeared off upstairs just as Flora realised that she should have retrieved the keys from them.

Annoyed with herself, she pressed her mouth to the barred door of the first cell; which contained a haggard Templar in his middle years.

"Hello-oo," she called, making a friendly little wave with her fingers. "Just to check – what are you in here for?"

Once the Templar had finished blanching at the macabre vision on the other side of the bars, he falteringly explained that he was the brother of Bann Alfstanna; imprisoned by Loghain during a hunt for an escaped maleficar.

"Alright," said Flora kindly, flexing her fingers. "Just making sure you weren't locked up for being a murderer, or someone who sells rotten oysters. Keep back from the door, please."

The pale-faced Templar looked in no fit state to move closer, eyes bulging.

Flora's shield expanded outwards gleefully, splintering the wooden door and taking out most of the cell wall with it. Stepping over the rubble as her magic faded away, she crouched down beside the weakened Templar.

"Don't be scared. I'm not an apostate," Flora explained patiently, summoning rejuvenative energy up through her throat. "I'm a Warden. Excuse me, sorry."

Lacking the patience to wait for permission, she clamped her bloody mouth on the startled Templar's, breathing vitality back into his wearied limbs.

Not bothering to exit the cell, Flora sent the dividing wall crumbling with a single, targeted pulse of her shield. The tortured young noble – Bann Sighard's son – lay groaning in the far corner; glancing at him, Flora realised that he would need to be supported until he regained full consciousness. She delivered a quick breath of rejuvenative energy – enough to see him up on swaying feet - before turning to the final cell.

Feeling the familiar warmth flaring in the back of her brain, she raised her hands to the wall behind which Riordan had been imprisoned for months. For a third time, stone flew outwards and cement crumbled beneath the percussive blow of her expanding shield.

The senior warden was slumped against the wall, the marks of recent torture on his shoulders. Handcuffs bound his wrists, chaining him to an iron bar on the wall. He seemed to have aged a decade since Flora had seen him the previous day. Despite his obvious physical discomfort, Riordan's eyes were bright and incredulous as they looked Flora up and down; taking in the Chantry sunburst, the magic dripping viscous from her fingers, and her thoroughly bloodied state.

"Young sister," he said after a moment, the surprise raw on his face. "Andraste's Breath! What happened? What are you  _covered in?"_

"I'm covered in Howe," she replied bluntly, striding across the cell and crouching beside him. "I'm not Tranquil, by the way."

"I surmised that," Riordan breathed, watching as she inserted her little finger between the handcuffs and broke them with a single expanding pulse of energy. "He's dead?"

" _Very_  dead."

When Riordan tried to stand he swayed, nearly losing his balance. Flora, muttering an apology, stood on her toes and planted her mouth firmly against his; breathing a potent mix of creation and rejuvenative energy straight down his throat. By the time that she drew back, he appeared far healthier; albeit slightly dazed.

"You're a talented lass," he murmured, feeling the broken chain dangling loose from his wrist. "I can see why Duncan was able to overlook your youth when he recruited you."

"That's about the limits of my talents," Flora replied honestly, thrusting her hand towards the cell door. The golden light expanded outwards in a joyful rush, and the door fragmented into shards of wood. "Everyone made fun of me in the Circle. I'm a defective mage."

"You seem rather  _effective_  to me," murmured Riordan, following her out into the passageway. It was mostly deserted, the guards having fled, terrified, in the face of their unleashed prisoner. Bann Sighard's son, supported by the injured Templar, stood waiting patiently beside the wall.

Flora paused, her head swivelling back and forth. Summoning the memory of the Fort Drakon layout from  _Guard Patrol Schedules_ , she pointed down the southern corridor.

"If you turn left at the end, and go up the steps, it'll bring you out behind the main portcullis gate," she explained, the parchment-etched corridors expanding in her mind as she envisioned them. "It'll be shut – the gatehouse is on the other side of the Fort – but I'll come in a bit to open it. I just have to check something first."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: This was such a satisfying chapter to write, lol. We've had nine chapters of Flo being chained up, dragged around, demeaned and insulted; and she finally gets her own back, lol.
> 
> At first glance, it looks like an incredibly brutal death that she delivers to Arl Howe – literally, blowing his head up, like she did with the Darkspawn commander when the horde attacked the refugees at South Reach – but actually, it was instant and painless for him, despite being visually very violent. It's testament to Flora's compassion that she killed him so quickly, since she knew that if her brothers or companions got their hands on him, they would take days to drag out his death in the most painful way possible.
> 
> The poor crowd in the courtyard below though, going through that minute or so of believing that Flora had been Tranquilised and watching her get snogged by Arl Howe! The kiss is what convinces Howe that Flora truly is Tranquil (hence him taking the collar off afterwards), since he believed that a Cousland daughter in her right mind would never kiss the man responsible for the deaths of her parents. But he's forgetting that Flora is also a Herring girl, and Herring girls do what they have to do – however unpleasant.


	237. Reunion

Flora glanced at Riordan and he quickly discerned her meaning, following the junior warden as she darted down the eastern corridor of the dungeons.

"Dennis?" she called, tentatively, peering into each abandoned torture cell as she passed.

"Who is  _Dennis?"_

"The Templar who pretended to Tranquilise me. I don't know if he's still here, he's probably gone, but I just want to quickly check- "

Her voice broke abruptly as she came across a slumped figure in the centre of the final chamber, a dark stain leaking from beneath his dented armour. The rogue Templar's breathing came in ragged gasps; and it was clear that he had suffered a mortal wound.

Flora gazed at him for a moment, instantly transported back to the sandy floor of the tiny Herring Chantry, the Waking Sea crashing fitfully against the Teeth in the distance.

_Her father had instructed her to give the dying Templar water, but nothing else. It had been the first time in her life that she had disobeyed him._

As she had done five years prior, Flora dropped to her knees beside the man, her fingers moving to unbuckle the dented chest-plate. Dennis opened bloodshot eyes and gazed up at her; there was a strange reminiscence in his stare. If the sight of her covered in another man's gore was disconcerting, he made no comment on it.

"Here we are again," he murmured, watching her summoning the golden mist to her fingertips as she prepared to bow her head. "Wait."

With effort, the rogue Templar lifted his hand to intercept her, gloved fingers spreading over a startled Flora's mouth.

"This seems a fitting death for a traitor to the Order," he murmured, face full of resignation. "Perhaps the Maker will take me to His side after all. There's some redemption to be found in dying."

Flora, who was not one for high-and-mighty ideas of martyrdom, gently removed his fingers from her mouth.

"Since you're no traitor, it's not suitable for you," she replied firmly, golden energy flooding her mouth as she bowed her head. "And there's greater redemption to be found in  _living."_

The golden energy spilled from her lips, coaxed through the wound in fragile tendrils; knitting punctured organs and torn muscle. It scoured the flesh clean as it went, purging any corruption that might dare stake its claim. The Templar's face grew bright with reflected light; Flora heard him murmuring fragments of prayer under his breath.

Satisfied that the wound was repaired, Flora sat back on her heels and wiped bloodied fingers on her already saturated skirt. Dennis put a hand to his chest, wonderingly, gazing up at her with a sudden gleam in his eyes.

"You don't have to go back to the Chantry if you don't want to," Flora said, feeling her knee give a throb of protest from being bent against the stone for so long. "There's plenty of work for a man good with a sword."

Between the two of them, the Wardens helped to support Dennis down the corridor; the rogue Templar weak from blood loss. No guards impeded their progress as they made their way along the southern passage, and up the stairs towards the main portcullis gate.

On the eighth step Flora had to stop, placing a hand on the wall and inhaling unsteadily. A sudden surge of nausea added itself to the pain from a half-dozen small wounds that she had not yet healed.

The fresh brand competed for attention with a throbbing pain at the back of her head, sustained when they had knocked her unconscious for the journey to Fort Drakon. Both neck and wrists were red from chafing, spots of blood prickling against the raw skin. Her knee throbbed sullenly, and she was both hungry and entirely exhausted. To top it off, she was pretty certain that a fragment of Howe's skull had cut her cheek open as it flew past.

_I think his brains are in my hair. It's worse than being covered in Darkspawn entrails._

Flora, now thoroughly miserable, allowed for ten seconds of feeling sorry for herself before gritting her teeth and continuing upwards.

"Alright?" Riordan enquired, seeing her pause. Flora nodded, glumly.

"I've not had my dinner," she explained, feeling rather foolish. "I haven't even had any snacks."

The senior Warden shot her a slightly incredulous look as they turned into the main passageway. This too was deserted, the high stone ceiling lit by vast iron chandeliers that hung like torture wheels above them. It was almost uncannily quiet, their footsteps echoing against the stone as they headed towards the main portcullis gate. At the far end, they could see the other Templar and Bann Sighard's son, the former engaged in conversation with someone on the distant side of the bars.

As Flora drew nearer, the sound of the rain against the cobblestones outside increased in volume. She could see a crowd of people gathered in the courtyard, pressing against the bars as they wielded torches and weapons.

Incongruously, Flora began to feel slightly embarrassed as they approached the bars.

 _All these people I've inconvenienced,_ she thought guiltily, seeing the tangled emotions on the faces of her companions as they began to call to her.  _At least I killed Howe. They can't be too angry with me._

Then Flora felt a distinctive prickle in the back of her throbbing skull; the sensation bringing such overwhelming familiarity that she almost burst into tears.

 _Don't cry,_ she told herself firmly as Alistair came into sight, his fingers clenched around the iron bars as though trying to wrench them apart.  _You mustn't. Not in front of everyone; you don't do that._

Flora met her brother-warden's eye and came to an involuntary halt, full of shock and dismay. Despite the fact that it was she who had been prisoner for three days, it was  _he_  who appeared in a state of both physical and mental shock. There was a gauntness to his jaw that had not been there when she had last seen him; his face was wan beneath its natural olive hue and his rain-soaked hair in a state of utter disarray.

"Flo," he said, a carefully neutral voice belying the absolute anguish in his hollow eyes. "Are you… badly hurt?"

Flora knew that he had come to the same realisation as she; that their friends and companions looked to him as a leader – as a future king – and that he could not let himself be seen to break in public. She felt a sudden surge of pride in her naturally fretful brother-warden, who had worried himself sick when she had taken longer than expected in the markets with Teagan.

_This is all my fault._

So she summoned a smile from the pit of her still unsettled stomach, and shook her head, forcing steadiness into her own tone.

"No," Flora replied, trying not to meet the anxious gazes of Wynne and Leliana. She could see her brothers, shoving their way to the front of the crowd, wild-eyed and frantic.

_My fault._

"Most of this blood isn't mine," she continued, bowing her head under the weight of their worry.

"Aye,  _carina,_ we had front row-seats," murmured a familiar Antivan accent; but when she looked at Zevran, there was no hint of humour on his face.

Alistair reached wordlessly through the bars, the tremor in his hand only visible to those immediately nearby. He pressed his palm to her cheek, thumb brushing alongside the bloodied cut beneath her ear. She felt his despair like a raw wound, open and debilitating.

"I can break this gate," she whispered, feeling his cold fingers trembling against her skin. "Can you get everyone to move back?"

Alistair stayed frozen in place, as though he had been struck by some mage's paralysis spell. It was clear that – now he had established contact with his sister-warden again – he could not bear to let go.

"Come on, son."

It was Arl Eamon who stepped forward to guide Alistair back with a gentle arm around his shoulders. The crowd withdrew into the rain, which beat down with increasing ferocity against the cobbles.

Once they had retreated into the courtyard, Flora took a deep breath and thrust both wrists between the rusting bars of the portcullis.

The shield blossomed outwards, deceptively fragile. The iron bars yielded with a sigh of warped metal; bending upwards as though fresh from the forge.

Flora dropped her hands, staring across the damp cobblestones towards her companions. All of them were gathered there, even the cat-eyed Morrigan, gazing back at her with a myriad of expressions. Her brothers were hovering at the edge of her peripheral vision; Eamon, Teagan and Leonas had augmented their numbers by bringing along their own livery-clad retainers.

Flora knew that they were desperate to surge forward, to barrage her with questions and offer their aid; but that they held themselves back, aware of the man who took precedence.

Alistair stepped underneath the splayed iron bars, not looking entirely steady on his feet. Flora gazed up at her brother-warden's hollow-cheeked face, feeling another lurch of guilt. Several days' worth of stubble spread dark across his jaw.

"Alistair," she whispered, wanting to defuse the horrible silence. "This is Riordan, a senior Warden from Orlais. He's going to help us defeat the Archdemon."

" _Fuck_  the Archdemon," replied Alistair bleakly, sliding his fingers into her hair to inspect the Tranquil brand in its full, lurid glory.

Flora blinked up at him, startled at her brother-warden's use of such crude language outside the usual context of the bedchamber.

"Well, I don't think he'd go  _that_  far," the child of Herring replied carefully, casting Alistair a solemn look. "I think… he'll probably just help to kill it."

A flicker passed over Riordan's face, which went unnoticed by anyone except the sharp-eyed Morrigan.

Incapable of smiling, Alistair made no reply; the corner of his mouth twisting in a grimace in response to her valiant attempt at humour. Flora realised that her brother-warden was floundering like a sailor swept from the Hag's Teeth.

_**Everyone is looking to you, child.** _

Determinedly, she reached out and fish-roped him, sliding her fingers between his own. His palm was cold and clammy against hers, and Flora gave it a firm squeeze; injecting some characteristic Herring morbidity into her next words.

"Having Arl Howe's brains in my mouth hasn't spoiled my appetite," she said cheerfully, gripping her best friend's hand with all the strength that she could muster. "Let's get something to eat so I can get some energy back and heal this stupid mark off my face."

Bryce Cousland's daughter raised her chin, bloodied yet unbowed, and set out determinedly across the courtyard. Alistair followed her cue, straightening his shoulders and striding with purpose. The anchor of his sister-warden's warm hand drew him in her strident, albeit barefoot wake. Flora could feel his eyes blazing into the back of her neck, and knew that he was siphoning both strength and composure from her.

"It's a shame they can't marry," murmured Leonas to Eamon, in an undertone. The two men had stepped forward to assist the son of Bann Sighard, whom they both knew from prior meetings.

"Aye," replied the Arl of Redcliffe, and the nobles shared a brief glance of mutual accord.

_She would have made the lad a good queen._

A mournful roll of thunder echoed overhead, heralding the withdrawal of the clouds. As the rain abated, a clean navy sweep of sky, dotted with stars like a jewel-studded gown, was revealed. The moon hung white and globular over the distant Royal Palace; its crenelated towers and turrets just visible over the rooftops.

The rain had been cold and she was left shivering as it departed, but Flora was still grateful for it. Although the blood and brain matter in her hair would require some more dedicated scrubbing, her bare shoulders and arms had been quickly washed clean. As she reached the centre of the courtyard, she spotted the headless body of Rendon Howe; pallid and limp on the cobblestones. His blood had also been washed away by the evening rain, sluicing down the drains.

Squeezing Alistair's hand hard before letting it drop, Flora crouched down beside the pale corpse. It had not fared well from the fall, several broken bones bulging up against the papery skin; there was something insect-like and pathetic about it. A sword that she recognised as belonging to Fergus protruded from its belly, a final humiliation wound delivered after death.

Glancing around, she saw her brothers come to a halt beside her, their faces – so like her own – solemn and white. The three Cousland children gazed down at the man who had been so willing to sacrifice their family on the altar of his ambition.

Finian swore and looked away first, his delicate stomach not coping well with the broken corpse. Fergus kept staring at the arl's crumpled body, fingers running compulsively over the gold band on his left hand.

"I wish you could have met Oren, Flossie" he said quietly after a moment, his voice barely audible. "He had freckles on his nose, just like you.  _And_  he used to steal food from the kitchens. He clearly took after his aunt."

Flora was silent, not knowing what to say. She reached out and took Fergus' hand, squeezing his fingers to offer some small measure of comfort.

The now-unchallenged teyrn of Highever leaned down and kissed his younger sister on top of her head, careful to avoid the brand and the cut-open cheek. Taking a deep breath, Fergus cleared his throat and stood up straighter, narrowing his eyes towards the Royal Palace.

"Now for Loghain," he said, a measure of strength returning to his voice. "I wish there was some way he could know – that  _Denerim_ could know – that the Couslands are ready for him. I want to enter the Landsmeet on Monday with the odds in our favour, not with everyone pitying us."

Flora glanced across at her elder brother, who was staring unseeingly down at Howe's broken body, his expression pensive.

_**We're ready.** _

"Well," she breathed, feeling golden energy prickling beneath her nails. "I don't know about them pitying us, but I  _can_ let Denerim know that the Couslands are back. No more hiding."

Depending on the peculiar nature of her magic to make sense of her vague intentions, Flora thrust her hand upwards. The golden energy erupted from her fingertips, coalescing into a single ribbon of light with a mind of its own.

High above them, like one of the fireworks they used at Val Royeaux celebrations, the golden ribbon splintered in half, curving upwards into a great elongated  _U._ It wasn't until tendrils began to peel off the two main wings and craft themselves into distinctive leaves, that the shape became obvious.

Vast and glowing, the Cousland wreath hung above Fort Drakon like a constellation in its infancy. The magic thrummed like a living thing above the courtyard, the air crackling with energy not dissimilar to electrical discharge.

Flora lowered her hand, light cast in a dazzling array of patterns over her face as she squinted upwards at her own creation. It was too bright to look at directly, blazing like a brand against the darkness.

"Do you think Loghain will see it?" she called over to Eamon, who was shielding his eyes as he gazed up at the sky in open wonder.

"Child," he replied frankly, raising his voice above the magical hum echoing between the walls of the fortress. "The whole _city_  will know that the Couslands are back."

Finian grinned, nudging his sister in the ribs proudly as she licked her sore fingertips.

"How long will it last?

Flora shrugged, recalling the ethereal  _Peraquialus_ that she had summoned for Connor Guerrin.

"A few minutes?" she offered vaguely, as usual having little idea as to how her magic actually  _worked._ "Dunno."

The only person who did not look either impressed or delighted by the Cousland wreath was Alistair himself. He heard only the name  _Loghain_ in near-conjunction with his sister-warden, and this was enough to send icy fingers of terror curling around his stomach.

Flora felt a hand on her arm, hard and possessive, fingers constricting painfully on her elbow. Alistair was staring down at her with almost frightening intensity, the fear still raw in his eyes.

" _Enough,"_ he barked, in a tone so reminiscent of Maric that both Eamon and Leonas glanced up in surprise, almost expecting to see the old king standing before them. "I don't want Flo in this place a second longer. Eamon, we're returning to your estate?"

The arl nodded, gratified at such commanding tones emerging from the mouth of his formerly meek and unassuming ward.

"Aye," he replied mildly, gesturing for a retainer to being forward the horses. "Let's leave this place behind."

_**For now.** _

_What?_ thought Flora, catching the briefest hint of a whisper at the back of her skull. But her spirit allies chose not to expand on their cryptic comment, and her question was met with only silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Humiliation wounds! When they dug up Richard III's bones from a car park in 2012, they found that the death blow had been inflicted on the skull; the multiple other wounds evidenced on his skeleton were 'humiliation wounds' received after death. Including one up the arse, poor bastard, lol.
> 
> Poor Alistair has not coped well with his sister-warden's incarceration, haha – longest three days of his life!


	238. Sister-Warden Tends To Brother-Warden

Their return through Denerim's shadowed streets was quiet and uneventful. The rain returned, elongating existing puddles that had formed on the flagstones; the cloud drawing veil-like over a blushing pink moon.

Flora, oscillating between exhaustion and nervous adrenaline, barely registered the journey. Alistair had hauled her up onto the saddle before him; gripping the reins expertly in a single hand while the other arm pinned her against his chest in a vice-like grip. She could hear his heartbeat thudding between her shoulder-blades, quick and panicked. When they crossed the main waterway and entered the noble district, Flora perked up, swivelling her head to take in the surroundings.

Despite lacking the ostentatious glamour of Val Royeaux, the wealth of this part of the city was obvious. Great stone manors stretched off to either side of a sweeping cobbled boulevard, each one guarded by high walls and patrolling men. Banners depicting various liveries and suits were draped from crenelated balconies; displaying the colours of Ferelden's oldest and grandest families.

Leonas and his men took their leave at the gates marked with a Bryland portcullis. Dennis, the other Templar, Bann Sighard's son and Riordan accompanied him; Eamon's guest quarters already being occupied by the Wardens' companions.

Flora recognised the Bann of Calon's colours decorating a smaller manor. She was about to ask how the nervy rural bann was faring in the city, when she spotted a charred skeleton of a house further along the road. The rain had ruined what remained of the wooden foundations, and the smell of smoke hung in the air above it like a shroud.

Nobody spoke as they passed the smouldering crater, Flora's head turning to take in what remained of Howe's Denerim estate. She felt Alistair swallow hard against the top of her head, and realised the anguish he must have felt at the discovery that Flora was not being held in the estate dungeons. Averting her gaze from the charred ruins, Flora's eyes fell on Finian. Her brother was riding close alongside her, one hand absentmindedly fiddling with the hilt of his dagger.

"Do the Couslands have an estate here too?" she asked, curiously.

Finian shook his head, mustering a wan smile as he gestured towards the vast, sprawling castle perched on a distant rise.

"The Cousland quarters are located within the Royal Palace," he explained, with a small shrug of the shoulders. "Teyrns have always been lodged with the King. Obviously, Fergus and I haven't been staying there recently, though."

The Guerrin estate turned out to be a large manor on the edge of the district, with sweeping views over the estuary, and adjacent stables. The Redcliffe and Rainesfere colours hung from the balconies; matching the bright liveries of the servants that came rushing out to greet them. They entered a large stone foyer, lit by two great hearths flanking a sweeping staircase. A portrait of Eamon, Isolde and Connor dominated the upper floor landing, three sets of regal eyes staring down at those arriving below.

Arl Eamon opened his mouth to speak but a white-faced Alistair cut tersely across him, in a tone that invited no dissension.

"Uncle, I know you have questions, but they can wait until morning," he said flatly, his fingers gripping Flora's tight enough to be painful.

Eamon shot his former ward a sad smile, shaking his head softly.

"I was not about to suggest we speak with the lass tonight," he murmured, unstrapping the sword from his belt. "I'll send up hot water and food to your chamber. You ought to eat too, son."

Alistair grunted, noncommittally, his jaw set immobile as a painted canvas.

The moment that they had descended from the horse, Alistair had clutched his sister-warden's hand in a death grip, which did not cease even now that they were safely inside the manor. He maintained it as they ascended the sweeping staircase and travelled along a maze-like series of stone passageways, Wynne leading the way with a senior enchanter's efficient briskness.

Alistair had been assigned the largest and grandest quarters; a fact that was utterly lost on him when he arrived overwhelmed with anger and fear two nights prior. Now he led Flora behind him like a tall ship pulling a dinghy, hauling her down the corridor at an almost uncomfortable pace. It was clear that he was desperate to enclose them both within four walls, to put a door between him, her and the rest of Thedas.

Flora, however, could not help but be impressed by her brother-warden's chamber. The lofty ceiling was illuminated by a candelabra crafted from interwoven antlers, and each tall glass window was embedded with fragments of colour. The stone tiles were covered with a variety of Ferelden's native beasts, in the form of rugs. A rather whimsical pattern of dancing Mabari decorated the plaster wall above the hearth; Flora found herself letting out a rather incongruous giggle as she looked at their loll-tongued faces.

Alistair, who had sunk onto the end of the bed and planted his face in trembling hands, raised his watering eyes to shoot her a faintly appalled look.

"Stop cackling like an imbecile, child. One would think you  _hadn't_  just been through an ordeal," instructed Wynne sternly, although her gaze was gentle.

Both the bard and senior enchanter had followed the Wardens into the chamber to assist with the bathing process – and to gather information.

"Arms up," added Leliana, helping to remove the rust-coloured silk dress, which was wholly beyond repair. "What's this?"

She drew out a clump of slightly damp correspondence, a hefty wedge of parchment that had been folded several times.

"Oh," Flora recalled, wincing slightly as Wynne extracted another fragment of skull from her matted hair. "It's Arl's Howe's letters. They left me alone in his quarters, so I grabbed everything I could from his desk and shoved it down the front of my dress."

Leliana let out a little exhalation of excitement, her eyes widening as they skimmed over the contents of the first letter.

" _Ma fille intelligente,"_ she breathed, tucking the papers inside her leather tunic. "I shall take these to Arl Eamon later. Well done,  _chérie."_

Flora, who was not intellectual and rarely received praise for cleverness, beamed.

True to Eamon's word, a troupe of the arl's female servants arrived soon after; manhandling a heated tub of water into the centre of the chamber. To Flora's delight, two more arrived with several platters of food.

Too impatient to wait, Flora reached out from within the bathtub and began to rifle through the contents of the tray, while Wynne wrestled a comb through her damp hair and Leliana scrubbed at her back. Ignoring the chicken, she chose to focus her attention on the fruit platter.

"Mm- I'm  _so_  hungry," she mumbled through a mouthful of grapes. "This horrible guard stole bread from me. I couldn't even fly into a rage because I was pretending to be Tranquil."

Between mouthfuls, Flora raised prickling fingertips to the various minor injuries inflicted during her three days as Howe's prisoner. The sunburst brand in the centre of her forehead was the first to disappear, smoothed away into the skin in a sigh of golden mist.

"How did you manage to keep up such a pretense?" asked Wynne, grimacing slightly as she encountered a knot the size of her fist in Flora's streaming hair.

"Well," their young healer replied self-depreciatingly, chewing her way through an entire bunch of grapes. "I've had lots of practise at looking blank. I spent four years that way in the back of Circle classrooms."

"Why didn't Howe's Templar  _actually_  Tranquilise you?" began Leliana, then promptly received a dark glower from Alistair. "On second thoughts, that can wait until tomorrow. There,  _chérie._ All clean."

Flora stood up, water streaming, cupping the rear of her head to heal the bruises beneath the hairline. Almost immediately, the associated headache abated and she let out a little sigh of relief.

"Ooh," she said cheerfully, accepting Wynne's assistance in clambering over the edge of the bathtub. "It feels nice not to be covered in brains. That's the second time that's happened this month."

To Flora's perturbation, both women were gazing down at the small swell of her stomach.

"I  _know,_ " she said, somewhat indignant. "Three days of practical  _starvation_ and I haven't lost this South Reach indulgence belly."

"Just to clarify," murmured Wynne, her voice deliberately casual. "You didn't –  _bleed_  at all during your confinement? Even with the branding and the shock?"

Flora shook her head, slightly confused.

"No," she replied, astonished. "I told you, my last bleed was in Orzammar. I was worried because I thought it might attract more Darkspawn in the Deep Roads, remember?"

Leliana exhaled, shooting a little glance first at Wynne, and then across at Alistair. The bastard prince didn't seem to have registered anything that they had said; preoccupied with staring blindly up at the dancing Mabari above the hearth. He had mindlessly removed his external armour, and was sitting on the edge of the bed clad in the thin cambric tunic and breeches.

"It's not come unstuck, then," senior enchanter murmured to Orlesian bard, who gave a small nod of agreement. "Stubborn little thing."

"Like it's mother," Leliana replied in an undertone, unable to stop a wry smile from twisting her mouth. "Though… it might have been better if it had."

Flora looked from one woman to the other, suspiciously.

"What are you talking about?"

Before Wynne could conjure an appropriate reply, Alistair stood up suddenly; eyes blazing like hot coals against his pallid face.

"Thank you for your help," he said, the words emerging clipped and terse. "Leave us now, please."

Though framed as a request, it was undeniably a command. Leliana paused long enough to find Flora an Orlesian silk chemise – most likely belonging to Isolde – and then departed alongside a thoughtful Wynne.

The moment that the two women had departed, presumably heading straight for Eamon with Howe's correspondence in hand, Alistair rose to his feet. The expression on his face was gaunt and unreadable; for a moment, Flora was worried that he was going to shout at her.

Instead Alistair took an unsteady step towards her, the stoic mask finally crumbling away from his face to reveal raw anguish below.

"Flo," he started, reaching towards her with a trembling hand. Flora, alarmed, went to clutch his calloused palm between her fingers. Such was its coldness, it felt akin to clutching the metal glove belonging to a suit of armour.

"Alistair," she breathed, her eyes darting over his hollowed face. "You're freezing."

At that moment, there seemed far more than a single year between them; her brother-warden had appeared to age a decade in a span of days. It was clear that he had barely eaten or slept during her incarceration by Howe, the stubble sprouting unkempt on his jawline.

Guilt flaring in her belly, Flora tugged at his hand, guiding him to the armchair beside the hearth. Nudging him down into its plush velvet depths, she reached out for the abandoned tray of food and dragged it closer. Sitting cross-legged at Alistair's feet, she rolled up the sleeves of the overlarge gown – the arlessa was several inches taller – and ripped open a bread roll. Carefully, she prodded several pieces of cold cooked beef inside the bread, before squashing it flat with the heel of her hand.

Triumphantly, Flora knelt up and offered the improvised sandwich to her brother-warden. He stared at it as though she had presented him with Darkspawn entrails on a platter.

"You have to  _eat,"_  she said, sternly. "You have to look nice and sturdy ready for the Landsmeet."

When this did not work, Flora smoothly switched tactics, clearing her throat and deepening her tone.

"Your Acting Warden-Commander  _commands_  you to eat this sandwich," she intoned solemnly, peering up at him from beneath her eyelashes. "I won't tolerate insubordination."

Alistair's face contorted into a grimace and he pressed a shaking hand to his head. When he removed it, his eyes were over-bright and gleaming with dampness.

"Alistair," Flora whispered, appalled. "I'm fine, honestly - "

The sob came out like the cry of a wounded animal, strangled and hollow.

Flora clambered up into her brother-warden's lap, wrapping her legs around his waist and encircling his neck with her arms. She felt Alistair press his face against her neck as he embraced her, with more fierceness than he had ever used before. She clutched the back of his neck, her fingers moving through the dishevelled golden hair; letting the natural warmth of her body pass into his.

In slow increments Flora felt him relax against her, the frantic beating of his heart settling into its usual slow, steady rhythm. The hearth had burnt down to smouldering embers, long shadows cast across the chamber by the solid Ferelden furniture.

"Brother-warden," she whispered, pulling her head back a fraction. He raised his face to hers and she saw the naked exhaustion in his eyes, the result of several days spent neglecting his own personal needs.

Taking his face in her hands, Flora closed her eyes, feeling the warm prickle of magic as it rose obligingly beneath her tongue. Leaning forward, she pressed her mouth against his, coaxing his lips apart so that she could disgorge the rejuvenative energy into his throat. When she withdrew, taking a deep breath, some of the colour had returned to Alistair's face. The greyness had faded, the warm olive slowly seeping back into his cheeks. When he gazed down at her, the hazel eyes were no longer quite so dull.

"Flora," he murmured, a thread of his old voice running through the name. "Did Howe… mistreat you?"

The inflection on the word  _mistreat_ suggested a more sinister meaning to the question. Flora, as usual missing the point, frowned.

"He chained me up and practically starved me," she replied, indignant. "If that's not  _mistreatment,_ I don't know what is."

Alistair winced, barely able to shape the words.

"No," he said shortly, and she felt his heartbeat accelerate once again. "Did he –  _do_  anything to you? Like… what we do together?"

"Oh," Flora shot him a faintly appalled look.  _"No._  He never really got the chance; what with you burning down his house the first night, and… and Loghain distracting him on the second. The most he did was kiss me. Which was nasty, but had a good outcome. For me. Not for  _him_."

"Thank the Maker," he breathed, clutching her even more tightly to his chest. "I've been going out of my mind, Flo, you can't even  _imagine_  what I've been thinking."

Flora let her fingers wander over the strong-boned angles of Alistair's face, relieved that at least he was talking.

"I did have to wash his back though, which was horrible," she clarified, feeling him tense beneath her once again. "And his guards watched me bathing; they were  _much_  less professional about it than the Templars were at the Circle. That's it."

Alistair let out a low snarl against her ear, fingers tightening on her thigh.

"I swear to Andraste, they'll be dead by tomorrow evening," he murmured, a vein of pure, white hatred running through the words. "As will anyone who laid a finger on you."

Flora grimaced, unused to hearing her compassionate brother-warden so hell-bent on revenge. She ran her fingers over the stubble on his jaw; three days of dark blond growth lying rough against the skin.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, hoping to distract him. "For breaking my promise. It's my fault that I got caught, I left the Pearl on my own. I'm so _stupid._ "

Alistair groaned, bowing his head to nestle lips against the curve of her ear.

"I shouldn't have left you alone," he whispered, recalling the terrible way that his stomach had dropped when they had discovered that his sister-warden had gone. "It won't happen again, I swear."

Without sufficient cleavage to fill it Isolde's gown fit poorly, the silky material had slid off Flora's bare shoulder. Alistair pressed his mouth to her neck, fierce and possessive, leaving a trail of heated kisses from her ear down to the hollow of her collarbone.

Flora felt him harden against her, heard the breath catch in his throat as he drew the gown slowly up over her thighs. She reached out to touch his stubbled jaw; he turned his face sideways to kiss her palm, and his eyes promptly settled on the chafe-marks around her wrists that she had neglected to heal.

"Sweetheart," he said in distress, the arousal draining from his body like a bottle emptied onto the floor. "My darling. Maker's Breath, they would have heard Howe's screams in Val Royeaux if I'd had my way."

"I know," Flora whispered, mouth muffled against her wrist as she breathed golden mist over the raw skin.

_That's why I ended him quickly, my kind-hearted brother-warden. To spare you from becoming a torturer._

She slithered from his knees back onto the rug, retrieving the squashed sandwich she had made earlier. Presenting it to Alistair in the centre of her palm, Flora shot him a stern look.

"Anyway, I prepared this delicious meal for you," she told him, face radiant with its characteristic, peculiar solemnity. "Isn't that… what good wives do for their husbands?"

Her choice of words was blatantly calculated. Alistair knew full-well that she was cajoling him into eating, but he was filled with such irrational delight at her allusion to them as  _married_  that he devoured the bread and beef roll as though it were a gourmet meal.

"Don't choke," Flora warned him from the flagstones, relieved that his spirits seemed to have risen. He smiled down at her, eyes bright with affection.

After they had finished the rest of the tray, she couldn't stop herself from yawning. A lamp-boy with a long iron snuffer had extinguished the suspended-antler candelabra, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered as he scuttled about the chamber.

With the candles extinguished, the only source of light in the room was the dim glow emitted by the embers. Flora stood with her face pressed against the glass window, gazing at the vast, sprawling silhouette of the Royal Palace on the rise above. Although most of the castle was in darkness, light still blazed from the window of the tallest tower and she wondered if that was where Loghain's quarters were located.

_He must know by now that his main ally is dead,_ Flora thought to herself, her breath misting against the glass.  _Why did he help me? I don't understand._

Flora determinedly conjured an image of Duncan's face, his hawk-like Rivaini features still prominent in her memory. When she thought of the fate that had befallen him at Ostagar, it was easier to remember why she hated Loghain Mac Tir.

_Duncan died because of you. You're still a traitor._

"Come to bed, Flo. I promise not to ravish you; I think we're both exhausted."

Despite the lightness of Alistair's words, there was a distinct undercurrent of need in his tone. When Flora turned away from the window her brother-warden was sitting up rigid in bed, the blanket expectantly pulled back. It was clear that he was desperate to have her alongside him; as she had not been for the past few nights. The three days that they had been apart was by far the longest separation since Duncan had first assigned them to one another, and Alistair had not coped with it well.

The obedient Flora padded across the flagstones, absentmindedly wondering why the bed had been elevated on a shallow stone step. Her knee gave a small throb of protest as she clambered beneath the blanket, and she was grateful for the extra layer of furs.

Immediately, Alistair drew her close to his chest with an exhalation of trembling relief; enveloping her so tightly that it was almost difficult to breathe. Flora adjusted herself so that her back was aligned with his chest, his arms passing over her stomach rather than her ribcage.

"My love," he whispered, the stubble on his jaw brushing against her ear. "You're the bravest girl in Ferelden, do you know that?"

"No- _oo,"_  Flora replied honestly, as his warm breath fluttered the stray wisps of hair at her neck. "I don't think that's true. I didn't feel at  _all_  brave, actually."

Alistair grunted his disagreement into her shoulder, his lips moving over the bare skin exposed by the ill-fitting chemise.

"I missed you  _so_  much," he murmured bleakly, interspersing each word with a kiss pressed into her collarbone. "I went mad without you. I hit Leonas in the jaw because he wouldn't let me confront Howe right away."

"You  _hit_ Arl Bryland?" Flora repeated, eyes wide, and felt him nod. "Was he angry?"

"No, he understood."

Flora was silent for a moment, reassured by the warmth and strength of the capable arms wrapped around her.

"I missed you too," she whispered eventually, swallowing a sudden lump of emotion that had risen in her throat. "When I thought I was going to be made Tranquil, the worst thing about it was that I – you –  _us_ \- I wouldn't… we wouldn't…"

Trailing off, Flora remembered sitting in the cell and summoning three things that she loved about her brother-warden; in the vain hope that some fragment of their bond might survive the upcoming cauterisation.

This time, she was unable to halt the tears as they sprung forth, a sob breaking free from her throat as she realised how close she had come to losing everything that mattered. The fear that Flora had suppressed so determinedly, for three days and two nights, finally clawed its way free and she began to cry properly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: It's OK Flo, you're allowed to be upset when it's just you and your brother-warden! Speaking of, the title is a reversal of a chapter from ages ago, did you find it familiar? I can't remember the number, it was one of the later South Reach ones. Anyway, good luck even going to the bathroom in privacy now, Flora hahaha
> 
> Also, this chapter features Flo still being a total moron about her state of up-the-duffness, even when Leliana and Wynne LITERALLY talk about it directly in front of her face. However, never fear… Flora is about to come face to face with her situation in the next few chapters. Yep it's finally time for a one-way ticket out of Denial Land, next stop Terrible Realisation, hahaha. FINALLY time… as in, she conceived in Chapter 90 – so she's been pregnant for 149 chapters!


	239. The City At Night

Alistair had been waiting for his sister-warden's mask of cheerful nonchalance to slip from the moment that he had seen her grit her teeth and lift her chin high at Fort Drakon. He rolled over onto his back, pulling Flora against his chest and sliding his hands beneath the short chemise to rub calloused palms up and down her naked spine.

"My strong, beautiful girl," he murmured in her ear, letting her purge the fear and anger of the past three days in gasping sobs against his chest. "My brave sister-warden. I'm so proud of you. You did  _so_ well."

Running out of breath, Flora pressed her nose into his ribs, the taut muscle made slick and damp by her sadness. She had a healer's fascination with the old scars littering his upper body; the nicks and scores of battle that had predated her entry into his life. Flora could describe where each mark was located, although not how all of them had been inflicted.

Swallowing the next bout of tears before they could emerge, Flora reached out and touched a pale V-shaped mark partway down the left pectoral muscle.

"What was this from?" she croaked, shocked at the nearness to his heart. "That could have killed you."

Alistair curled his hand around the back of her head, feeling the fragile curve of his sister-warden's skull against his palm.

"One of my first expeditions out into the Wilds as a new recruit," he murmured, rubbing her earlobe between finger and thumb. "We were ambushed by a Genlock patrol and an arrow punched right through my breastplate. Fortunately, my rib blocked it."

Flora rested her chin against the solid muscle, feeling the steady throb of his heartbeat against her jaw as she gazed up at him.

"It must have been so scary," she breathed, now understanding how it felt to sustain injuries without being able to heal them. "What happened?"

Alistair half-smiled down at her, sliding his fingers into her hairline.

"Duncan was with us at the time. He took the breastplate off and put pressure on the wound until a mage could be found."

Flora gave a little sniff and shifted against him, exhaling unsteadily. She had cried herself into near-feverishness; face flushed and sweat cooling on her skin.

"Here, Flo," Alistair whispered, feeling her palm hot and sticky beneath the blankets. "Come and look at this."

Keeping her fingers within his, he clambered out of bed and led her over to the tall windows. Pressing against the frame resulted in the centre window swinging open; leading out onto a wide stone balcony.

Flora, who had briefly paused to admire the door masquerading as a window, followed her brother-warden out onto the stone veranda; eyes widening as she took in the view before her.

Denerim's green saltwater estuary spread out beneath them, flat as glass and laced with moonlight. Rising up on its far side was the Royal Palace, a massive and sprawling sleeping dragon; crenelated battlements running its length like spines. Ferelden's banner rose sporadically from the high walls, interspersed with the red and gold colours of the Theirin dynasty. The rest of the city extended out along the opposite side of the estuary in a tangle of stone and wooden buildings; huddled together on the shore like conspiring children. The spire of the Chantry rose tall, a chastising finger, dominating the rooftops around it.

The Amaranthine Ocean lay in the distance, vast and uncharted, a dark counterpart to the estuary's emerald calm. Yet another ocean seemed to be spread in the sky above their heads, a glittering net of stars flung out in an effort to catch the great hanging pearl of the moon.

Flora turned her face up into the soft radiance of night, mouth dropping open at its beauty.

"Oh," she whispered, placing her palms on the stone balcony and tilting her head back. "It's like the sea is in the sky."

Next, her incredulous eyes dropped to move along the shore opposite.

"And I've never seen so many buildings," the child of Herring continued. "I can't even  _count_  that high. It's so beautiful."

Alistair had spared the view only the briefest of glances and was instead gazing down at his sister-warden's awed face. After a moment Flora glanced up at him, eyes widening imperceptibly at the intensity in his stare.

"This is as nothing in comparison to you, my love," he breathed, taking her hand and kissing her curling, nail-bitten fingers. "My queen."

Flora looked up at him warily as he slid his palms into her hairline, gripping her head in his capable hands.

"Don't let the Chantry hear you say that," she whispered as his eyes moved over her face, settling on her mouth.

Alistair leaned forward, murmuring something under his breath that she didn't quite catch, his lips pausing inches from hers. She could feel his breath hot against her chin; was close enough to see each individual hair sprouting from his jaw.

"My  _queen_ ," he repeated with increased fervour, then – finally – leaned forward to press his mouth against hers.

A small part of Flora had been worried that kissing Alistair might prompt nausea-inducing memory of Howe's foul-tasting mouth scrabbling against hers; but, in reality, it proved quite the opposite.

Her brother-warden's lips, blazing with affection, were akin to a cauterising iron, purging the remnants of Howe and leaving only blistering desire in their wake. A moan escaped his mouth, catching between her teeth as his tongue fought for dominance against her own. She clutched at his shoulders, so broad and high above her that it felt like trying to climb a wall; he bent his face down to hers and pushed her back into the balustrade. His hands were somehow everywhere, groping without skill or finesse, driven only by the desperate need to feel that which had almost been claimed by another. All the while, his lips worked determinedly against hers, demanding that mouth and tongue yield to him.

Pulling back a fraction to draw breath, Alistair stared down at her with eyes that burned like coals against the night's shadow, his pupils dark and wide. Flora inhaled unsteadily, not sure how she had ended up perched on the balustrade with her legs around his waist; the pale silk nightgown bundled up to her hips.

"Let's go in, darling," he said hoarsely, reluctantly removing his hand from her thigh. "The Landsmeet opens the day after tomorrow, and neither of us ought to catch a cold."

She nodded mutedly, sliding her arms around her brother-warden's neck as he lifted her up.

Keeping her in place with a strong arm, Alistair nudged the window frame open and stepped back inside the chilly room, carrying Flora over to the bed and planting a kiss on her nose. She smiled dazedly at him and he let out a little groan, shaking his head slightly as he stepped back.

" _Too_  beautiful," Flora heard him mutter to himself, striding back to the window to pull it closed against the draught.

More for his own benefit - Flora, as a northerner was used to the cold, and was also naturally self-heating – Alistair made a brief diversion to the fire. Despite his determination to get back to his lover, he could not resist attempting to coax life from the dying embers, prodding vigorously at the coals with a poker. Finally satisfied, he strode over to the bed while simultaneously unlacing his breeches; only to find Flora sprawled inelegantly face down, snoring into the cushions. The thin silk gown provided little protection against the damp night air, and goose-bumps had risen on the pale curves of her shoulders.

Alistair spent several moments meticulously arranging the blankets and furs around his sister-warden until not an inch of skin remained exposed. Finally, he clambered into bed alongside her, enveloping the cocoon of blankets protectively with his arms. For good measure, he hooked a knee over where he assumed his sister-warden's thigh to rest.

"Goodnight, my queen," he repeated under his breath, knowing that – on this one occasion – she wouldn't reprimand him.

Flora woke up several hours later, sweating and terrified. She had been trapped in a dream where her enemies were preparing to burn her at the stake, just like her fishing village compatriot, the unfortunate Andraste. Her spirit allies, sensing her distress, had propelled her back through the Veil just as a cackling Rendon Howe touched his torch to the wood.

To her alarm, despite now presumably being  _awake_ , her limbs still felt as though they were bound. Her skin was hot to the touch– and, most disconcertingly – she could taste the ashy remnants of smoke beneath her tongue.

Gradually, forcing herself to breathe through the panic, Flora stared into the gloom and began to piece together an explanation. The ashy residue was from the burnt-down hearth, a draft had crept in through some unseen crack and was blowing tendrils of smoke across the chamber. Her movement was restricted and her skin flushed due to being cocooned in a nest of tightly wrapped blankets and furs; the layers clamped around her body by her brother-warden's strong arms.

The sight of Alistair was such a welcome one that Flora felt incongruous tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. He was tucked protectively around her, so close that their heads rested on the same pillow. Having not slept for two consecutive nights; her brother-warden appeared sufficiently deep in slumber that a pack of howling Mabari would be unable to disturb him.

Flora turned over with some difficulty in the tangle of blankets, pressing herself against the sturdy muscle of her best friend's chest. Alistair mumbled something incoherent into her hair, his breath whispering warm over her cheek. His fingers, clenched around her own in their nightly fish-rope ritual, squeezed unconsciously.

To Flora's slight perturbation, despite being warm and wedged in her brother-warden's arms, she was not able to submerge herself immediately in sleep. There was something small and insistent worrying at the edge of her mind, preventing her from resting easy against Alistair's chest.

_What is it? Have I done something wrong? What have I not done?_

_**Rendon Howe's son.** _

Flora sat up so abruptly that she thought for a moment she had woken Alistair. However, even her sudden movement was not enough to rouse him; he let out a soft grunt but made no other protest.

Carefully, she extracted her fingers from his and slithered out of bed, grimacing as her bare feet made contact with the tiles. Eamon had arranged for her pack to be brought across from the Pearl, it lay propped against a sturdy wooden dresser on the far side of the room. Flora crept over to it, rummaging past crumpled Warden treaties, and the wooden polished case containing the Cousland crown and Zevran's gifted earring. She sent a little jolt of life through Alistair's flagging rose, wincing as a faded petal dropped to the floor. Like the one who had given it, the flower had not coped well with her three days of absence.

Finally, she retrieved her much-patched and faded woollen sweater from the bottom of the pack, wrestling it on over the knee-length silk chemise. Pulling her boots from beneath the bed, she caught sight of her brother-warden's peaceful face and hesitated.

Bringing parchment and ink-pen to a shaft of moonlight in the centre of the chamber, Flora laboriously scrawled a few sentences. Hoping that her words made some small degree of sense, she folded the note and slid it gently between her brother-warden's outstretched fingers.

Two Guerrin guards, one of whom she recognised from South Reach, were posted outside the chamber door. One of them had been yawning, but both stood abruptly to attention as she crept through.

"Evening, Lady Cousland."

Flora smiled at the one whom she remembered from the Bryland castle.

"Evening, Marcus," she whispered, shifting her weight from her weak knee. "Is the arl still awake?"

The guard startled at her recollection of his name, his eyes darting curiously over her face before sliding away.

"Arl Eamon has retired for the evening, my lady, but I believe the bann is still awake. Shall I call someone to take you to him? We have to maintain our watch on Prince Alistair."

Flora shook her head quickly, fiddling with a loose strand of wool trailing from the bottom of her jumper.

"It's fine, I'll find him. Thank you."

She wandered down the passage, which was lofty and austere in décor. From the cobwebs spread over the ceilings and the dust hastily swept to the sides of the walls, it was clear that neither Guerrin brother spent a great quantity of time in their Denerim residence.

After a slight misadventure where she ended up in the kennels, Flora found her way back to the main foyer. The stern portrait of Eamon, Isolde and Connor gazed down at her from the top of the stairway, and she found herself drawn to Connor's pinched little face. Reaching out, Flora patted the boy's painted cheek, her fingers coming away with the residue of neglect.

"We obviously don't spend long enough in our city halls," came a wry voice from the downstairs hearth. "Our servants have been slack in their duties."

Flora, whose knee was still swollen from yesterday's exertions, clutched the bannister as she descended the steps. Teagan rose from the armchair as she approached, placing a half-drunk bottle of ale on the flagstones.

"It's good to see you, pet," he murmured, coming around the chair to face her. "It's been a… trying few days."

Flora noticed that the bann's sword was still strapped at his belt, and felt a twinge of guilt. Despite the fact that ultimately she had ended up liberating  _herself_ from Rendon Howe's clutches; she was touched at the fact that so many of her companions and acquaintances had bothered to mount a rescue attempt.

"I'm sorry to have caused so much trouble," she muttered, bowing her head and dropping her gaze to the bann's embroidered leather boots.

" _Trouble!"_

Teagan let out a bark of laughter, reaching out to tilt her chin gently upright.

"Flora, you've single-handedly struck a blow against Loghain before the Landsmeet has even opened. He's lost his main ally, we've got our hands on some damned incriminating correspondence and Fergus can reclaim Highever unchallenged. Why are you apologising?"

_Not single-handedly,_ Flora thought to herself.  _On my own, I'm useless._

"But look at Alistair," she countered, grimacing slightly as she recalled her brother-warden's haggard eyes through the portcullis at Fort Drakon. "He hit Arl Leonas, he was so distressed."

Teagan matched her expression, a shade falling over his face as he recalled Alistair raging with fear and anger.

"He didn't _just_  hit Bryland," he murmured, fingering the shadow of a bruise around his right eye. "Poor lad, though, he was going half-mad."

Flora frowned, stepping forward without hesitation. Carefully, she reached up to trace the dark bruising with a gleaming fingertip, eyes solemn with purpose. Strands of bright copper stood out against her dishevelled oxblood hair, illuminated by the reflected firelight.

_You old fool,_ Teagan thought grimly to himself as he felt his body tense at her proximity. For some reason, the girl was dressed in a man's jumper on top of a flimsy chemise; the odd outfit finished with the boots that Leliana so despaired of.

_Half your age! Half your age, and your nephew's lover._

There was a sigh of golden energy, and the bruising melted indiscernibly away into the skin. Flora beamed, still delighted at the return of her magic, and stepped back.

"Anyway, child," the bann continued, clearing his throat awkwardly. "What are you out of bed for – ah, I mean… out of your  _room_  for?"

Flora glanced quickly at him, her naturally solemn face taking on an even graver mien. Her fingers pulled at a loose strand of wool, the corners of her wide Cousland mouth turning down.

"I need to see Thomas Howe," she said, determinedly. "I killed his dad, and I want to say sorry. Could you tell me where he is, please?"

_**Good girl.** _

The choice of vocabulary revealed Flora's motivation, clear as a pearl uncovered in the silt. If she had been raised as  _Florence Cousland,_  then the elimination of Howe would have been accepted as simply another move in the great game of thrones that even Fereldan magnates occasionally dabbled in. Howe had made a risky move in usurping Highever, he had lost, and he had paid for this gamble with his life.

However, Flora had been raised in Herring, and instilled with a far simpler moral compass. It did not matter that she had killed Howe with brutal efficiency to spare him from the prolonged and lengthy agonies her revenge-fuelled brothers would enact upon him; ultimately, she still – quite literally – bore Rendon Howe's blood on her hands, and thus needed to make amends.

Teagan gazed at her for a moment, then inclined his head.

"I'll take you myself," he replied evenly, thinking  _there's no way you're going to be alone in a chamber with a Howe, albeit a junior one._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I wish we got to see more of Denerim – I love Medieval architecture and Medieval cities… especially ones located on a coastal estuary or the sea! So beautiful! I love that Ferelden is less developed than the rest of Thedas – that everyone else believes it to be this wild, quasi-savage rural 'backwater'. Just like how the rest of Europe saw England in the late 15th century!
> 
> Thomas Howe, just as a reminder, is Rendon Howe's youngest son; who was captured by Flora's companions in retribution for her own kidnapping.
> 
> Also, what is it with men and building fires? I think it's something primal in them – whenever my husband is confronted with a firepit, he turns into Captain Caveman and spends about six years building it up from scratch, lol


	240. Making Amends/Zevran's Revenge

Rounding the chair, Teagan headed across the entrance hall towards the main staircase. Pausing halfway up the steps, he then returned to the grimacing Flora to offer her his arm.

"Sorry, poppet. I forgot about your knee."

"It's fine," she panted, clutching his elbow gratefully as they ascended. "I thought you might have Thomas Howe locked in a dungeon. I'm glad you haven't."

Teagan shook his head as they turned down a separate corridor on the upper floor, narrower than the guest quarters and lined with torches. Two guards clad in Redcliffe colours stood stiff-backed outside a door partway down.

"We don't punish children for the sins of their fathers," he replied mildly, nodding at the guards. "Young Thomas will be escorted back to Amaranthine in the morning. He  _does_  know that his father is dead, incidentally."

Flora nodded, taking a deep breath as one of the guards unlocked the door.

The chamber was small and sparsely furnished, yet comfortable enough. It contained a narrow bed, a set of drawers and a wash-basin. On the floor rested a platter covered in crumbs and the casually discarded core of an apple. A dark-haired youth was reclining on the bed, flicking absentmindedly through a leather-bound tome. Between his knees half-empty bottle of ale had been wedged, the liquid a rich amber in the candlelight. Flora vaguely recognised him from her first night at Fort Drakon; when she had prematurely ended dinner by plunging face-first into her soup.

At the sound of their entrance, Thomas Howe raised his eyes. He had a sallow, strong-boned face that had a certain striking charm, while stringy dark hair fell to his shoulders. The youngest child of Rendon Howe swept his pale gaze over Flora, one thin black eyebrow rising. She gazed at him, surprised at his apparent nonchalance.

"So, we meet again, Lady Cousland," he observed acerbically, retrieving the bottle and taking another gulp of ale. "I have to say, the accommodation has much to be desired. I don't even have a view of the estuary from these rooms!"

Flora, who was willing to apologise but not to be patronised, retorted immediately with an edge to her tone.

"These are nicer quarters than the ones your father kept me in."

Thomas Howe let out a little laugh, replacing the bottle and gazing at her more intently.

"Strange, since he seemed to value you so much more. After all, he made no attempt to retrieve  _me_ after I was taken hostage."

Flora shifted from foot to foot, not sure how to reply. Although she had guessed that there was no love lost between the arl and his younger son, this open contempt was slightly disconcerting. As though detecting her unease, Thomas cackled, tracing a thumb around the neck of the bottle.

"Forgive me if I don't mourn the death of Rendon Howe overmuch. My life is better for his absence. My brother and sister may think differently, but- "

Here, he shrugged, curling his lip.

"You're welcome to Highever. I stayed there at Satinalia, it was freezing and rained nonstop. I've never been in such a draughty castle."

Flora eyed him incredulously, still not quite able to believe how nonchalant the youth was being.

"I'm sorry for killing your dad," she said at last, raising her voice slightly as he began to laugh. "What's  _funny?"_

Teagan, gritting his teeth, reached out to take her arm.

"Come on," he murmured, finding the youngest son of Howe incredibly trying. "You've said what you came to say."

Thomas' laughter was cut off abruptly as the wooden door closed in their wake, the guard turning the key in the lock with a definitive  _click._

A deeply perturbed Flora raised her face to Teagan and opened her mouth; the bann shook his head with a small grimace.

"No, I can't explain him either," he replied, in answer to her unspoken query. "He's an odd one, to be sure."

"I killed his  _dad_ ," repeated Flora, bemused. "Why isn't he ranting and raving at me?"

Teagan shrugged a shoulder as they made their way back down the narrow passageway.

"Is that what you did, pet?"

"Eh?"

"When you saw Howe for the first time. He  _was_ responsible for the deaths of your parents, after all."

They emerged back out onto the central landing, beneath the censorious painted eyes of the Guerrin family. Flora shook her head slowly, reaching down to adjust the strapping on her knee.

"No-o," she said, slowly. "I didn't. I was too scared."

_If he had been responsible for the death of your Herring-father; you would have launched yourself at him with your bare hands._

Sighing, she shifted from one booted foot to another, reaching up to rub at the end of her nose.

"Flo?"

A yawning Alistair materialised at the end of the guest passage, bare-chested and gilded hair dishevelled; the two guards trailing in his wake. He approached them, nodding a greeting to his uncle.

"I left you a note," Flora replied immediately, assuming that he had come to lecture her. "Saying where I was."

Alistair held up the crumpled parchment, eyebrows rising. The bann caught a glimpse of the large, looping letters scrawled there:  _I SEA HO._

"It says  _'I've gone to see Howe,'"_  protested Flora, wide-eyed and indignant as Teagan's brow quirked towards his hairline. " _Obviously."_

"Hm," replied Alistair, unconvinced.

Realising that the bann must have accompanied Flora to visit Rendon Howe's son, he directed him a grateful nod. As Teagan returned the gesture with a quirk of the mouth, Alistair reached out a commanding hand towards his sister-warden.

"Come back to bed, Flo."

Flora smiled at her brother-warden, knowing him well enough to see the anxiety present behind the instruction. The set of his jaw was determined, yet his hazel irises were over-bright with fear; spending the night alone had become all too familiar in recent times. She reached out to take his hand, and the sensation of his fingers sliding into hers felt like coming home.

"Thank you, uncle," Alistair repeated, turning to take his leave with Flora affixed to his side.

 _You wouldn't be so quick to thank me if you knew some of the late-night thoughts I've had about your sister-warden,_ thought Teagan grimly, his eyes wandering back to the half-empty bottle of ale standing on the tiles beside the hearth.  _Maker, I need to make my confession at the Chantry soon._

Alistair led said sister-warden down the corridor, his fingers wrapped tightly around her palm. Flora scuttled in his wake, grimacing slightly as she struggled to keep up with his lengthy stride.

"Alistair- "

The two guards hovered at the periphery of her vision. They had clearly noticed Flora's limping gait; glancing at her, and then towards Alistair, who was too preoccupied with returning to the chamber to notice his sister-warden's discomfort. They had almost reached the doorway when Flora's weak leg buckled, sending her onto her hands and knees against the flagstones.

"Ouch," she said, face to face with the snarling, stuffed head of a bear-skin rug.

The guards moved forward but Alistair was quicker, crouching beside her with regret pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry," he murmured, hoisting her up around his waist. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," replied Flora patiently, whose slight frame hid a Herring-instilled sturdiness. "You were dragging me like a sack of potatoes."

_Mm, I could really eat a raw potato right now._

"I'm sorry, love," her brother-warden repeated, nodding at the guards as they held open the door. "Thank you."

The chamber was cold and shadowed, the hearth long since burnt down. Flora raised a hand to summon a heatless flame of energy to her palm; casting dissipated beams of gilded light around the room.

Alistair, still rueful that his haste had caused her stumble, brought his sister-warden over to the bed and placed her gently on the crumpled blankets. Sitting on the pallet mattress beside Flora, he removed each boot with delicate fingers. Carefully, he unwound the leather strapping from around her swollen knee and let it drop onto the bed. Rubbing his palms briskly to warm them, he began to massage the joint with deft, practised motions of his fingers.

Flora lay flat on her back, the silk chemise raised halfway up her thighs, fiddling idly with a stray strand from her woollen jumper. Alistair circled his thumbs into her swollen knee, with as much tenderness as he would soothe a young foal's sore fetlock. The warm, repetitive motion was effective as always; the pain gradually growing dormant once again. By the time that Alistair had retied the strapping around her knee, she was fast asleep, mouth open and fingers tangled in the frayed hem of her jumper.

Flora woke in the insubstantial hour before dawn, grimacing as her vision slowly established itself after a night of restless dreams. Thin and watery light was leaking through the leaded windows, casting the chamber in shades of muted grey. Slender, deft fingers were stroking her cheeks, thumbs running tenderly over the planes and angles of her face. The logical assumption would name their owner as Alistair; except that his hands were far more calloused, and they were also currently occupied – one entwined with hers, the other idly clutching at the headboard. Besides, her brother-warden was nestled warm and solid against her back; and not at the correct angle to stroke her face.

Flora yawned, focusing on a pair of dancing, dark eyes several inches away from her own. Set in a familiar coffee-brown face, marked with fading stripes; the fine lines at the corners of the eyes creased to see her awake.

"Good morning, my Rialto lily," Zevran purred, tracing the high angle of her cheekbone with his thumb. "I'm afraid that it's raining."

"I don't mind the rain," Flora replied automatically, as the elf stretched himself against the pallet mattress beside her. He was fully dressed in his leathers, the dark set that he only tended to wear when he had a target in mind.

"Of course not,  _mi sirenita._ I… see that you've mended the wounds you suffered in Howe's custody."

The elf propped himself up on an elbow, caressing Flora's throat gently before pressing a thumb against the centre of her forehead. For a moment, the insouciant mask over his face flickered, a momentary twisting of the features that belied his lightness.

"For as long as I live," Zevran continued, in a measured and steady tone. "I shall regret not finding you sooner. It is the single greatest failing of my career. I apologise,  _carina."_

Flora reached out with her free hand awkwardly and patted him on the side of the head, letting her fingers rest on his shoulder.

"It's fine," she replied, feeling Alistair's warm breath on the back of her neck. "I got myself into the situation, so I got myself out. You don't need to apologise."

He moved in to embrace her; she returned the hug as best she could, considering that her body was still restricted by her brother-warden's arms.

"Ah, what would people  _think_ if they saw us like this,  _mi límonita?"_ he purred in her ear, wriggling his eyebrows to make her laugh. "The Lady Cousland, in bed with  _two_  handsome men!"

Flora thought for a moment, her mouth partially open.

"They'd add another verse onto the explicit version of  _Warden Flora_ ," she replied after several seconds, and the elf grinned at her in delight, leaning forward to press a swift peck against her nose.

"Anyway, I hear you're all going to the Chantry this morning, so you can be absolved of your misbehaviour there."

Flora smiled back at him, her expression turning quizzical as a sudden solemnity settled over the elf's features.

"Speaking of  _misbehaviour,"_ he said, voice deliberately casual as his eyes burned like a pyre. "Did anyone – Howe or his shambling cronies – attempt to  _mistreat_  you in any way?"

The wording was obscure, but since Alistair had used the same awkward phrasing in his own dread-filled query the previous night, Flora knew what the elf was alluding to.

"Nobody touched me in… like  _that,_ " she replied, similarly vague. "All they did was watch me bathe, which is what happened in the Circle anyway."

Zevran's smile took on a rigidity that made his lips curl back over his teeth, almost like the death masks crafted for prestigious Tevinter corpses.

"Why?" Flora asked, curiously. Behind her, she felt Alistair mumble into her neck and press himself unconsciously against the curve of her rear, one arm snaking over her belly.

The elf did not reply immediately, sitting up on the edge of the bed and checking that the dagger strapped to his knee had not slipped out of place. Producing thin leather gloves from within his sleeves, he slid them on meticulously, flexing his fingers.

"By tonight," he murmured, smoothing a hand over the top of his head to flatten a stray platinum hair. "Every guard who played a role in your incarceration will be dead. As it stands, their deaths will be quick and only  _moderately_  painful. If they  _had_  laid a finger on you, the screams from their prolonged agonies would be loud enough to summon our absent Maker."

Flora opened her mouth to protest and the elf reached out, pressing a gloved finger against her lips.

"Don't," he replied firmly, dark eyes flashing. "Remember, they also are responsible for the capture and torture of your fellow Warden, and many others."

Flora closed her mouth reluctantly and Zevran smiled at her, withdrawing his hand and presenting his tattooed cheekbone.

"Give me a kiss for luck,  _carina,"_ he instructed, quirking a devilish brow.

She propped herself up on an elbow and pecked him dutifully on the cheek.

Retreating, the elf made a sweeping bow in her direction before heading for the balcony. Flora twisted onto her side, peering over Alistair's bare torso.

"Be careful," she called in an undertone, feeling Alistair shift sleepily against her, a warm hand snaking between her thighs.

Zevran did not dignify this with a response, flashing her a white-toothed smile before disappearing over the edge of the stone balustrade.

Flora settled back down amidst the cushions, bringing her thumb to her mouth as she bit anxiously at the nail.

_Did he say we're going to the Chantry this morning? How much penance will I have to do for shattering Howe's skull like an egg? Leliana would know._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Took some liberties with Thomas Howe's character, since he only exists as a note on Rendon Howe's DA wiki page!
> 
>  
> 
> So before the Landsmeet starts tomorrow, they're going to go to a Chantry service celebrating the upcoming holiday of Summerday. I thought it would be a nice way to begin this next phase of the Denerim story arc, now that the action has shifted from the Pearl, to the nobles' district.


	241. Rise And Shine

The sun inched its way leisurely above the Amaranthine Ocean, illuminating the verdant saltwater estuary and spilling light into the chamber like Antivan brandy. It was still quiet outside, the noble quarters tending to rouse themselves later than Denerim's trade districts.

Flora let her gaze drop from the window to her sleeping brother-warden, the blankets tangled around his half-bare torso. The sun gilded his dishevelled blond hair, and a thick growth of stubble was sprouting over his jaw. Her eyes wandered over the defined olive musculature of his abdomen; then, curiously, she moved the blanket aside to eye his straining breeches. Very lightly, she reached out to trace the solid line with a finger through the material. When it gave a twitch of interest, she gave it a slightly sturdier little rub.

Several moments later, she sunk back against the cushions with flaring cheeks, blushing at her own audacity. She remembered Morrigan's dark-painted lips hissing  _debauchery!_ on the Siren's Call; the disapproving witch folding her arms across her chest as she glowered at them across the deck.

"Why'd you stop?"

She looked up to see Alistair gazing down at her, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire. Taking her wrist gently between finger and thumb, he returned her hand to where his erection tented the thin linen. She inhaled at the beat of blood tangible in the stiff organ, pulsing and turgid with arousal beneath the cloth. His fingers fumbled with the button, made clumsy by eagerness.

To Alistair's startled delight, his sister-warden cast him an arch look, slithering down the bed. Flora took up a kneeling position between his thighs, taking several deep breaths as she eyed him appraisingly.

" _Flor-_  " he began, hoarse-voiced, and then the breath caught in his throat as she took him inch by inch between her lips. "Maker's Breath –  _Maker_ , that's good."

For one raised in a monastery, it seemed almost blasphemous to be lying in bed on a Sunday morning, with Chantry bells ringing in the background; entreating the Maker as his best friend administered some long-overdue attention to his swollen length. Yet he  _revelled_  in the sinfulness of it all, arching his hips to meet her and tangling his fingers in her hair to better direct the course of her mouth.

Alistair was about to instruct her to mount him in the crudest possible terms; when she did something with tongue and fingers simultaneously that sent him crashing into uncontrollable climax. His fingers gripped at her head as his hips juddered, letting out an involuntary yell of pleasure as he spent himself.

The guards, hearing their charge shout out, nearly fell over each other in their haste to barge inside the chamber. They found a red-faced Alistair sitting up against the cushions, as Flora huddled beneath a hastily retrieved blanket, mouthing incredulously.

"Are you alright, Prince Alistair?" demanded one of the guards; hand on the hilt of his sword as his eyes swung automatically to the window.

"Everything's fine," Alistair replied, so preoccupied with trying not to laugh that he failed to register the title. "Sorry to disturb you."

Flora, who was finding it difficult to breathe beneath the blanket, emerged with an equally flushed face.

"At last!" she said, her expression stilted as she brandished a clenched fist. "I've found that…  _thing_  I was looking for."

"What thing?" replied Alistair, unhelpfully.

" _The_ thing," Flora replied, through gritted teeth.

The guards looked at her, then up at Alistair, realisation dawning.

"Ah," said the elder, diplomatically averting his eyes. "I can… see that all is well. We'll just take our leave then. Morning, Lady Cousland."

"Morning," whispered Flora, willing her face not to flare any brighter as the two guards departed with a smirk.

The moment that the door had shut in their wake, Flora turned to Alistair and clapped her fingers to her cheeks, mouth open in a little exaggerated O.

"One of them was dressed in Highever colours! He'd better not tell Fergus."

Alistair laughed, reaching down to gather his best friend against his chest. Flora stared up at him, wide-eyed.

"That's not the kind of behaviour that  _teyrn's daughters_ indulge in," she continued, indignantly. "That's the kind of thing that… naughty Herring girls do behind the boatsheds."

"Ssh," Alistair murmured into her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her waist. "Don't worry about it. Give me a cuddle."

Flora nestled herself obediently against him, and he pressed a kiss to her tousled head.

"My favourite person in all of Thedas."

A short time later, there was another rap at the door, followed by Eamon's distinctive clearing of the throat. Alistair glanced down at his sister-warden, who was wearing a threadbare jumper over the  _chemise_  and was mostly decent, before calling for his uncle to enter. Typically, it was not just Eamon who entered, an entire troupe following in his wake. The chamber, large as it was, suddenly seemed crowded with the sheer number of people gathered beneath the interwoven-antler candelabra.

Flora's brothers led the way; with Finian demonstrably delighted to see their younger sister, but Fergus still white-lipped with residual fear. Flora embraced both in turn as they approached the bed, inwardly startled at how relieved she was to see them. Finian sat on the bed beside her, carefully ignoring the tousled and twisted blankets, and put an arm around her shoulder.

"Did you both sleep well?" enquired Eamon courteously, stepping back as Alistair strode over to the mirror with shaving blade in hand.

Flora nodded, noticing that Eamon, Leonas, Teagan and her brothers were both dressed in relatively fine clothing. Leliana, who had brought a ewer of fresh water and was pouring it into several tankards, was wearing the newly-washed robes of a lay sister.

"Yes," replied Flora when it became clear that her brother-warden issuing a response might result in a nicked jaw. "Are we going to the Chantry this morning?"

Leonas nodded, stepping forward to admire the view from the stone veranda.

"Aye," he replied, watching a flotilla of Marcher trade ships make their way slowly down the estuary. "Mac Tir has made no official response to the events of last night, but he – as with all nobles within the city – will be expected to attend the Chantry service. Especially since it's Summerday midweek, it'll be a special service."

There came a sudden clatter as Alistair dropped his shaving blade on the dresser, turning around with an inch-long cut on his chin.

"We're seeing  _Loghain_ this morning?" he asked, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone. Reflexively, his eyes slid over to where his sword lay propped against the foot of the bed.

"Alistair," started Eamon in a counter-tone of warning. "You are  _not_ going to attack the General in the middle of the Chantry. This is simply a chance for all parties involved in the Landsmeet to lay eyes on each other. A  _recce_ , almost."

Alistair let out a bark of disbelief, shaking his head slowly from side to side as the blood dropped down his chin.

"This is what I've wanted for  _months,"_  he replied, incredulous. "Since Ostagar. His head at my feet. And you're saying it's not  _possible?"_

Flora climbed up from the bed and advanced towards him; a healer's reflexive response on seeing the blood.

"That's what we're ultimately hoping for," interjected Teagan placatingly, watching his young nephew tremble rigid and unhappy beside the dresser. "But we need the support of the Landsmeet, and we need to do it  _legitimately_  – the majority of Denerim's nobility will be attending this Chantry service. It's an opportunity to present our faction – and our restored Couslands."

"Yes, Alistair," murmured Leliana carefully from the other side of the dresser, watching Flora lift her gilded fingertips to the bastard prince's flushed cheeks. "If you think that you cannot restrain yourself, we will… not bring you. But Florence needs to come."

Alistair looked down at his sister-warden, standing before him barefoot in the fisherman's jumper and knee-length chemise, expression solemn as she stroked her fingers over his bloodied chin. He felt the characteristic prickling of magic in the wake of her touch, healing the self-inflicted cut. A sudden surge of protectiveness swelled inside him, and he put an arm around her shoulders.

"If Flo's going, I'm going," he replied bluntly, his half-shaven face grim. "The man's a snake and I don't trust him within a hundred yards of her."

"Right, then." Eamon exhaled, glancing towards the sun as it rose higher over the estuary. "We don't have a great deal of time to prepare."

The arl's gaze slid towards Leliana, who gave a little nod. She stepped forward, sliding her arm through Flora's, as Eamon advanced to speak discreetly with Alistair.

"Arl Leonas' manor is just next door," the bard explained unnecessarily; Flora had noticed the distinctive portcullis emblem on the neighbouring house. "He has suggested that you borrow from his daughter's wardrobe, since you and Habren are the same size."

Leonas canted his head in agreement, clearing his throat.

"We can go now," he muttered, also aware that time was short.

Flora grimaced, hoping vainly that the arlina's city wardrobe contained more practical clothing than her  _armoire_ at South Reach had done. She had just retrieved her boots when Alistair's voice rose above the rest, raw with indignation.

" _No!"_

"Alistair- "

"I'm going with her. I said I wouldn't leave her alone again, not after Howe- "

Eamon cast Flora an entreating look from the corner of his eye.

Flora, gleaning the arl's meaning, went forward dutifully to intercept her red-faced brother-warden just as he was about to launch another tirade.

"I'll be fine," she said, trying to inject as much sternness into her voice as possible. "Arl Leonas and Leliana will be with me."

"And me," piped up Finian, who didn't wholly trust Leliana not to truss his little sister up like an Orlesian turkey.

"Flo- "

"I'll be  _fine,"_ Flora repeated patiently, knowing that his protectiveness was borne from fear. "Please, Alistair."

He gazed down at her with anxious eyes searching her face, desperate for some sort of reassurance. She reached up to touch her brother-warden's cheek, letting the slightest prickle of magic nudge against his skin.

A short time later, Flora was hustled out of the manor and into the neighbouring Bryland estate. Slightly smaller than its counterpart, it was in a far greater state of neglect – Leonas visited the city even less frequently than the Guerrin brothers. Although the arlina had been in residence for several months, she had only ordered the maintenance of her own personal quarters.

Chastised servants were now scrubbing at floorboards and washing down walls as Flora was ushered past; partway through the mammoth task of cleaning a house unoccupied for a year. Leonas guided them quickly through the dusty passageways, a muscle in his cheek twitching. At some point Finian fell behind, enraptured by an embroidered tapestry depicting Arl Leonas' Orlesian heritage. A scholar for five years at the University in Val Royeaux, he was curious to see if he recognised any names.

The others came to a halt outside a polished set of double doors. Leonas rapped smartly on the wood before nudging the door open. The arlina's quarters were similar to those at South Reach – Orlesian trimmings placed sporadically to disguise a plain and utilitarian backdrop. The fifteen year old arlina was sitting at her dresser, combing out short, dark hair while gazing at herself in the mirror.

"Habren, I asked you to get your clothes onto the bed," growled Leonas, barely restraining his temper as his daughter rolled her eyes in uniquely adolescent fashion. "I don't know where you get your disobedience from."

Habren let out a loud sigh, rising from the chair and casting an ill-tempered look towards both Flora and Leliana.

"Where's the handsome man who was with you the other day?" she complained, wandering across to the dresser. "Why isn't  _he_ here?"

"Never mind that," retorted Leonas, by now practically snarling. "You've already embarrassed me enough with your lack of manners towards Lady Cousland. Go and sort out some bathwater."

Habren shot both Flora and Leliana a malevolent stare as she skulked out, dark head held high and proud.

Flora, suddenly very grateful that she had been raised as a daughter of Herring as opposed to one of Highever, fiddled with the thread of her jumper. She was not overly bothered by the arlina's condescension, having lived on the bottom rung of the Circle hierarchy for four years.

Leonas coughed apologetically, averting his gaze.

"Right," he muttered, turning towards the door. "I'll be out here with hand on sword, just as I promised your brother-warden."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: It's been sixteen chapters since I last wrote something porny so it's about time, hahaha. Even if it is just prematurely interrupted oral! OOohhh I love political intrigue, so this Chantry interlude before the Landsmeet is right up my alley. Gives all the parties involved a chance to suss each other out!


	242. A Fine Morning To Face Reality

Mage and bard did not have to wait long for the water to arrive, a copper tub manhandled in by two browbeaten servants. Habren scuttled forwards in their wake; a petulant sulk firmly installed on her face as she wandered over to the dresser.

"Most of my clothing is pink," she shot at Flora, who was preoccupied with pulling the woollen jumper over her head. "You'd look  _horrible_  in pink with that hair."

Flora, who had no opinions on pink, let out a grunt that was eerily reminiscent of her Herring-father.

"We want something in blue," retorted Leliana, who had no patience for adolescent surliness. " _Ma crevette_ , get in the bath. Don't get your hair wet, it'll take until Kingsway to dry."

Flora obediently abandoned the chemise and clambered into the tub. Keeping her hair knotted on top of her head, she gave herself the quickest wash in Ferelden history while Leliana rummaged through the glowering arlina's wardrobe.

"Aha!  _C'est parfait,"_ announced the bard, holding up a velvet tunic dress the same rich blue shade as the night sky. "A compromise, since you dislike long dresses."

"I hate  _all_  dresses," clarified Flora, water streaming from her body as she stood up. "They're worse than breeches in  _every_  way. I don't see why I can't wear- "

"I won this hairpiece at a game of cards," declared Finian, barging his way unannounced into the room while brandishing a fistful of slender golden chain. "You could- "

He stared at his sister as she stood in the bathwater, clutching her hair on top of her head with a slightly bemused expression. His eyes went straight to the small, defined mound of her stomach, the curve shallow but distinct; and his jaw dropped.

In Orlais, where gossiping was viewed as a national sport, young nobles learnt early on how to spot the tell-tale signs of fecundity. Servants were paid well to whisper of stopped monthly cycles; dressmakers sold stories of how many inches they'd needed to let out from some dowager's dress. Finian, a veteran of several years at the University in Val Royeaux, was well-practised at this game.

Yet, staring at his younger sister's burgeoning belly as she stood, yawning, in the bath before him, Finian felt no delicious thrill of scandal. Instead, a cold lodestone of dread dropped into the bottom of his stomach, sitting heavy and ominous in his gut.

"Oh,  _Maker_ \- " he breathed, the colour draining from his face. "You're not…"

A swooping Leliana grabbed the slender Cousland un-gently by the arm, steering him firmly back out into the outer passage. Both Flora and Habren watched them go, nonplussed.

The moment that the door shut in their wake, Finian turned on Leliana, disbelief flaring bright in his eyes. Leonas, who had been dutifully standing guard outside with hand on sword-hilt, stared at the young Cousland's pallid face.

"What's the meaning of – of  _that?!"_ Finian demanded, two spots of high colour burning on his cheeks. "Is she- "

Leliana sighed under her breath, dropping her voice to an undertone so not to be heard through the doors.

"Yes," she murmured, knowing from Wynne that Bryland was already privy to the news. "Your sister is with child. Keep your voice down, please."

" _Maker."_

Finian sagged back against the wall, suddenly feeling his legs weak and jellied beneath him. Leonas and Leliana shared a quick glance; the arl tight-lipped and the bard resigned. For several moments, Finian said nothing but simply inhaled unsteadily, a myriad of emotions passing across his face.

"That's several months gone," he breathed, the knowledge gleaned from the games and gossip of Val Royeaux paying off. "But, Maker, she  _can't_ be."

"Well, she is," replied Leliana bluntly, offering him a sip from her hip-flask. "Keep your voice down."

"But when?  _How?!"_ demanded Finian, casting a bewildered stare over his shoulder.

"Most likely when you went back to Ostagar to retrieve Cailen's correspondence," Leliana murmured, having already done the calculations with Wynne. "And as for  _how_  – in the usual way that two people make a child, I presume."

Finian downed the entirety of the hip-flask in three desperate gulps, sweat beading on his forehead. He tried three times to replace the stopper with trembling fingers, and then dropped it altogether.

"But – but... " he bleated, as though trying to convince himself against the proof of his own eyes. "Fergus spoke with Alistair, soon as he found out that they were lying together. Alistair said that Wardens couldn't conceive!"

Leliana shrugged a shoulder, both of them well-aware of the nature of Flora's peculiar brand of magic. Finian let out a soft groan, his eyes sliding to Leonas. The arl gave a soft nod of confirmation, expression carefully neutral.

"The sickness she's been having in the mornings," Finian said suddenly, furious at himself for not guessing the truth sooner. "Of course. Maker's Breath, this is… this is- "

"A  _disaster,_ " replied the bard bluntly, a sad smile taking the harshness from her words. "She has to lead an army and kill the Archdemon. We need her to end the Blight!"

"But- it's Alistair's child," breathed Finian, shaking his head in disbelief. "Maker – he doesn't even  _know_ , does he?"

"Nor does she," said Leliana, pressing her ear to the wooden door to ensure that nobody was listening from the other side. "She's convinced that it's too many desserts at South Reach."

Finian let out an incredulous bark of laughter, which lacked a single shred of humour.

"Then Florence can't fight," he replied, continuing to shake his head slowly. "If we win the support of the Landsmeet, Alistair will be king. She'll be carrying the  _king's child."_

"Finian," said Leliana, her voice cool and deliberate as she laid calculated fingers on the slender noble's arm. "She  _has_  to fight. Ferelden  _needs_  her to fight. Alistair cannot find out. And neither can Fergus."

Finian mouthed frantically, pinned to the wall by the bard's steely gaze.

"But- " he protested weakly, head turning between Leliana and a grim-faced Leonas. "Maker's Breath. That's the heir to Ferelden, she's carrying in her belly. You can't seriously think she can fight?"

"There will  _be_ no Ferelden if she doesn't fight," replied the bard, immediately. "If you tell Alistair – or your brother – they'll have her on a ship to Antiva as soon as you can say  _Archdemon."_

Finian groaned, passing a hand over his eyes.

"How long do you think you can hide it?" he asked, a note of pleading creeping into his tone. "I can see how Alistair might be fooled that it's the product of overindulgence at the moment, but give it another month or two - there'll be no disguising it. She's a slender little creature."

Leliana folded her lips tightly, glancing sideways at Leonas. The Arl of South Reach looked similarly sombre, hand clutching the hilt of his sword.

"Then we need to end this Blight quickly," he murmured, the first contribution he had made to the conversation.

Finian groaned suddenly, putting an academic's narrow fingers to his temples as though struck by a sudden headache.

"My young sister," he breathed, a raw edge to his voice. "She's only  _nineteen_. How could this have happened?"

Leliana snorted, ears pricking as she heard noises from the other side of the door.

"I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner," she replied, reaching for the handle. "They were making cow-eyes at each other from Lothering."

The door swung open, and Flora stood on the other side, clad in a navy velvet dress that fell to just below her knees.

"Habren helped me change," she said, gesturing to Leonas' dark-haired daughter. The arlina looked a little self-conscious, as though embarrassed at the public acknowledgement of her services.

Leliana immediately swept forward, smoothing down errant dark red strands with a palm and letting no hint of the previous conversation show on her face.

"Dark blue suits you,  _chérie,"_ she said, eyes dropping in mild distress to Flora's leather boots. "Though I wish you'd let me pick out a pair of formal slippers for you."

"Those shoes eat my feet," replied Flora bluntly, wondering at the odd expression on her brother's face. "My boots are comfy."

"I tried to put her hair up, but there's too much of it," interrupted Habren, clutching a fistful of thick, unruly curls. "It just collapsed."

"It's fine," interjected Leliana, nudging Finian hard as he gaped blatantly at his sister's midriff. "That hair is as powerful a Cousland symbol as the laurel wreath."

"You look beautiful, Flossie," Finian said after a moment, clearing his throat and smiling at her. "No-one will be able to concentrate on the Chantry service with you in their midst."

Flora, who hated being the centre of attention, immediately fell into deep gloom.

Her melancholy lasted all the way back to the courtyard of the Guerrin estate, where the others were waiting patiently with horses and retainers. The bells were ringing all over Denerim, a cascade of metallic reminders that the service would be starting within the hour. Although the largest Chantry – their destination - was located on the edge of the noble district; smaller chapels were scattered across the city for the use of the general population.

Alistair, who had been stroking the soft muzzle of a dappled grey to calm himself, caught sight of his sister-warden as she approached with Leonas, Finian and Leliana. Immediately he dropped the horse's reins and strode across the cobbles, clad in the fur-edged padded tunic of a young Fereldan noble.

"Sweetheart," he breathed, kissing her squarely on the mouth as she smiled up at him. "You take my breath away."

Flora eyed her brother-warden for a long moment, still skeptical about the hated dress. Despite the fact that the garment ended at her knees and was not  _too_ functionally dissimilar from her breeches; she hated it entirely on principle.

"Hm," she replied dubiously.

As though aware that it was almost Bloomingtide, the sun shone down brilliantly on them from above, turning the estuary into liquid jade flecked with gold. The temperature was balmy, and only a handful of scattered clouds marred the otherwise unbroken expanse of blue overhead. The party made their way slowly on horseback towards Denerim's largest Chantry, escorted by a selection of Guerrin, Cousland and Bryland retainers.

Flora, perched on the saddle in front of her tight-lipped brother-warden, twisted her head from side to side. Having previously arrived in the noble district at night, she was only now able to appreciate the sheer wealth and size of the manors that lined the streets. Servants clad in a spectrum of different liveries scuttled back and forth, chatting, gossiping and exchanging complaints; taking full advantage of their lord or lady's sojourn to the Chantry.

Every so often she caught a glimpse of Alistair behind her, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead and the sun lighting brilliant gold strands in his hair. Knowing his facial quirks as well as her own, Flora could spot at least six minute signs of tension in her best friend's expression. Surreptitiously she slid backwards on the saddle, pressing herself against the solid muscle of her brother-warden's chest. Immediately she felt him lean forward to peck affectionate lips to the top of her head.

"I'm just worried that I won't be able to restrain myself," he murmured in her ear, gripping the horse's reins in a single practised hand. "I know we aren't armed, but what if I just – punch the General in the face? Or shove him on the ever burning flame?"

Alistair's tone was light, but there was a distinct and dark vein of anger running through each word.

"You'll be fine," Flora whispered back, trying to force as much reassurance into her reply as possible. "I  _know_  you'll be fine. Anyway, you can't go and punch him in the face. He'll have you arrested and then I'd be on my own."

This was patently untrue, since they were in the company of two Guerrins, two Couslands, the Arl of South Reach and all their respective retinues. Additionally – and most intimidatingly of all-, Leliana was bringing up the rear, elegantly seated on a pale grey mare.

Flora's ominous warning still had the desired effect; Alistair hissed between his teeth and tucked her head protectively beneath his chin.

"Never again, sweetheart," he murmured, and she felt the reverberations from his throat against her skull.

The sun continued to smile benevolently down from above, doing its best to disguise the tensions that were inextricably rising in Ferelden's capital. According to Leliana, there had been another protest in the central market square the previous evening, demanding to know the true circumstances of their popular Theirin king's death. Maric had been widely revered as the man who had expelled Orlesian rule, and the removal of his son had caused recurrent bouts of consternation. Since Arl Howe had acted as Loghain's right hand man, mercilessly suppressing and imprisoning any dissenters; his absence meant that the protest continued unabated, finishing with a march on the Royal Palace itself to demand an audience. When the palace guards had refused to let them into the grounds, a scuffle had broken out that resulted in several protesters dead on the cobbles.

This morning seemed calmer, at least on first impression. Most of Denerim was heading in the direction of their local Chantries; proud of their city's heritage as the birthplace of Andraste, the occupants tended towards piety.

The nobles' party soon turned onto the wide, paved boulevard that curved around the perimeter of the noble district. This would bring them into the Square of the Bride, where Denerim's largest and oldest Chantry was located. The retainers made a clear path for the noble party to traverse, hands on the hilts of their swords. Although most of the city occupants knew to keep out of the way of such processions, the streets were artificially swollen that morning; Chantry-goers forced into the centre of the road by the sheer number of men, women and children huddled in blankets at the sides of the buildings.

"Refugees from the south," whispered Leliana in Fergus' ear, leaning across from her saddle. "Ones that can't afford passage to the Free Marches. They've got nowhere else to go."

The teyrn of Highever gave a short nod of disapproval, lips pursed tightly.

"How does Loghain not see this?" he breathed back, shaking his head incredulously. "How has he not acted?"

"He's waiting for the formal support of the nobles," Leliana replied, with an elegant shrug. "One can only presume."

Flora could feel her brother-warden tensing unhappily on the saddle behind her, his breath coming heated and angry against her ear.

"Look at these people," Alistair hissed, outraged. "Good Fereldans, displaced from their homes and farmsteads. They deserved more. They deserved  _protection."_

Flora nodded, glumly. While they had been staying at the Pearl, she had noticed the swollen numbers of refugees huddled around the docks. When she had made tentative enquiries, many of them professed to have been from Gwaren, Loghain's ravaged teyrnir. A little beat of fear throbbed in her throat for Herring; for surely any safety gained from its location on the north coast would be temporary at best.

As the Wardens gazed down at the sad mass of humanity gathered on the streets, the citizens of Denerim gazed back. Their stares were focused almost unanimously on Alistair, who – clad in noble garb and mounted on a tall horse – resembled the young Maric to an almost unsettling degree. Many of the city's occupants still had small oval portraits of their old, beloved king propped on mantels and sills within their homes; the concurrence between the painted head and the strong-jawed, handsome young man before them was uncanny. Whispers blossomed like wildfire in their wake, eyes darting back for a second and third glance. One incredulous old woman called out  _King Maric!_ in quavering tones, a crabbed hand stretching up towards him.

Alistair had reluctantly grown somewhat used to the reactions. They had begun as soon as Eamon had taken him on excursions to procure a wardrobe more suitable for an heir to the throne.

"I feel as though I've grown a second head," he muttered in Flora's ear, she shifted on the saddle and gave a little grunt of agreement.

"I'm glad they're all trying to look at you and not at me," she offered. "Shall I crouch down so they can get a better view?"

Alistair laughed, ducking his head to rub his freshly shaven cheek against hers.

"Don't you dare, my love."

Both Wardens jumped as Leliana brought her mare alongside them, her sharp hearing allowing for easy eavesdropping.

"I'd hoped to bring this up while you were dressing, Florence," she said, her tone low and urgent. "But I had to speak with your brother on – another matter."

Flora stared across at the bard, slightly alarmed. The crowds were massing in ever-greater throngs around them as they approached Denerim's largest square. The Chantry bells were so close and loud now that they almost drowned out Leliana's reply.

"The nobles here know who Alistair is," she replied, raising her voice over their joyful pealing. "A meeting of the King's Council was convened at his birth. And they've seen him with Eamon over the past few days."

All of a sudden they emerged into the Square of the Bride. It was a vast, sprawling space lined on three sides with squat, official stone buildings. The main magistrate's court sat on the eastern face of the square, Andraste's golden sword of justice hanging above its entrance. Opposite lay the main Templar barracks, the official headquarters of the order within Ferelden. Flora let out an involuntary shiver as she caught sight of the familiar flecked sword emblazoned on a dozen hanging banners.

Yet in defiance of the impressive structures to either side, it was the Chantry cathedral sitting on the northern face of the square that immediately demanded the eye. It dwarfed the rest of the buildings, perched at the top of several vast, converging stairways. Two lofty central bell towers were flanked by sloping lead roofs to give the temple its traditional shape, yet it was like no other Chantry that Flora had seen before. In terms of sheer scale, it stood at least twenty times larger than its Redcliffe cousin, able to house a congregation of a thousand. Stained glass windows, gleaming jewel-like in the morning light, were embedded within its stern stone edifice. Long banners emblazoned with the colours of Ferelden, Denerim, Theirin and the Chantry hung suspended from its walls. The iron Chantry sunburst hung above a pair of vast doors, which had been opened up to receive the great and good of Denerim.

Flora was struck dumb for several moments as they dismounted at the edge of the square, retainers leading their horses to a discreet nearby stables. She was so taken aback by the sheer scale of the cathedral that she barely listened to Leliana's urgent whispering.

"Stop gawping and  _listen_!" demanded the bard, falling into step beside Flora as they began to cross the Square of the Bride. "As I was saying – the nobles have seen Alistair before. It is  _you_  who will draw their stares."

This caught Flora's attention. Dismayed, she came to a stop at the foot of the steps, Arl Leonas colliding into her with a grunted apology.

"Me?" she asked in bewilderment as Leliana linked their elbows, steering her upwards with gritted teeth.  _"Me?!_ Why?"

"You are Bryce Cousland's daughter, recently emerged from obscurity and revealed to be a  _mage._ Not only are you a Grey Warden, but you're also the acknowledged lover of Alistair Theirin.  _And_ you've publicly pitted yourself in opposition to Loghain."

Leliana's words were hissed directly into Flora's ear as they ascended the steps, the glowering stone eyes of Andraste and her companions scowling down at them from the Chantry edifice.

"Oh," said Flora glumly, feeling a small twinge from her knee as they continued to climb. "It does sound bad when you say it all once."

Beside her, she felt Alistair reach for her hand and give it a quick fish-rope squeeze.

"Not  _bad,"_ replied Leliana placatingly, smoothing down her own lay-sister robes as they approached the vast entranceway. "But they'll certainly have never seen anything quite like you before. And they will stare."

_I'm just a nobody from Herring,_ Flora thought miserably, already feeling the heated stares of the Templars that stood flanking the entrance.  _How is this happening to me?_

Leliana could read the expression on her face, and stepped so close that Flora could see every individually-pigmented eyelash.

"You cannot run away," the bard murmured, her voice steely. "You must not look intimidated. You are a  _teyrn's daughter_ and you must act as such. Your father was a hero of Ferelden in his youth, after all."

They came to a halt before the doorway, waiting for a procession of Chantry brothers to enter. Flora looked around at the faces of her companions, lit both by sunlight and anticipation. Leonas was grim as usual, while Eamon bore a countenance of carefully controlled anger. Recalling that Loghain had ordered the arl's poisoning; she realised that it was not only she and Alistair who bore grudges against the teyrn of Gwaren. Teagan Guerrin, who had been the first to question Loghain's seizure to power, was also shifting from foot to foot, his handsome face lined with concentration.

She was pleased to see that Alistair appeared calm, perhaps a shade paler than usual beneath the olive tan. He glanced repeatedly at her, the green flecks in his eyes brought out by the sunlight, and it was obvious that his composure was drawn from her own steadiness.

Finally, Flora turned her grey Cousland stare on her elder brothers. They were shoulder-to-shoulder, both clad defiantly in Highever blue. Fergus wore the gold ducal band of a teyrn around his forehead, pressed down against the russet hair. Finian, tall and delicate of feature, looked visibly anxious. Flora felt a twinge of sympathy for her academic middle brother, who had relished witnessing political entanglements in Val Royeaux, but did not enjoy finding himself in the midst of one now. He had been shooting odd little looks at her all morning; naturally, she could read his expressions as well as her own, and knew that he was anxious.

"The Couslands ought to lead together," breathed Leliana, as the doorway finally cleared. "Florence?"

_I'm a child of Herring, and Herring folk are ruled by the Waking Sea,_ Flora thought fiercely to herself.  _No noble can compare to our liege-lord._

_Deep breath, chin up, eyes straight._

Letting her face's natural solemnity fall back into place like a mask, Flora lifted her chin.

"Let's go," she said, bluntly. "And get this over with before my stomach starts rumbling."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So now Finian knows as well, lol. 
> 
> I've changed a couple of things from in game – or, I suppose, developed them to suit my story! Like I figure a capital city the size of Denerim, with a population of 100,000, has got to have a larger Chantry than the one you see in game in the marketplace, which is literally the size of Redcliffe and you can't even go into it! So I've created a much larger Chantry which serves as the main religious temple in Ferelden- architecturally, it's a bit more like the Kirkwall Chantry, but more rustic/starkly primitive in visual appearance. I also made up Square of the Bride, but I figure it's quite fitting since Denerim was the birthplace of Andraste.
> 
> A bit more character development for Alistair as well here – the outrage on behalf of the hundreds of displaced refugees, and his protest that 'they deserved protection'. By this point, he's accustomed to his position as a claimant; but is motivated solely by his desire to defend the land and the people that he has seen while travelling the length and breadth of the country.
> 
> There's a few people who are going to 'face reality' today.....


	243. Face To Face With The Mac Tirs

Flora sensed her brothers fall into step beside her, and then they crossed together into the cavernous hollow of Ferelden's largest Chantry.

It was a vast space, the vaulted ceiling extending a hundred feet above their heads. Tiered balconies allowed for lesser worshippers to be seated above ground level; while the worthy noble families of Ferelden – those who could trace their ancestry back to the ancient Alamarri tribes that once ruled – claimed the larger pews on the ground floor. Chandeliers crafted from wrought iron burned in smouldering rings overhead; pools of amber light mingling with the crystallised spectrum filtering through the stained glass. A vast statue of Andraste stood clad in ceremonial robes at the far end, presiding over a great raised altar. She held a sword aloft in one hand, her other palm outstretched to reveal the ever-burning flame.

Pale blue perfumed smoke from several dozen incense holders drifted through the cavernous, pillared hollow. The Chantry Mother stood behind the raised altar with her hands stretched in reverence towards the Maker's Bride. A legion of Chantry officials were bustling around in last minute preparations for the morning service.

The upper tiers were half-empty, but the pews were nearly full. Nobles clad in their Chantry best were gathered, sporting their best semblances of piety. Many of them were attending because they had heard the rumours that Alistair Theirin and the Couslands might be there.

Flora raised her chin, suddenly grateful for the natural sternness of her features. Deliberately keeping her eyes fixed on the vast statue of Andraste, she strode down the aisle with Herring forthrightness.

The whispers started immediately and she felt the heat of a crowd's stare prickling on her shoulders. Many of the murmurings seemed to be focused around her appearance – the solemn features and the autumnal colouring that characterised the Couslands writ so starkly on her face that it seemed laughable she had not been recognised easier. Her brothers walked alongside her, stiff-jawed and disdainful; Bryce's sons.  _Do not pity us,_ their stance seemed to say.  _Howe is dead and Highever will fly the laurel once more._

Out of the corner of her eye Flora caught sight of the Bann of Calon lifting a surreptitious finger in greeting. A moment later, in an opposite pew, the Arl of Edgehall caught her eye. Gratified that the southern nobles had not forsaken their cause, Flora lifted her chin and strode forward. She was aware that her knee-length dress and leather boots cut an incongruous figure amidst the furred collars and laced bodices; and that her hair, falling in dark red abandonment to the small of her back, was not plaited and pinned like the other noble women.

 _That's fine,_ she thought defiantly.  _I'm not like any other noble woman._

A Chantry lay-brother ushered her to a pew, second from the front. Flora went in first, going to the end of the bench and taking a seat beside a stone pillar. Her brothers filed in alongside her; she could feel Finian trembling, and placed her fingers comfortingly on his elbow. The Chantry sisters were singing the pre-service hymnals, their voices rising triumphantly up to the vaulted ceiling.

Leonas, Alistair and the Guerrin brothers entered next, further whispers emerging at the sight of Eamon. Suddenly, a loud and distinct call came from somewhere in the upper tier.

" _Prince Alistair!"_

Flora's head swung to the side, her breath catching in her throat. She saw Eamon and Teagan react similarly, green-grey Guerrin eyes flaring with alarm.

They were all looking at Alistair, who had been just about to step into the pew. He paused, one hand resting on the gnarled wood, his handsome face going very still.

Then, after a brief hesitation, he gave the slightest inclination of his head to acknowledge the greeting.

Eamon exhaled in relief, the tension visibly draining. Beside him, Teagan bowed his head in a slight nod.

"Good lad," the bann murmured under his breath, glancing quickly at his elder brother.

Alistair ducked into the pew, and made his way past everybody else, eyes fixed straight ahead. At several inches over six foot and powerfully built, his frame seemed to take up the entirety of the pew, and those he passed found themselves withdrawing hastily against the back of the bench.

The bastard prince did not stop until he had reached the end of the pew, hazel gaze dropping to Flora's solemn face.

"Can I sit next to you?" he asked, voice steady but sweat beading on his forehead.

Flora smiled up at him, sliding along the bench until she was pressed against Finian's side.

"You can always sit next to me," she whispered, patting the wood.

Alistair twisted the corner of his mouth briefly back at her, sitting down beside the stone pillar. His broad thighs took up enough room that Flora found herself practically sitting on Finian's lap. Her slender, intellectual brother almost smiled at her before the strange worry from earlier flared in his eyes once again.

As the Chantry Mother took her place at the altar in preparation for the service to start, Leliana emerged with the other lay-sisters. They proceeded to sit in the first pew, the bard flashing them a quick glance over her shoulder from beneath her white headpiece. The excited noble chatter fell to a quiet murmur, and all eyes turned towards the front.

Surreptitiously, Alistair's fingers slid over the back of Flora's hand. She twisted her palm over and duly fish-roped her brother-warden, clenching his fingers tightly in return. He began to massage the inside of her wrist with the ball of his calloused thumb and there was something oddly intimate about the practised circling that made her blush.

Then there was a collective intake of air, a sudden hush that fell over the congregation. Heads swivelled around to the door as the latecomers made their entrance.

Alistair's fingers tightened so hard on Flora's that she felt the bones compress. Beyond hearing, he fixed his gaze blindly ahead; the sweat beading on his forehead.

"Is it him?" he said in a strange, constricted tone.  _"Is it him?"_

" _Stand for Queen Anora!"_

They rose as one, Alistair moving as though in a dream. Flora turned her head, standing on her toes as she craned her neck to see who had made such a late entrance.

A woman swept down the aisle, the fine lines around her green eyes indicating that she was approaching her third decade. Fine blonde hair was swept up in two plaited whorls on either side of her head, upon which rested a heavy golden band. Her body was encased in a deep fuchsia gown, edged with silk and trailing violet sleeves. She had a fine-boned, delicate face that did not disguise the steely set of her mouth.

Behind her, Loghain stalked down the aisle in full armour; flaunting convention by bearing arms in a Chantry. He was tight-lipped and un-amused, showing no contrition for their late entrance. The greying braids that framed his face trembled as he strode forwards, eyes fixed ahead.

"Yes," whispered Flora, a strange tangle of emotions rising in her throat. "It's... it  _is_  him."

_He knew I wasn't really Tranquil, and yet he didn't tell Arl Howe. Why would he do that?! I'm his enemy!_

Then all thoughts were chased from her head as Alistair's fingers clenched on hers so tightly that she let out a little gasp of pain. Despite this, the daughter of Herring gripped the prince's hand back hard, as though she were hauling in the sodden nets or wrestling a crab pot from the Waking Sea. Her brother-warden was staring fixedly ahead, jaw set like steel.

The Queen swept into a pew opposite, barely sparing them a glance. Loghain, however, paused beside the second row, a contemptuous stare travelling across their faces. His gaze stopped on Arl Eamon, and one eyebrow twitched up to his greying hairline.

"You're looking well, Guerrin," he murmured, the corner of his lip curling in derision. "I heard that you were…  _ailing_."

"Aye," replied Eamon, his voice steady and even. "Have you made your confession recently, Teyrn Mac Tir?"

Loghain snorted, his dark eyes continuing along the line. He made no further comment until his gaze came to rest on Flora, wedged between Alistair and Finian. She blinked up at Andraste's solemn, stone face, feeling the lingering heat of the teyrn's stare.

"We meet again, Florence Cousland," he murmured, and she felt Alistair's fingers tighten around her own; sensed his body stiffen at the traitorous general's familiarity.

Flora made no comment, grateful for the naturally solemn set of her features.

"You seem rather…  _different_  from when we were in Howe's chamber together," Loghain continued, his voice low with deliberate ambiguity as he tried to provoke a response. "Quite changed in temperament."

Flora felt Alistair go rigid as a board beside her, and knew that he was about to hurl himself bodily over the pew, scattering lay sisters before him in his efforts to reach Loghain.

_**He mustn't.** _

Surreptitiously, Flora lifted her knee and stamped with all her strength on her brother-warden's foot. Alistair recoiled in shock, but the jolt of pain had brought a moment of clarity in the clouded rage. He made no reply to Loghain's needling, but merely stood beside his sister-warden, quivering with barely suppressed anger.

"Father," called the Queen from the pew opposite. "The Chantry Mother wants to begin the service."

Beside her, Flora could sense Finian similarly restraining Fergus, younger brother gripping elder in an effort to keep him calm. Loghain left with lip curling, and strode across the aisle to stand with his straight-backed daughter.

The Chantry Mother ascended to the pulpit, opening the service with the traditional incantation. The congregation fell quiet, their faces turning towards the venerable woman.

" _Blessed be the Maker; whom we are gathered to venerate. Blessed be his Bride, Andraste-in-Flames; bright and benevolent."_

Alistair exhaled, and Flora glanced sideways at him. The pressure on her hand relieved slightly, and she saw his shoulders slump. His hazel eyes slid to the left, as though checking that his sister-warden was still at his side. In response, Flora gave his fingers a firm squeeze and raised her face back to the vast, stone Andraste.

She could sense his eyes moving over her profile; taking in the defiant jaw, the unblinking stare and the solemn curl of her wide Cousland mouth. Flora heard her brother-warden take a deep breath and then he straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin to match hers.

The Chantry Mother stepped to one side, letting a male clerk clad in maroon and cream robes ascend the pulpit in her place.

" _Blessed are they who stand before_

_The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._

_Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just."_

The clerk's words echoed to the vaulted ceiling, distinct as the clarion call of a bell. The Chantry sisters began to process down the aisle, clutching their incense thuribles and murmuring softly under their breath. Spilling out into rows at the feet of the vast stone Andraste, their voices rose in chorus as they began a familiar hymn.

Nobody needed to use their songbooks; it was the traditional verse commonly used to open a Chantry service. The congregation joined in dutifully, ragged at first but soon swelling into a unified whole.

Leliana's voice easily broke free of the other women, soaring, strident and majestic. Leonas sang like he spoke – in grunts – while Teagan had a melodic, clear tenor. Even Alistair, who had spent nearly a decade in a monastery and knew all the hymns by heart, had a strong baritone that was pleasing to the ear.

Inspired by her harmonious companions, Flora opened her mouth and joined in with her flat, grating Herring vowels. After several bars, Leliana turned around and shook her head minutely, widening her eyes.

Flora obediently stopped singing, and decided to absorb the atmosphere instead. Herring only had a tiny Chantry constructed from wood and stone, with a tiled floor perpetually covered in sand and a part-time priestess whom they shared with three other villages. The people of Herring were pious but did not rely overmuch on the Chantry; they prayed, birthed their children and buried their dead with little interference. This vast hollow space, with its stained glass windows, vaulted ceiling and pillars wider than any tree trunk, was wholly unfamiliar, despite its familial connection to her diminutive Herring chapel.

She stared up at the giant stone Andraste, who must have been at least thirty feet tall. Privately, Flora thought that the expression on this Andraste's face was rather insipid. She preferred the militaristic, armour-clad Andraste in the Chantry at South Reach; who scowled down at worshippers with a stern, take-no-prisoners glower.

_You led an army, after all, and I don't think you did it in a dress._

The hymn ended and the Chantry Mother resumed her position on the pulpit. She went on to explain that the topic of today's sermon would be  _Maferath's Betrayal, 'at the behest of the visiting lay sister Leliana.'_

Leliana tilted her head a fraction, smiling to herself as she heard Finian stifle a snort. The congregation sat back down with a rustling of fur and leather to listen to the familiar verses.

Alistair, who had heard this particular sermon at least a dozen times, looked sideways at his sister-warden. Some colour had returned to Flora's face, her cheeks were rosy and her eyes unusually bright- she had clearly enjoyed the singing. A sudden surge of affection rose in Alistair's throat; he lifted their clasped hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her fingers. His lips lingered there for several moments as he inhaled the warm scent of her skin.

Flora smiled up at him, and then felt the heat of a pair of eyes settling on her. Instinctively, she glanced across the aisle and caught Anora's stare. The queen was watching them, her green eyes thoughtful. The two teyrns' daughters gazed at one another with open curiosity for several moments, and then Loghain noticed Anora's distraction. He turned his dark eyes towards Flora and she immediately snapped her head back round to the front, lifting her chin.

After a prolonged sermon on the virtue of faith and loyalty – two qualities that Maferath apparently lacked in the extreme – the Chantry Mother called for another hymn. The congregation reached for their songbooks, turning to the desired page with a soft rustling of parchment.

As the sound of raised voices flooded the cavernous space once again, Flora settled her eyes back on the lofty brow of Andraste. She could not read the words in the hymn book fast enough to keep up with the melody, and was instead pretending to sing by opening and closing her mouth like a fish.

Fractured rainbow-hued light from the stained glass windows danced across the Bride's holy face; giving the illusion that her lips were singing chapter and verse along with the congregation below.

 _You were a girl from a fishing village, too,_ thought Flora, mouthing silently to herself.  _How did you become brave enough to lead an army? How did you know that you were doing the right thing?_

_Did the Maker whisper reassurance in your ear, like my spirits do for me?_

_What did He whisper when they were burning you?_

It took a few moments for Flora to realise that the hymn had ended, and that she was still standing up, mouthing like a fish. She sat abruptly, cheeks flaring, and bowed her head in response to Finian's amused snort.

Before long, the Chantry Mother was reciting the closing verse, while the priestesses stalked back down the aisle trailing incense in their wake.

Once the Chantry officials had made their exit, the rest of the congregation also made to leave; eager to emerge back out into the spring sunshine. They drifted slowly back through the open doors, descending the steps to cluster in the Square of the Bride, chattering in hushed excitement.

The Wardens' party also stood to leave, Leonas leading the way down the aisle. Both Alistair and Flora had managed to assiduously ignore Loghain Mac Tir for the duration of the service, and continued to do so even when he rose to his feet, looking as though he intended to intercept them.

"I'm  _so_  gratified that you've chosen to grace us with your presence, Alistair Theirin," he drawled, the sarcasm dry and brittle as autumn leaves. "It must have been hard to tear yourself away from that little whorehouse on the docks. It seems you have something else in common with your brother, apart from foolishness."

Alistair tensed, the comment coming just as he was ducking out of the pew. To Flora's relief, he made no reply; merely turned a face set like stone towards the exit.

No further protest was made from the queen's father as he watched them proceed down the aisle. Flora was proud to see that her brother-warden looked in far better physical condition than he had done when they had entered, despite the provocation from Loghain.

They were just on the verge of the doorway when Loghain's voice came drifting towards them once again.

"Lady Cousland, as the daughter of Highever, I'm surprised that you will not acknowledge the teyrn of Gwaren."

Perhaps it was that she had spent the majority of the service gazing up at Andraste's impassive stone face and thinking on Denerim, Herring and fishing communities in general; but Flora found herself unable to ignore this final jibe.

She turned around in the entrance, sensing her companions bristle in alarm behind her. Fergus let out a muffled curse under his breath and started forward to restrain his recalcitrant little sister, yet it was far too late.

Flora strode determinedly back down the aisle, coming to a stop a dozen yards before Loghain as he stood between the pews. He gazed down at her, sallow-faced and even gaunter than she remembered from Howe's chamber.

"I  _would_  acknowledge the teyrn of Gwaren," she snarled back, glad that her contemptuous tone did not reflect her frantically racing heart. "But there's an issue with your claim. Because Gwaren doesn't actually  _exist_ anymore."

The contemptuous smile slowly slid from Loghain's face as he stared at her, fractured light illuminating the shadowed hollows of his face. Flora continued, filled with outrage on behalf of the people of Gwaren, who had been fishermen and defenceless.

"The Darkspawn have _destroyed_ it, poisoned your lands, and slaughtered your people. Although, how would you know this? You've been too busy trying on Ferelden's crown to see how it fits."

Flora raised her voice, pointing an accusatory finger in stark defiance of noble custom.

"And if  _you_  had ever come down to the Denerim docks, you would have seen what remains of your people. But, I don't think they let refugees into the palace grounds."

Her voice rang out, clear and northern; the cadences common but somehow the more powerful for their bluntness. Loghain made no reply, merely gazed at her with eyes burning like coals in an otherwise impassive face.

"So, if the teyrn of Gwaren was here; I  _would_  acknowledge him. But as it stands," she hissed, knowing and not caring that all eyes were on her. "I don't see a teyrn. I see only a coward who abandoned his people."

Fuming on behalf of her fellow fishermen, Flora spun on her heel. The next moment, she turned back and made an impatient little bow in the direction of a pale-faced Anora.

"Your majestic… highness!"

Then the daughter of Highever lifted her chin, turned her back and sailed down the aisle, ignoring the excited whispers and murmurs that rose on either side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note:  
> A thurible is an incense-holder, even though Word seems not to recognise it! IT IS A THING!
> 
> I like this chapter because poor Flora gets shut down mid-song, again. She really does have the worst singing voice ever, it really is horrible. Ear-bleeding stuff!
> 
> However, Flo does have a good voice for giving speeches – she has a mixture of Highever eloquence and Herring bluntness which is pretty persuasive! Flora feels kinship with the unfortunate residents of Gwaren, since it's located on the southern coast and would have also contained a lot of fishermen.
> 
> Lol she also has no idea how to address a queen, hence "your majestic highness"


	244. Flora Realises The Truth

Flora met her open-mouthed companions at the cathedral entrance. They all appeared slightly stunned, save for Alistair, who had seen her deliver such speeches before. He was staring at her, a smile twisting the corners of his mouth, pride bright as a flame on his face.

"My love," he murmured as she came to halt beside him, red in the face at her own audacity. "Take my arm."

Flora slid her hand through his elbow, squinting her eyes against the bright sunlight. Alistair clasped her hand in his and raised his chin; together, prince and teyrn's daughter left the Chantry cathedral arm in arm.

The sun blazed directly overhead, bathing the Square of the Bride in mellow golden light. The Templar headquarters were cast in bronze, the dull grey stone loaned a temporary brilliance. Clusters of Denerim's great and good drew apart to allow their party to pass. The excited whispers now seemed to revolve around the verbal gauntlet that the Lady Cousland had tossed down before the queen's father, and Loghain's damning lack of response.

Flora was grateful for Alistair's arm through hers, feeling the heat of dozens of curious eyes on her back. She was beginning to regret her impulsive outburst, annoyed that she alone had let herself rise to Loghain's needling.

_You and your big Herring mouth, Flora._

Nobody exchanged more than the occasional brief comment as the retainers brought out the horses; Flora allowed Alistair to haul her up into the saddle before him. She spent the journey back to the noble district glumly wondering what lecturing lay in store for her that afternoon. She could already picture Leliana's scandalised face, the bard's scarlet-painted lips moving in exaggerated horror.

_You bawled at Loghain in the middle of the cathedral like a Herring fishwife!_

Eamon was also sure to have a few choice words for her, Flora realised, brooding. The arl had barely looked at her since they had left the square, instead participating in an exchange of meaningful little glances between Fergus, Leonas and Teagan. If it hadn't been for her brother-warden, who held her clamped against him with one strong arm, she would have descended into proper gloom.

_At least Alistair isn't annoyed with me._

The horses finally came to a halt outside the Guerrin estate. Overhead, the seagulls cried and wheeled; a small flotilla of fishing boats sailed down the estuary on their way to the eastern docks. Flora gazed down at the little boats as they took advantage of the incoming tide, wishing that she could jump from the stone promenade and hide in one of their shallow hulls.

Stable-boys came running out to take the reins of the horses as they dismounted; Alistair sliding expertly down from the saddle before reaching up to help his sister-warden.

Flora landed on the cobbles and looked up to see Eamon closing in on her with the other nobles. To her vast surprise, a wide smile was plastered over his face behind the bristling grey beard. She gaped at him as Fergus advanced, slinging a proud arm over his sister's shoulders.

"Father would never have put up with Mac Tir's goading, either," he drawled, as Flora gazed up at him in trepidation. "The look on his face! I don't think he was expecting you to reply."

"What a blow to strike before the Landsmeet even opens!" added Teagan, his eyes alight with triumph. "They all heard her accuse the general, and he made no response. It's damning."

Slowly, Flora began to realise that they were  _not,_  in fact, angry with her. Even Leliana was smiling reluctantly, shaking her head from side to side as she removed her linen hair covering.

"Aye," Eamon said slowly, his voice measured even as the corners of his mouth twitched. "Florence, I think you ought to speak at the opening of the Landsmeet tomorrow, now that you've thrown the gauntlet down. You have a uniquely  _direct_ vocal manner that seems to be rather effective."

Flora gave a little nod, her stomach sinking.  _It's just Herring bluntness,_ she thought gloomily to herself.  _I didn't intend to throw any gauntlet, whatever that means. I say it as I see it._

However, the proud look on Alistair's face as he gazed down at her was enough to chase away any doubts. She glanced at her brother-warden briefly, and the heat in his eyes was enough to make her blush.

"I'm hungry," she offered eventually, at which Leliana gave a little snort.

"Of course you are,  _ma petite."_

The Guerrin manor's dining room was far smaller than the great hall of Redcliffe Castle, and bore the distinctive Orlesian decorative touches of Isolde. A table ran the length of the chamber, while portraits of various Guerrin ancestors gazed down at them from both walls. The servants, still slightly out of practise from their master's long absence, tripped over each other in their haste to produce lunch.

As the kitchens rang with activity, the company gathered around the table and made conversation while they waited. Wynne emerged from the manor's library – she had not accompanied them to the cathedral, since she did not trust that her disdain for the Chantry would stay hidden – and immediately went to Leliana's side for an update on the situation.

Flora, who did not feel wholly well, was trying to distract herself by inspecting the paintings hanging on the walls. She stared up at a landscape featuring a number of charging horses, resisting the temptation to prod at the raised whorls of paint.

"That's my favourite one."

Teagan came to stand beside her, his pale green Guerrin eyes focusing on the painting.

"Don't the horses look realistic?"

Personally, Flora thought that the horses looked a little  _too_ realistic, with their flared nostrils and iron-edged hooves.

Teagan gestured up at the stone keep in the backdrop, his expression wistful.

"That's Ansburg Castle, where Eamon and I were raised by our aunt. She was the  _Margravine_ at the time, and her castle had the most extensive stables in the Free Marches."

"You weren't raised in Ferelden?" Flora asked curiously, wondering why the bann's face seemed to be blurring at the edges.

Teagan shook his head, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"It was at the time of the Orlesian occupation and the Rebel Queen. Our parents sent us to the Marches for safety."

The bann continued to talk about how he and his cousins had caused no end of trouble for their long-suffering aunt, and every minute that was not devoted to idle pranks had been spent down the stables.

Flora strained to catch the end of Teagan's words, his voice growing muffled as though he were speaking to her underwater. She could feel beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead as the edges of her vision constricted, drawing together like shutters closing over her eyes. Vaguely, she caught sight of the bann's expression changing from reminiscence to concern. He stepped towards Flora just as she lost her balance, the room dissolving into darkness as the whole world seemed to turn over.

The sensation of something cold and wet dripping onto her forehead roused her from unconsciousness; she heard a tangle of distant voices echoing about her, high and anxious.

"Alistair,  _calm down,"_ emerged Wynne's chastising tone. "Your hysterics aren't helping. Look, she's awake now."

Flora opened her eyes with a little grimace, peering around in confusion. She had been propped up in one of the high-backed chairs before the table; Wynne was sat beside her with a damp handkerchief and her brothers at the forefront of the small crowd that had gathered about her. Alistair was crouching at her feet, blanched beneath his tan and his hazel eyes blown wide open with fright.

"I'm sorry," said Flora, deeply embarrassed and a tad alarmed. "What happened to me?"

"You fainted," replied Wynne in business-like fashion, as Fergus let out a sigh of relief and reached out to ruffle his sister's hair roughly. "Only for a few moments."

"Oh," she replied, nonplussed, as Alistair pressed his lips feverishly to the back of her dangling hand. "Wait, I  _fainted?"_

"Why would she faint? Aren't you feeling well, Flo?" her brother-warden demanded from his crouched position, anxious eyes searching her face.

"I feel fine now," she replied, gratefully accepting Wynne's proffered cup of water. "I just felt… light-headed."

"Light-headed," Fergus said slowly, the thought process visible on his face. "Oriana used to get a similar way, when she was expecting Ore- "

Leliana shot a lightning-quick glance across at Finian, nostrils flaring as she reminded him of the morning's conversation.

_Alistair cannot find out, and neither can Fergus. She has to fight._

"The explanation is obvious," Finian drawled, raising fine eyebrows as he interjected himself into the conversation with Orlesian finesse. "My sister has the appetite of a little red  _pig_ , and she was woefully deprived of sufficient food for three days underneath the bastard Howe. I'm not  _at all_ surprised she's feeling faint. I'll tell you what took  _me_ by surprise – Bann Teagan, I had no idea a man in his middle years could move with such  _fleetness!_  The ladies of Val Royeaux would be dropping like flies if they thought you would be there to catch them."

Teagan snorted and called the Cousland a cheeky sod; the atmosphere lightening as the servants began to arrive with platters of food. Fergus, laughing at his younger brother calling their sister a  _little red pig,_ was wholly distracted from thoughts of Oriana. The others took their seats, Alistair shooting a final anxious glance down at Flora as he sat beside Eamon at the head of the table.

Flora herself was not feeling quite so jovial. Apart from residual embarrassment at bringing attention to herself, she had also had a nasty shock. Although she had lost consciousness on several occasions before, there had always been a clear and obvious explanation for it: a potion drunk, a blow to the head, an incantation uttered. On this instance, it seemed simply that her own body had betrayed her. Worse still, the symptom of light-headedness had brought back a memory from Herring that – for once – did not provide a shred of comfort.

_Flora had been twelve or thirteen, just old enough to start going out with her dad on the boat. Traditionally, this would have been a source of much controversy – as both a female, and a redhead, she was viewed as doubly unlucky. However, since she was also their resident healer - the little secret that kept the life expectancy of Herring higher than any other northern village – this ominous portent was not applied to her._

_She and her father had been knee-deep in the surf, dragging the boat ashore just as the first breath of a storm began to stir the waves. A man and woman were waiting on the beach to meet them; he with his arm protectively around her shoulders, and she with a distinctly rounded curve to her abdomen. She was clutching a wad of bloodied cloth to her head, and appeared somewhat pale. Still, the couple waited patiently for Flora and her dad to secure the boat, they were Herring natives and knew the correct order of business._

_Only once the boat had been firmly anchored did Flora go to her patient. The woman had to bend down for the girl to reach the bleeding forehead – children in Herring tended to be on the scrawny side, and Flora was no exception. As she coaxed the healing energy over the wound, her dad conversed gruffly with his fellow fisherman._

" _How'd it come ter happen, Gethin?"_

" _Weren't me this time – she fell over an' hit her head on the doorframe. Always gets air-headed when she's in the family way, don't yeh Tilly?"_

_Tilly nodded, reaching up gratefully to touch the sealed wound._

" _Aye, that I do. Dizziness comes on out o'nowhere, the world turns over until sea is sky an' sky is sea, an' I can't help but fall. Thank yeh, pet. That's healed nicely."_

Without meaning to, Flora put a surreptitious hand on the small, rounded curve of her belly beneath the table, and swallowed hard.

_The world turns over until sea is sky and sky is sea._

She looked up, and Wynne was staring directly at her. The senior enchanter took advantage of the general distraction caused by the food's arrival to mouth something that was clearly an instruction, and not a request.

_We need to talk._

The rest of the meal passed in a blur, Flora's heart throbbing almost audibly in her throat as she forked excessive quantities of food into her mouth. She had touched Teagan's arm and asked him to tell her more about the horses at Ansburg, but had barely paid attention to his response as she wallowed in her own dark thoughts.

_I can't be. I_ can't _be._

_**You've been sick in the mornings.** _

_That was from the Blight._

_**No, it wasn't. Otherwise you would have been sick from the very beginning.** _

_But it's impossible. They said it was impossible!_

_**Who did? One drunken Warden making a boast?** _

_The taint made me and Alistair infertile. It poisoned our bodies!_

_**And remind us, child, what does your body do to poison?** _

Flora dropped her spoon with a clatter on her plate. Looking down numbly, she saw that she had consumed all of the vegetables – including the raw leaves intended only for decoration – and left behind the succulent, moist slab of chicken.

It was this more than anything than convinced Flora,  _finally,_  of the terrible truth of her situation. The aversion to meat, the rounded belly, the sickness in the mornings, the South Reach midwife's comment, the cessation of her monthly bleeds and now finally the world spinning around her; the evidence added up to a conclusion that not even Flora's powerful denial could neutralise. She looked up, raw fear in her eyes, straight into the knowing stare of the senior enchanter.

_Oh… fish-sticks._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Flora has finally realised that she's pregnant, about one hundred chapters after everyone else, lol. Better late than never! Also, Fergus is pretty dense here – he's literally like OH MY WIFE USED TO GET LIGHT-HEADED WHEN SHE WAS PREGNANT WITH OREN and then Finian skilfully distracts him. If Finian makes it to the end of my story alive, he should definitely have a diplomatic career of sorts, h oho ho


	245. An Unwelcome Revelation

After the servants had cleared away the plates, Wynne went to confer briefly with Eamon; the old mage drew the arl to one side of the doorway and lowered her voice. Flora sat in the chair at the dinner table, nearly paralysed with dread. Alistair was talking to her, but she barely heard a word that he was saying. When Flora looked up, Eamon was gazing at her with an unreadable expression.

_He knows,_ Flora realised, her stomach dropping.  _How can he know before me?_

Eamon cleared his throat, turning his gaze on Alistair.

"Alistair, there's a few more points to discuss before the Landsmeet opens tomorrow," he murmured, his voice deliberately casual. "Shall we discuss them in my quarters?"

Leliana interjected smoothly before Alistair could respond, brushing her fingers over the top of Flora's head.

"Florence should have a lie down. She's sure to get indigestion otherwise, with the amount that she consumed just now."

Alistair - who had been about to protest - immediately looked contrite and gave a little nod.

They parted at the top of the main stairs, with Eamon and the nobles heading to the east wing, while Wynne and Leliana manhandled Flora towards the west wing.

At the last moment, Alistair strode back and pressed a kiss to his stunned sister-warden's mouth. Fortunately, the natural solemnity of Flora's face went a long way to disguise the turmoil below, and the bastard prince did not detect her distress.

"I love you," he whispered, ducking his head to press the words into her ear. "Have a good rest, darling."

Flora issued a Herring-style grunt in response, smiling weakly back up at him. Then Leliana's arm was at her elbow, guiding her swiftly back towards the guest chamber assigned to the Wardens.

The moment that the door swung shut behind them, a grim-mouthed Wynne reached down to turn the key in the lock. Flora wheeled around in disbelief, with a face even paler than usual; the freckles standing out on her nose like flecks of brown ink.

"It's not  _true!"_  she breathed incredulously, assuming that Leliana was also privy to the horrific reality. "It  _can't_  be true."

"Flora, there's no use in ranting and railing," replied Wynne calmly, crossing to the dresser to pour herself a flagon of ale. "Calm yourself."

"That's a  _baby?"_  continued Flora wildly, staring down at the navy-clad curve of her stomach. "I thought it was just a… a lot of desserts. Why? How?! How is this  _possible?!"_

Flora's disbelief at the conception had temporarily distracted her from the potential implications of her condition.

"How? In the normal way," murmured Leliana, peering up at a candelabra that had been cunningly constructed from interwoven antlers. With a small sigh, she repeated the words delivered to Finian that morning. "Flora, you and your brother-warden have been at it like  _rabbits_ for months. This is hardly a surprise!"

Flora gaped, watching the bard as she wandered over to the full-length windows, admiring the view of the saltwater estuary below.

"It  _is_ a surprise, actually," Bryce Cousland's daughter retorted, with a flash of Herring obstinacy. "Since both me and Alistair are supposed to be  _infertile."_

Wynne took a long gulp of ale before replacing the tankard on the dresser; suddenly looking very old and tired.

"Well, you clearly  _aren't."_

Flora blinked, and then took a step towards the door.

"I have to tell him," she breathed; and then suddenly Leliana was there, having moved across the chamber like lightning to cover the lock with her hand.

"Do that, and Ferelden is lost," the bard said flatly, watching the remaining colour drain from Flora's face. "He will send you away, far away from here - and remain behind to combat the Blight and the Archdemon alone."

"But - "

"He has already broached the possibility with Zevran, Flora. If he learns that you are carrying his child, he will send you away to the furthest reaches of Thedas. Whether you want it, or  _not._ "

Flora closed her mouth, seeing the raw truth in the bard's words. The tears rose suddenly and without warning; she brought up her thumbs to press against her eyes. Leliana put her arm around their healer's shoulders, steering her up to the raised central ledge to sit on the bed.

"Ssh,  _chérie._ You mustn't despair."

"But - but-" 

Flora let out another choked little sob, horrified that her own body could have betrayed her so.

_Why didn't you tell me?_ she thought fiercely, hoping that her anger was somehow able to penetrate the Veil.

_**You would not have listened, child. You needed to realise it on your own.** _

"This is a nightmare," Flora bleated wildly to herself, the tears now running freely down her cheeks. "Who else knows?"

Leliana dutifully reeled off the list as Flora's eyes widened.

"Zevran knows?  _Finian_ knows?" she repeated inanely after each name, her fingers folding the blanket in her lap. " _Arl_ _Leonas_  knows? He knows, and he still proposed marriage to me?"

" _Ma crevette,_ it might be quicker to tell you those who do  _not_ know."

Flora sunk back on the pallet mattress with a groan, pulling a cushion over her face.

"What am I going to do?" she implored, her voice muffled by the thick fabric. "This is terrible."

"What do  _you_  want to do, Flora?" Wynne countered, her voice steely. "Ultimately, it is  _your_  decision."

The ensuing silence hung heavily; broken only by the plaintive calls of seagulls as they wheeled above the estuary.

Eventually, Flora removed the cushion from her face and sat up, the tears dried in salty tracks on her face.

"Well, I'm still going to kill the Archdemon and end the Blight," she repeated, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.  _"Obviously._ I suppose I just have to do it more quickly now."

She shot a surreptitious glance across at Leliana; the bard inclined her head slightly in response. Wynne let out a breath of relief that she had not realised she had been holding.

"You fearless child," she murmured, the web of fine lines at the corners of her eyes creasing. "Alright, then. After the Landsmeet opens tomorrow, we'll find a midwife who can give us a better estimate of… of timings."

Flora nodded, filling her lungs and letting the air out slowly, deliberately calming herself.

_Part of me has known since South Reach. I just didn't want to believe it then._

_Well, I still don't want to believe it._

_Oh, it's not fair. Alistair would love a baby. He'd be such a good father._

"I should speak to Ser Riordan," she muttered at last, absentmindedly twisting several dark red strands of hair together. "If only to prove the old Warden  _infertility_ myth wrong. Is he here?"

Leliana shook her head, opening the tall window to let in some fresh air. A spring breeze, edged with saltwater and seaweed, sidled its way into the chamber; Flora turned her face gratefully to its familiar scent.

_The world is upside-down, but the sea still smells like the sea._

"He's gone to investigate some old Warden cache in the city, see if anything has survived Loghain's pillaging," the bard replied, familiar as usual with the comings and goings of those around them. "He said that he would be back 'soon'."

Wynne's face had taken on a pensive cast, something deep-seated and unspoken writ plain on her lined features. She came to sit on the bed beside Flora, letting out an odd little sigh.

"It's such a pity," the senior enchanter murmured eventually, her eyes distant. "A baby should be a cause for joy. Yet, so often the opposite is true."

The look on the old mage's face suggested that she was not just talking about their current situation. Leliana let out a little sigh, clearly privy to more information than Flora.

Flora, at a loss to see how she could possibly find any joy in her predicament, grunted. For the first time in her life, she felt horribly betrayed by the cleansing nature of her own body.

"How am I going to keep this from Alistair? I have no secrets from him," she bemoaned, eyes wide. "He knows my  _face."_

"Easy," replied Leliana, who issued deception as smoothly as breathing. "You remember that if either he or Fergus finds out that you are  _enceinte,_ you'll be packed off to Antiva with Zevran faster than you can say  _my Rialto lily."_

Flora grimaced, rising from the bed to pace the breadth of the chamber; running her hands through her hair until it curled even more wildly.

"How am I going to hide it?" she demanded, glowering down at her own traitorous stomach. "I can't just… stop letting him see me naked, can I? He'll  _definitely_ know something's wrong."

"Letting him see you naked is how you got into this trouble in the first place," retorted Wynne, shooting her a beady-eyes stare. "I knew that this would happen."

Leliana crossed the chamber hastily, placing herself between junior apprentice and senior enchanter as the former opened her mouth to retort. Holding up a peaceable finger, she went to her pack and began to rummage around. A moment later, she held up something pink, gold and silken, trailing a series of delicate ribbons. Flora eyed the garment suspiciously, thinking that it looked very  _Orlesian._

"Is that a- "

" _Oui, chérie,_ it is a corset," replied Leliana, crossing the chamber to hold it up against Flora's chest. "And if you wear it, I promise that Alistair will be so distracted that he will have his eyes nowhere  _near_  your stomach."

The corners of Flora's mouth turned downwards as Leliana pressed the corset to her breasts. She was an adherent of the Herring school of smallclothes; which dictated that undergarments should be warm, woollen, and cover up as much skin as possible.

"Or," she countered, edging away from the unsuitable silk bodice. "I could just eat like a pig and pretend that my weight gain is the result!"

Leliana narrowed her eyes, shooting Wynne a little look of frustration.

"Florence, weight gain from  _overeating_  does not appear the same as weight gain from being with  _chi-_  ."

Just then the key turned in the lock and Alistair barged his way into the room, anxious eyes scanning the guest chamber to locate his sister-warden.

"Sorry I was so long, sweetheart. I don't know why my uncle needed to speak with me again, he was just repeating the same points he's told me before."

Flora, on seeing him, immediately made a dive for last night's abandoned food platter. She began to thrust limp lettuce leaves and remnants of bread into her mouth, with a slightly maniacal expression.

"Mm, I  _love_  food!" she mumbled breathlessly, her mouth full of stale pastry. "I just want to… eat nonstop."

Behind Flora's back, Leliana rolled her eyes and went to put the corset in the dresser. Alistair strode across the flagstones, reaching down to help Flora to her feet.

"Darling, we can get you some fresh food if you want it," he murmured, fingering a strand of dark red hair that had fallen in front of her face. "You should be resting."

Flora stared up at her brother-warden and, for a brief moment, thought that she would tell him everything. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Wynne tensing; clearly thinking the same thing.

_**You can't. You need to fight.** _

"I'm fine," she replied cheerfully, forcing the urge to the back of her mind. "I probably should be learning all the names of the nobles at the Landsmeet, but I think I'm just going to call everyone  _my lord_ or  _my lady,_ and read about fish instead. _"_

They spent the next few hours reading about the lesser and greater sharks of the Amaranthine Ocean. Flora named Howe as the  _greatest shark of all_  and Alistair winced, not quite yet ready to make light of the situation with the treacherous arl. Leliana – clearly not trusting in Flora's ability to remain quiet – kept them company, plucking the occasional note on her lute and humming quietly to herself.

"How's your song going?" Alistair asked after a while, clambering up from the bearskin to stretch his limbs. He recognised the series of notes; the same melody that the bard had devised back in Redcliffe Castle.

Leliana, who had been gazing pensively down at her lute, blinked and flashed him a brilliant smile.

"Well, thank you, Alistair. I hope to have it finished by the time all this is over."

"What's it about?" he asked, wandering to the dresser and pouring himself a tankard of watered mead. "You've been working on it for ages."

Leliana let out a bell-like laugh; her elegant fingers moving carelessly over the strings.

"It's about the Blight, of course. And the heroic efforts of two Warden-recruits to hold back the tide of Darkspawn."

She smiled up at Alistair and he grinned wryly back, shrugging a shoulder.

"Let's hope your song has a happy ending," he replied lightly, taking a gulp of mead. "Nobody likes to hear a tragedy at parties."

Leliana raised her own glass of wine in response, tilting her head.

"Here's hoping,  _mon chéri."_

Alistair's attention was caught by laughter drifting up from the street. He wandered over to the door leading out onto the balcony, peering down through the glass. A group of young nobles were gathered on the road, nudging each other excitedly. As he watched, one of them approached the guard on duty at the Guerrin manor entrance, a square of parchment in hand.

The young men, expensively dressed and well-coiffed, must have been around Alistair's age. He stared down at them for a moment, feeling as though he had more in common with the seagulls swooping over the estuary than he did with this pack of pampered young gentlemen.

As he watched, Leonas and a group of his retainers strode up from their neighbouring estate; the young men scattering before the grim-faced arl. Leonas spoke in an undertone to the guard, and then took the square of parchment. The arl scanned the note briefly, before letting out a derisive snort and crumpling it in a fist.

"Alistair?"

Alistair turned away from the window, crossing the bedchamber to where Flora was still sitting on the bearskin before the fire.  _Exotic Fish of Thedas_ was in her lap, and her face was contorted in confusion.

"What does this mean?" she asked as he lowered himself to sit beside her, one finger pressed to the parchment. He peered down at the hand scribed text, where her bitten-down nail was hovering.

"' _Invertebrate',"_ he read out loud, dutifully. "It means 'boneless', I think."

"Ooh, like a jellyfish." Flora nodded sagely, and then yelped as she was enveloped in a sudden, crushing embrace. Alistair clutched her to his chest, clamping a hand around the back of her head and inhaling unsteadily. Flora patted him on the back, grimacing as the hard corner of  _Exotic Fish_ dug itself into her breast.

"Sorry," he murmured against her shoulder, the words coming out strangled. "I thought – a few days ago – that I'd never read this with you again. It nearly killed me, Flo."

He let out a shuddering breath, fingers tangling in her hair like seaweed caught in a fisherman's net. Flora pressed her face against his neck, her breath warming his ear; letting him hold her for as long as he needed.

When at last he withdrew, she smiled up at him, her finger trapping the entry that they had just read.

"We haven't got that much left," she whispered, showing him the thin wedge of pages remaining. "We'll have to try and finish it before…  _well_. Look!"

Flora turned the pages until she reached the last entry, holding it up to show her brother-warden triumphantly.

"The ' _Wycome herring'_ is the last fish in the book! I think that's a good omen, don't you?  _Herring!_ "

Alistair gazed at his sister-warden for a moment, then slid strong fingers into her hair and lowered his face to hers. The ensuing kiss was fierce and ungentle, communicating all the frustration and despair of the past few days. He took her mouth like he owned it, his tongue wrestling hers into loving submission.

"I am still here, you know," said Leliana to thin air, as both Wardens ignored her.

Finally Alistair withdrew, the green flecks standing out stark in his hazel irises as he stared down at his sister-warden's face.

"I love you," he breathed, the words solemn as any Chantry prayer. "Maker's Breath, I love you more than anything."

Flora gazed back up at him and felt a horrible lurch of guilt deep in her gut.

_We've made an awful mistake. We've made a child together, somehow._

_No: I've made a mistake. This is all my fault._

"I love you too," she whispered, swallowing her sadness like an unpleasant mouthful. "Brother-warden."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So neither Wynne nor Leliana bring up the use of abortifacients - the most commonly used ones in the Medieval period would have been pennyroyal wild carrot and tansy – because Flora's body naturally neutralises poisons.
> 
> Poor Flora – fairly or unfairly, she's shouldering pretty much the entire blame for their situation. She blames herself because it's her body that neutralises the taint, which has resulted in the conception of a child. I don't know if that blame is justified or not… because actually, both her and Alistair KNOW that her body neutralises the taint.


	246. It Takes Two To Dance The Zarzuela

After Leliana had departed to speak with Wynne, Oghren came lurching in to join them. He had found lodgings with the dwarven merchants' guild, but was on the verge of being expelled for 'entirely unjustified reasons'.

Flora gave him the moustache oil that she had been saving since her trip to the markets; in return, the dwarf produced a pack of cards and declared himself their entertainment for the next few hours.

Initially, Oghren proposed another game of  _Strip Grace,_ thenindignantly accused Flora of prudishness when she hastily refused.

"Is it 'cause yer a teyrn's daughter now? Too good to take yer clothes off?"

"No," retorted Flora, indignantly. "Have you not heard the explicit version of  _Warden Flora?_ I  _happily_  take my clothes off.I just… don't feel like it, today."

_Or any day until the autumn, if I can help it._

They played several games of Wicked Grace as the arl's household moved quietly about them. The sun slid slowly towards the horizon, to his surprise and delight, Alistair won the majority of the hands. Even a delighted Flora won the last round; inspired by Isabela, she had kept the game-ending  _Angel of Death_ card hidden in her cleavage.

Oghren, to his disgust, won no games. He offered the flimsy excuse that he was not yet drunk enough to think clearly, then promptly vanished to investigate the arl's wine cellar.

The bedchamber was now filled with the bronze and copper hues of sunset, threads of light streaming through the leaded glass windows. Alistair knew that soon the servants would be around to tend to the dying hearth and the extinguished candelabras; yet his attention was focused wholly on the bed. Covered with furs and blankets, on a raised platform in the centre of Arl Eamon's most refined guest quarters, Alistair thought that it had never looked so inviting.

He looked down at his sister-warden, who had been painstakingly scribing lines onto a square of parchment. She had rolled up the sleeves of the navy dress around her elbows and was sitting cross-legged on the bearskin, the end of the quill protruding from her wide Cousland mouth. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, red and brilliant as some molten progeny of the earth.

"I think this quill is  _broken,"_  Flora declared, brows drawing together. "I keep making mistakes."

Alistair reached forward and lifted her chin, his eyes dark with purpose.

"My love," he murmured, as his thumb traced the delicate line of her jaw. "Come to bed _; I want you_."

Flora stared back at him, feeling a rush of heat deep in her abdomen. She could sense her body instinctually respond to Alistair's invitation; skin flushing and eyes dilating, each nerve ending igniting like a struck flint.

_Stop!_ she told herself sternly, appalled at her own lack of restraint in light of the day's revelations.  _This is how you got into such a mess in the first place._

Alistair's hand dropped without warning to tug her skirts up around her waist; calloused fingers sliding down the front of her smallclothes without hesitation. He began to stroke her ruthlessly while keeping his eyes fixed on her face; savouring every flicker and nuance of arousal.

"Please," Flora whispered, ashamed at her own lack of restraint and yet desperate to feel him inside her once more. "Alistair."

He grinned at her, white heat flaring in his eyes as he fumbled at the buttons of his fawn breeches.

"Dinner!" sang out Leliana as she shoved her way brutally through the doors, sporting a platter in each hand. "I thought I'd personally bring it up to you, Andraste  _knows_ I've a generous spirit!"

Alistair, gritting his teeth, removed his hand and went to assist Leliana with the food. Flora took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself down, earning herself a suspicious stare from the bard.

"Why is your face so red,  _ma chérie?"_ Leliana enquired lightly, setting down her platter on a side-table.

"Um," replied Flora vaguely, putting fingers to her flushed cheeks. "From the fire?"

Leliana shot a slightly incredulous look at the cold ashes lying dead in the hearth.

" _Hm!"_

They ate cold chicken – save for Flora – and vegetables, as Leliana reminded both Wardens of the protocol for tomorrow's Landsmeet opening. When asked whether she was going to rehearse what she was going to say, Flora gave a little noncommittal shrug, her mouth full of bread. The scent of the roasted chicken was making her feel vaguely nauseous, and she was focused on not allowing the queasiness to show on her face.

"I don't usually," she mumbled, honestly. "I just say what's on my mind."

Alistair swallowed his own mouthful, waving a chicken leg around to accompany his question.

"And it'll only last a few hours?"

Leliana nodded, watching Flora go slightly green about the gills.

"Arl Eamon will formally introduce you to the Landsmeet, and Fergus will do the same for Florence. Then, the reason for the Landsmeet's assembly will be stated for the record," she explained patiently, keeping Alistair's gaze fixed on her. "It should be over by noon. The following days – when evidence is presented – will last a lot longer."

Alistair nodded, reaching for the last piece of chicken. Leliana watched the young Warden methodically tear the meat from the bone with steady, deft fingers. The servants had not yet come round to light the hearth, and the room was rapidly descending into shadow.

However, no apprehension was apparent on Alistair's face at the prospect of the upcoming Landsmeet; nor at the inevitability of being introduced as Maric's son, and a candidate for the throne.

Leliana could not help but smile at him, and the bastard prince shot her a slightly odd look.

"Did I eat my chicken in a particularly comedic manner?" he asked, growing even more confused as she let out a little laugh.

"No, Alistair. I was just thinking that… you've changed quite a bit, from when I first knew you."

Alistair thought for a moment, and then gave a slightly self-depreciating shrug.

"Well," he replied, his tone wry. "I suppose we can either spend our lives denying who we are, or… learn how to live with it, in our own way."

His gaze moved across to his sister-warden, still clad in her navy Cousland dress as she sprawled back on the bearskin in a position no well-mannered teyrn's daughter would ever _dream_  of assuming.

The servants finally arrived, stumbling over each other in their haste to apologise for the delay. They rebuilt the fire in the hearth and lit the hanging candelabras; creating a small haven of warmth in the midst of the chilly spring evening. The moon rose languidly, spilling pearlescent fragments of light across the still waters of the estuary; suspended like a lantern amidst a patchwork of tangled constellations.

Flora, to her relief, had found some crumpled linen pyjamas in one of the dressers. They were masculine in design and far too large, but they were infinitely preferable to the Orlesian silk garments that Flora suspected were the legacy of Arlessa Isolde. Once the linen nightclothes had been paired with a thick scarlet dressing robe, she was far more comfortable than she would have been in Leliana's choice of attire. The bard was still present in the chamber, leaning back in the chair beside the fire and strumming idly on her lute, humming to herself.

Alistair was methodically cleaning Duncan's blade, the sword resting on a cloth before the fire alongside a variety of oils and unguent creams. Leliana had also loaned him one of the whetstones that she kept secreted about her belongings. The young Warden had not given the weapon proper maintenance since South Reach, and felt suddenly guilty for neglecting his mentor's sword.

Flora, who still had some residual nausea from the scent of the chicken, had ventured out barefoot onto the balcony. A seagull was perched on the stone balustrade and she was edging towards it with a malevolent expression; so focused on this most hated of birds that she did not notice the elf until his voice came drifting out of the shadows.

"You are staring at that bird with a most nefarious look in your eye,  _mi sirenita."_

At first, Flora did not notice the odd timbre to Zevran's voice, preoccupied as she was with the fisherman's mortal enemy.

"Gulls are the  _worst birds,"_ she informed him in a hiss, creeping forward with the scarlet robe trailing behind her. "They steal fish and crabs straight out of the bucket. I'm going to push it off the balcony -!"

"Good luck,  _carina."_

This time, the strain in the elf's voice was palpable. Abandoning her pursuit of the seagull, Flora turned around and stared at his silhouette in perplexion.

"Zevran?"

The elf gritted his teeth, stepping out of the evening shadows with an irritated little grunt of pain.

"I am ashamed to admit it," he muttered darkly, letting a reluctant hand slip to show a bloodied patch on his leathers. "But one of Howe's wretched guards managed to get himself a lucky blow. I may be in need of your attentions,  _florita."_

Flora went to him with both hands outstretched; her healer's instinct overriding her natural urge to show shock and remorse. She gripped the elf's elbow and guided him into the bedchamber, gaining the attention of both Alistair and Leliana.

Alistair immediately let the sword drop from his lap, assisting his sister-warden in steering the elf towards a nearby chair. Within the fire-lit chamber, the bloodstains were more obvious, almost every inch of Zevran's dark leathers were saturated. Flora shot the Antivan a slightly appalled look as she knelt before him, reaching for the fastenings of his tunic.

"Oh, most of this is not  _my_  blood, my lily," the elf hastened to reassure her as she deftly moved the fabric to one side, revealing an impeccably defined abdominal musculature. "Only a small quantity. This one guard – he had a rather  _unappealing_ wart – made the mistake of commenting on your body to me. Shall we say – it  _prolonged_  his death?"

Flora grimaced, and would have spoken but for the viscous golden energy already rising in her throat, far denser than air. Once the wound had been located – a small puncture just above his taut, brown hip, she lowered her mouth to the broken skin; fingers absentmindedly clutching the edge of his bloodied leathers.

While she focused on coaxing energy into the puncture, Zevran raised dark eyes to Alistair, who was wordlessly pouring a tankard of ale.

The bastard prince then offered it to the elf, who took it gratefully.

"They're  _all_  dead?" Alistair sought to confirm, voice tight as an overstretched lute string.

Zevran nodded, taking a gulp. "As per your request, my handsome prince."

Flora, mind racing, lifted her mouth from the wound and stroked her fingers absentmindedly to seal it. Zevran glanced down to see the mended flesh, the new skin pink and clean.

"Impeccable work as always,  _mi límonita."_

The elf reached down with a thumb to wipe a smear of his blood from her lower lip, half-smiling.

"I hear you've been creating quite the stir in Denerim society already,  _nena_. I heard about your little Chantry showdown with Loghain."

Flora let out an unimpressed grunt, sitting down on the bearskin and wiping her bloodied fingers surreptitiously on the scarlet dressing robe. It was not subtle enough to escape Leliana's notice; the bard shot her a slightly appalled look.

"Have some food," she offered to Zevran instead, lifting up the remains of the tray for the elf's perusal.

Out of courtesy to the elf, Alistair removed himself and his pungent weapon-oils to the stone veranda, where he resumed the cleaning of Duncan's sword. Leliana went to join him, having taken it upon herself to sharpen Zevran's own blades – her way of showing admiration for the elf's elimination of Howe's guards.

When it was just the two of them in the chamber, Flora sat on the bearskin and stared up at the elf. He was gazing pensively into the hearth, firelight licking over his wicked, dancing features to give the illusion that they were moving. In reality, the assassin was sitting as still as a statue, his fingers resting lightly on his knees.

"Zevran?" Flora whispered, feeling her heart knocking against her ribs like an impatient rent-collector. "I have to ask you something."

The elf startled imperceptibly, and then reached down to touch the shell of her ear.

"Yes,  _querida,_ it was your brother-warden who requested that I eliminate the guards that participated in your capture. Although I would have done it without being asked."

"No, no..."

Flora shook her head and Zevran glanced down at her curiously, winding a finger around a loose strand of dark red hair.

"Then what,  _mi corazon?"_

Darting a glance over her shoulder to ensure that Alistair was still on the balcony, Flora lowered her voice. The elf dutifully leaned forward, the small lines at the corners of his eyes illuminated by the glow of the flames.

"Has Alistair ever spoken to you about… taking me away?" she asked hesitantly, recalling Leliana's earlier comment. "To Antiva? Before the Blight is ended, I mean."

The elf was silent for a moment, and then slowly inclined his head. When Flora did not reply, he reached up the finger wrapped in her hair to tap the end of her nose.

"It was only ever a vague idea,  _carina,_ borne out of his love for you and his desire to see you safe."

Flora swallowed, and then turned her pale grey stare on him.

"So if my… circumstances were to change," she said, hesitantly, and heard the elf take in a sharp, knowing breath. "He would never let me stay, would he?"

Zevran's dark eyes met hers in mutual accord; elf and mage had always understood one another well enough. One platinum eyebrow rose slowly into his hairline.

"Zevran, something  _awful_  has happened," Flora whispered, unable to stop a single fat tear from rolling off the end of her nose. "How could I have been so stupid? This is all my fault."

Another tear rapidly followed the first and the elf reached out, brushing them from her cheeks with swift, clever thumbs.

"Hush, now," he chided sternly, lifting her chin to see her pale irises awash like the Waking Sea. "Don't cry, or brother-warden will think that I'm being cruel to you, and come storming to the rescue."

Flora hiccupped as she wiped impatiently at her cheeks. Zevran rewarded her with a smile, tapping her nose gently.

"And this is hardly all  _your_ fault,  _hermanita_. In Antiva City, we have a saying: it takes two to dance the  _zarzuela."_

"But it's my body – my  _healing_  - that's done this," Flora hissed back, the corners of her eyes prickling dangerously. "What am I going to do?"

The elf steepled his fingers as she stared up at him, her hand clutching his knee imploringly.

"It seems to me as though you have two options," he said after a moment, absentmindedly reaching down to stroke his fingers over her head. "First – wait until you are… no longer in these circumstances… to continue the fight. Which will not be until the autumn."

" _No,"_  replied Flora immediately, shaking her head with vehemence. "That's too long. The Blight'll have spread over half of Ferelden by then."

"Then you must kill the Archdemon and end it quickly," Zevran countered, his eyes meeting hers. "For you are right: if Alistair learns that you are carrying his child, there is absolutely  _no_  way on the Maker's earth that he will let you fight. You'll be on the boat to Antiva, faster than you can say  _Andraste's Bloomers."_

Flora nodded, swallowing hard. Zevran gazed down at her pale, tear-stained face; the worry writ stark on her solemn features.

" _Mi sirenita,_ " he murmured, as her eyes lifted to his. "I am no  _Dalish_ , but I have heard that their huntresses continue the hunt even when they are heavy with child. They bind themselves up tightly and ride out on the  _halla_ almost until birth."

"That's what Herring women do too," whispered Flora, wiping her nose on her scarlet sleeve. "Well, they don't ride  _halla._ But they just… get on with it. Hauling in the nets and collecting crab pots. Going out on the Teeth to scavenge driftwood. That's what I'll have to do."

She smiled up at him, damp-eyed; Zevran leaned down and kissed the centre of her forehead.

"I hope you know how difficult that was for me to do,  _querida,"_ he said, lightly. "There is nothing that I would like to do  _more_  than smuggle you back to Antiva City with me. I think you would like it there, it's on the coast. It doesn't rain all the time, as it does in this blasted country."

"We can visit there after the Blight," Flora replied, reaching for a discarded carrot and taking a bite. "I'll get a big hat, so I don't burn."

"I will find you the  _biggest_ hat in Antiva City,  _nena,_ " he crooned back and she laughed, reaching out to pat smooth an errant strand of platinum hair.

"Ooh," she breathed, squinting very close to Zevran's face as the elf held his breath and tried not to move. "You have crow's feet on your eyes. Ha! Get it?  _Crow's feet!"_

Zevran smiled at her very widely, hoping that the effort required to restrain his desirous limbs did not show on his face.

"You are a true  _comediante femenina,_ my lily."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Alistair was the one who requested that Zevran go out and lay waste to all Howe's surviving guards! This is my interpretation of a conversation between a hardened Alistair and Zevran in game, where Alistair admits that he might need the services of an assassin while reigning as king. More manifestation of my gradual 'hardening' of Alistair throughout the story (lol that phrasing never fails to make me laugh, I am so juvenile)
> 
> So the Landsmeet is going to open tomorrow! I've actually extended it to five days, to make it more like the historical summoning of a Great Council (called in Medieval England to discuss emergencies, definitely lasted for longer than a day – nobody is going to travel all the way to the capital for a few hours, lol). So in my canon, it's going to be opening – three days of evidence/discussion – vote.


	247. A Dangerous Proposition

By the time that Alistair and Leliana returned from the stone balcony, Flora had mopped her tear-stained cheeks and munched her way through two more carrots and an overripe peach.

"I admit," Leliana murmured, holding Zevran's freshly sharpened knife to the firelight and turning it to admire the edge. "This is an excellent quality blade."

"You could gut fish with it," chirped Flora, who had made a mess of the peach and was looking around for something to wipe her fingers on. "And not get scales everywhere."

"Yes, that's what I was planning to do now," the elf confirmed, flashing her a conspiratorial little grin. "Go down to the kitchens and assist with the preparation of tomorrow's dinner. Actually, I think I  _will_ head down there; one of the junior cooks was granting me some rather promising looks earlier."

Smiling smoothly, the elf took his leave with a little bow. Leliana followed shortly afterwards, shooting Flora a pointed look over her shoulder as she left. The door closed behind them, and the Wardens gained a brief glimpse of the Guerrin-liveried guards posted at either side of the entrance to the bedchamber.

Then they were alone, the hearth spilling out ochre light onto the flagstones. Beyond the leaded windows, the night sky extended in a glorious ink-black spread above Ferelden's ancient capital; the moon hovering like an anxious parent over a joyful scattering of stars.

"Beautiful," Flora heard Alistair murmur, but his gaze was not directed at the constellations above. "My love."

Flora smiled up at him as he crouched before her on the bearskin rug, fingers sliding into her hairline to tilt her face up to his. As he lifted her with the barest expenditure of effort, she slid her arms obligingly around his neck; trying to keep her peach-sticky fingers away from his shirt collar.

"I was so proud of you today," Alistair murmured as he carried her towards the bed, breath warm against her ear. He let her down gently onto the blankets, propping himself up on an elbow beside her. "How did you know exactly what to say to that whoreson in the cathedral?"

Flora slowly inserted one finger after another into her mouth to lick them clean, while pondering her response.

"Dunno," she replied honestly, edging her tongue around a sticky thumbnail. "I said what was in my head, I didn't really think about it at all. Don't really know what I'm going to say at the Landsmeet tomorrow, either."

When she looked up at Alistair, he was staring down at her with a slightly mesmerised expression.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, eyes focused with quivering intensity on her peach-sticky mouth. "I didn't hear… a single thing you just said."

Flora scowled up at him, mildly perturbed.

Alistair caught her curling fingers and raised them to his mouth, pressing each juice-stained tip feverishly to his lips. Keeping his gaze fixed unblinking on hers, he took her thumb slowly into his mouth, savouring the ensuing blush that rose to his sister-warden's cheeks.

"My dear," he murmured, the words coming out muffled around her thumb. "It's been  _far_  too long since I've been inside you."

_There's more of you inside me than you know,_ Flora thought grimly to herself.  _Ugh!_

However, as usual, her rationale was quickly dissolving in the face of her growing desire. The crudeness of her brother-warden's language had only served to deepen the flush, pinkness spreading rapidly down her throat.

Alistair grinned down at Flora, delighted at the reactions that his words were provoking. Reaching down, he opened the folds of the scarlet dressing robe one at a time with deliberate slowness. The pyjamas below, which were masculine and fastened up to the neck, did not dissuade him in the slightest.

The breath caught in his throat as he undid Flora's buttons one at a time, opening the first three before pausing. He stared down at her small, bared breasts for what seemed like an age; his face as still and focused as a carved statue.

" _So_  beautiful," Alistair breathed after several moments, shaking his head slowly. "Maker, you don't know what you do to me."

On the contrary, Flora could feel _exactly_ what she did to him; since his hardness was currently wedged against her thigh.

Alistair lowered his mouth reverently to her breast and she inhaled, squirming into the mattress as his tongue sought out her nipple.

_Don't get distracted!_ Flora's rational mind squawked at her from the lust soaked depths of her brain.  _He can't notice your stomach, remember?_

Having paid lavish tribute with his tongue to both nipples, Alistair's fingers now ventured dangerously close to the lower buttons of her shirt. Flora, in a valiant attempt to divert his attention, thrust her hand down the front of her pyjama trousers and began to fondle herself with an audible whimper.

As planned, Alistair's attention was immediately caught by her self-ministrations. He slid down the bed to position himself between her thighs, yanking down the trousers in a single tug.

"Good girl," he crooned, bending her knees apart and dampening his lips with his tongue. "Let me help you, baby."

Flora almost shot up in horror, then realised that he had used the word only as a term of endearment. The next moment, he nestled his lips between her thighs and began to work her with his tongue; all logical thought fled from Flora's mind as her breath hitched in her throat.

It soon became apparent that Alistair had not watched the Rivaini pirate pleasure his sister-warden solely for his own benefit. He had studied how Isabela had used lips, tongue and fingers in conjunction to coax maximum stimulation from a whimpering Flora; and now he replicated her actions to the best of his ability.

Although Alistair lacked the finesse of the pirate queen, he made up for it in ardent enthusiasm, and Flora had always been easy to please. He held her knees over his shoulders, relishing the way that her slender thighs clamped around his head whenever he coaxed another climax from her. After the third, Flora was so tender and over-stimulated that she was letting out hoarse, trembling gasps; squirming blindly against him as her fingers clutched at the blankets. Her pale eyes focused on him, her need obvious without having to vocalise it.

Breathing hard, Alistair reached down to free himself from his breeches; so sensitive that it was almost painful. Angling himself between her legs, he gripped her thigh and sheathed himself to the hilt in a single, penetrative thrust. Almost immediately he let out a groan and began to move, strong arms planted either side of her shoulders.

Flora clung helplessly to the headboard as he ploughed away, teeth gritted and head down. Beads of sweat from his shoulders dropped onto her skin, and she could feel the muscles in his broad back working relentlessly, powering himself towards his own climax.

_Is this bad for the baby?_ she wondered briefly, then immediately felt a heated surge of reproval.

_Fighting the Darkspawn will be bad for it. Killing the Archdemon will be bad for it._

_Alistair humping away on top of me is hardly going to be any worse._

Flora clutched his shoulders, filled with a sudden surge of affection towards her kind-hearted brother-warden. Craning her face upwards as he paused to catch his breath, she bit gently at his neck; her teeth just grazing the thick corded muscle.

Caught up in the frenzied bonds of pleasure, Alistair let out a little growl and planted his mouth on her throat; sucking at her flesh to leave small bruises in the wake of his lips. He drove himself into her with increasing pace, the headboard of the bed thudding urgently against the wall and knocking flakes of plaster loose.

Flora reached up and touched his shuddering, sweating cheek and Alistair stared down at her with the blown-wide eyes of desire. Without warning, he let out a groan and a strangled curse; clutching helplessly at the cushions as he spent himself inside her.

Dazed, Alistair slumped down against his sister-warden, breathing hard and erratic. Conscious of his weight, he allowed himself only a moment of bonelessness before rolling onto his back; clutching Flora possessively to his chest.

"Maker's Breath," he entreated after a moment, two bright points of colour flaring on his cheeks. " _Andraste_ …"

Her brother-warden trailed off, shaking his head wordlessly. Flora smiled down at him, resting her cheek on his sweaty collarbone as he reached an arm around her back.

"Alistair, I love you," she whispered after a moment, and he planted a kiss, hard and affectionate, in the centre of her forehead.

"I love  _you,_ and I love the way you say my name," he replied, sliding a hand beneath her half-unbuttoned shirt. "Your voice is beautiful."

Flora shot him a slightly sceptical look; her accent had been called many things during her lifetime, but  _beautiful_  was rarely one of them. In response, Alistair pressed another kiss to his sister-warden's neck, cupping the back of her skull in a large, calloused palm.

"It's Summerday this week," he murmured, rubbing the lobe of her ear between finger and thumb. "Did you ever celebrate it in Herring?"

"We don't celebrate anything much in Herring," replied Flora with a little yawn, resting her cheek on the strong muscle and sinew of his chest. "We didn't really follow the calendar, anyway. Our seasons were called: bass, haddock, mackerel, salmon, lobster, oyster."

"What about in the Circle?" Alistair continued relentlessly, clearly bent on pursuing some mysterious angle of conversation.

Flora shrugged, comforted by the weight of his arm across her shoulders.

"I didn't take part much in their celebrations, not after they made fun of my lemon costume at Satinalia. Nobody really liked me, or wanted to spend time with me, anyway."

Her tone was amiable and without rancour; she had preferred to keep herself to herself.

"I would have been friends with you, if I'd been there," he said impulsively, and she let out a little snort.

"You would have been a Templar. I would have been  _scared_ of you."

Alistair inhaled, clutching his sister-warden tightly to his chest. He pressed a fierce kiss to the top of her tangled, dark red head before turning her over, wrapping his arms across her stomach and tucking his chin onto her shoulder.

"Well, Summerday traditionally marks coming of age," he murmured in her ear, using his teeth gently on the lobe to make her squirm. "When boys become men. It sounds impressive, but in reality, they just get lectured by the Chantry for hours."

"Mm," Flora squeaked back, slightly horrified at the proximity of his arm to the small, rounded curve of her belly.

"It's also a time when lots of boys and girls get  _married_ ," he whispered in her ear conspiratorially, pressing another kiss to her neck.

"Uh," grunted Flora, wondering if she could surreptitiously move his arm without him noticing.

"So…shall we go and do it?"

"Do what?"

"Get married."

Flora twisted her head as far as it would reach to gaze, horrified, up at him. Her brother-warden's tone was light, his face deceptively casual; and yet there was an odd steeliness in his eye that suggested it was not  _entirely_  a joke.

"Alistair," she whispered back, drawing her brows together at him and trying to force humour into her voice. "We  _can't_."

"We could do it in secret," he replied, the humour wearing away to show the hard core of truth beneath. "No one would know."

In light of the entire situation being _far_ too unnerving – what with his fingers dangerously close to her belly, and suggestions of marriage coming from his mouth, Flora decided to distract him.

Wrapping her fingers around his wrist, she slid his hand decisively downwards until it rested between her legs; then pushed herself against his calloused fingers with a provocative little sigh.

Alistair, a young man with all the expected accompanying desires, immediately grinned in astonished delight.

"Mm," he murmured throatily, rolling back over on top of her. "Good girl."

As he fumbled between her legs, Flora thought grimly that it was worth sacrificing a few more hours of sleep to divert her brother-warden from the dangerous course that he had set one tentative foot upon.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol so Flora can't even focus on getting laid any more because she's so paranoid about Alistair suddenly noticing her stomach – which is a little ridiculous, since she's no bigger than when he saw her that morning. And yes it is a dangerous course that Alistair is proposing – Flora is far more practical, and sees how impossible Alistair's suggestion would be. Alistair is definitely the more romantic out of the two of them - there's not much in the way of romance in Herring, lol. He just wants to make the girl he loves his wife, while she's more than aware of the impossibility of that outcome.


	248. The First Day Of The Landsmeet

The first day of the Landsmeet dawned bright and optimistic; the sun streaming through the leaded glass and illuminating the dancing Mabari painted above the hearth. It was the last day of Cloudreach, and tomorrow would be the first day of summer.

Leliana burst in to help Flora with preparations; the bard was clad in her most pious of high-necked Chantry robes.

"I hope that you both got sufficient  _sleep,"_  she said sternly, in place of a greeting. "You know that Wynne and I share the chamber next to you, and these stone walls aren't as thick as they appear."

Alistair and Flora were both stationed side by side at the mirror; he was shaving the fresh growth from his cheeks with a blade, and she was healing the echoes of hard kisses incurred during the previous night.

"Three hours past the midnight bell," Leliana continued indignantly, tossing her short braids in disbelief.  _"Really?"_

"Sorry, Leliana," Flora replied dutifully, as her fingers wandered over the discolouration on her throat; erasing the evidence of her brother-warden's desirous mouth.

Alistair gave a indistinct grunt of greeting, then leaned over and put his mouth close to Flora's ear.

"Leave one," he instructed softly, pressing his lips to the skin of her neck.

Flora did as she was told, glancing across at Leliana as the bard gestured in servants with water.

"Who has the room on the other side?" she asked curiously, combing fingers through her bed-tangled hair. "I'll have to apologise for keeping them awake too."

Leliana shot her a slightly reproachful look.

"Those are the Cousland quarters."

" _No!"_

" _Yes._ You're very  _unobservant_."

Flora groaned, shrugging her arms free of the scarlet dressing robe as she approached the bathtub.

"Oh! Alistair, you'll have to  _gag_  me or something tonight."

When Flora's brother-warden shot her a look that was both dark and full of promise, she almost fell into the bath.

After washing and drying, Alistair vanished to find some of the new tunics that Eamon had prepared for him. As soon as the door closed in his wake, Leliana shot across the room with a bundle of clothing in her arms.

"Come on, let's get this on you," she murmured, hauling Flora up from where the girl had been drying her hair before the flames.

Flora eyed the rich navy material with classic Herring wariness as she pulled on her shirt.

"It's not another  _dress,_  is it?" she asked, suspiciously; and then her jaw dropped in horror. "Oh, no!"

" _Mais, oui,"_ muttered Leliana, thrusting Flora's arms skywards and wrapping the bodice around her torso. "Breathe out."

Flora let out a yelp, clutching the mantel of the hearth as Leliana tugged the silk ribbons as tight as possible, bracing her foot against the wall and yanking with brutal strength. She let out a moan as she felt her ribcage constrict in protest, lungs compressed together.

"Is that alright,  _ch_ _é_ _rie_?"

When Flora could only reply with a strangled squawk, Leliana took pity on her and loosened the ribbons a fraction.

Now able to breathe, Flora wandered across to the tall mirror and surveyed herself dubiously.

"I look like  _Madame du Poisson,"_ she observed, her brow creasing. "Very… thrusty."

Leliana snorted indecorously, retrieving a pair of calfskin breeches.

" _Madame du Poisson_ wouldn't be wearing a shirt underneath," the bard countered, tossing the trousers to Flora. "And it compresses your stomach."

"Isn't everyone going to wonder why I've suddenly started wearing a bodice over my shirt? I usually just- "

"Run around in baggy layers like a little Avvar wild child? Yes,  _ma petite,_ but needs must. Besides the Landsmeet, the only person you need to worry about is Alistair, and hopefully he'll be too distracted by the cleavage."

Alistair was, in fact,  _extremely_  distracted; so entranced by his sister-warden's new garb that he made them both late for breaking their fast.

As the sun approached the median of its morning arc, their party gathered in the courtyard of the Guerrin manor. The others had dressed in ancestral colours for the opening of the Landsmeet – Eamon and Teagan in ochre, Leonas in hunter's green and the Cousland brothers in rich, deep-sea navy.

Alistair had been deliberately clad in Theirin scarlet and gold, the neckline of his collar edged with fur. With his blond hair slicked flat against his skull and his face shaven clean, he cut a tall and impressive figure amongst the other nobles.

"Lad, you're the spit of Maric," breathed Eamon in approval as they waited for the stable lads to bring out the horses. "You've the look of the old King far more than Cailen did, Maker rest him."

Both Guerrin brothers had been worried about Alistair's reaction to the imminent approach of the Landsmeet. They knew full-well that their ward had long spurned his heritage with stark vehemence; the anger maturing into years-long denial and the refusal to even acknowledge that he was the old king's son.

"He looks confident _,"_ murmured elder Guerrin to younger, and Teagan inclined his head slightly, a wry smile twisting the corner of his mouth.

"Aye, fresh from a tumble with his lass. I'm not surprised he's sure of himself."

However, it was not merely a hasty coupling that loaned Alistair his assurance. Gradually, over the course of the past six months, they had observed a distinct shift in their young ward's demeanour and attitude towards the throne. Eamon was unsure whether it was provoked by the desire to protect Ferelden after travelling its length and breadth; the prospect of Loghain's rule; or the influence of his fellow Warden. In truth, he believed it to be a combination of all three factors.

Even now as they mounted the horses in preparation to travel to the Royal Palace, with the sun beating down on their heads from above; Alistair did not appear apprehensive in the slightest. In fact, he was laughing at a comment that Finian had made, equally at ease on the saddle as he was off it.

"My sister looks very well, doesn't she?" murmured Fergus in Eamon's ear, distracting the arl from his reveries.

The teyrn of Highever looked slightly uncomfortable in the fine clothing that befitted his status. Bryce's heir had always been more comfortable in armour than in velvet and fur, yet he was conscious of the impression he needed to deliver.

Eamon's green Guerrin eyes slid across to Alistair's sister-warden. She was perched on a nearby dun mare, especially brought over from Leonas' stables for its placid temperament. Still, Fergus knew that she had to be feeling deeply uncomfortable – his sister was not a natural rider, and additionally held the odd preconception that all horses  _hated_ her.

Fortunately, the natural solemnity of Flora's features hid her distress at being back on the saddle. She scowled pensively across the estuary, oblivious to the fact that she was being watched. Her hair fell freely down her back, several strands woven into slender braids but mostly left in defiant looseness.

"She looks very traditionally  _Fereldan_ ," replied Eamon softly, his gaze moving over Flora's pale skin and wild, dark red hair. "Her profile is pure Alamarri. Ah, they'll appreciate that at the Landsmeet. As civilised as Denerim pretends to be, we are no Orlesians. Our women are not supposed to be coiffed and powdered to perfection."

Flora, now sensing that she was being talked about, turned her pale grey stare on the two men. Gloomily, she wondered if they were comparing her to the elegant and lovely Leliana, who managed to exude glamour even clad in sacred robes.  _Well, tough,_ she thought to herself defiantly, winding her fingers more tightly around the reins.  _They'll never make me wholly Highever; there's too much Herring in me._

Once Wynne had joined them, they started down the wide cobbled boulevard towards the Royal Palace. It was a scenic route that followed the gentle curve of the estuary as it opened out into the Denerim bay. Unlike the docks, the water here was undisturbed by jetty or pier; a smooth and unbroken expanse of green that stretched out into the Amaranthine Sea. The occasional ship was visible in the distance, sails unfurled to catch advantage of the westerly breeze. The sky was unblemished by cloud, and those who had chosen to wear fur were soon feeling uncomfortably overheated.

Flora craned her neck to watch a small flotilla of fishing boats bobbing over the waves, heading out into the open ocean. She grew so distracted that she almost slipped from the saddle; fortunately, the sharp-eyed Leliana was nearby to grip her by the elbow.

"Keep your eyes ahead,  _ma crevette,"_ the bard murmured, turning Flora's chin gently towards the upcoming castle. "No looking back."

The noble district eventually gave way to the grounds of the Royal Palace, which contained some of the only trees and parkland within Denerim. Once, this area had been the hunting grounds of the Alamarri tribal kings; now it had been converted into spreading gardens for the pleasure of those dwelling within the castle. Rowan, Maric's beloved queen, had loved gardening and had personally overseen the cultivation of the sprawling grounds. The estuary bordered one length of the gardens, gleaming in the sunlight like the surface of a mirror.

Despite the apparent peacefulness of the tree-lined area, the more experienced nobles had already spotted signs that all was not well. Under the Theirins, the outer grounds had been kept open for the people of Denerim to gather firewood and fallen fruit. Now, a hastily constructed timber fence had been erected around the entire palace border. Soldiers with the traditional closed-face helmets of the Royal Guard monitored their entry, checking that each noble only bore the permitted single short-sword. They were escorted closely through the grounds, four armed guards flanking them on either side as they approached the foot of the palace. More guards were stationed at regular intervals throughout the gardens, faces obscured by the helms and hands on the hilts of their swords.

Finian, who had not visited the castle since he was an adolescent, leaned across to murmur in his older brother's ear.

"I don't remember it being like this."

"That's because it's changed," interrupted Leonas, not bothering to keep his voice down as he shot a scowl towards a nearby guard. "This reminds me of when Orlais used to occupy the place, during the years of your father's rebellion."

This last part was directed towards Alistair, who gave a slight nod. Although he had visited Denerim before with Duncan – when they had recruited the unfortunate Daveth and Jory – he had assiduously ignored the presence of the Royal Palace. He had even gone so far as to turn his back on it when lying in his bunk; such was the strength of his denial.

Located at the top of a sloping rise, the various flags and banners fluttering delicately in the summer breeze could not disguise the fact that the Theirin family seat was a fortress. Built for defence, rather than aesthetics, it seemed to invite an army to break itself against its squat and solid exterior. Buttresses supported walls the thickness of a man's outstretched arm, while crenelated battlements provided the perfect vantage point for a legion of archers. A scattering of newer, stained glass arches only emphasised that the majority of windows were mere arrow-slits. From every battlement and tower, the red Theirin lion reared up on a mustard and ivory quartered background.

Leliana, who could not help but compare this sprawling, grim pile to the ornate splendours of Empress Celene's palace, was very careful not to let it show on her face. Wynne had accompanied Irving here once on one odd occasion, two decades prior. Maric had enquired tremulously what the chances were of a mage and a 'normal' man conceiving a mage child; while Loghain had glowered in disapproval from the shadows beside the throne.

Teagan, despite his outwardly nonchalant expression, was sweating slightly beneath his fur-edged collar. The last time the bann had been in the Royal Palace, he had publicly challenged Loghain's assumption of the regency. That very evening, Teagan had fled the city in fear of reprisal, taking the obscure route through the Bannorn hills back to Redcliffe.

"What do you think of the Royal Palace, Flossie? You've been here once before, but you were only a few years old."

Finian smiled at his sister as several stable lads came rushing up to take their horses.

Flora ran her eyes along the battlements, noticing the guards stationed every dozen yards. Alistair glanced sideways at her, also curious as to what her reaction would be.

"Dunno," she muttered eventually, giving a little shrug. "It's big?"

"' _Dunno - it's big,'"_ repeated Wynne in disbelief, sliding expertly down from the saddle. "I do hope you're going to be more eloquent than  _that_ when you speak in front of the Landsmeet, Florence."

Flora grunted in reply and the senior enchanter threw up her hands.

"Maker help us!" she continued, tucking a stray strand of silvery hair back into her bun. "The child has reverted to her Herring roots."

Flora rolled her eyes in true adolescent fashion, swinging her boot recklessly over the saddle.

"Careful, my lady," purred a familiar Antivan voice from below her. "You ought to take care."

_In your condition._

She stared down into the elven servant's face, only to see Zevran laughing up at her from beneath a nondescript cloth hood. He reached up to assist Flora down from the saddle, gripping her arm tightly to slow her descent.

"What are you doing dressed like that? How did you get in?" Flora demanded, squinting around suspiciously at the other stable-lads as though one of them might be Sten in disguise.

"I'd rather not become too well-known amongst the nobility," the Antivan replied, flashing a surreptitious white-toothed grin across at Alistair. "A servant tends to go unnoticed; an  _elven_ servant even more so."

Once their horses had been taken away, Eamon cleared his throat, approaching them with grim determination on his lined face.

"The Landsmeet chamber is open," he said abruptly, pale green eyes blazing. "We should go and take our seats."

He immediately ducked his head to Fergus, and the two began to converse in low, urgent tones as they led the way inside.

Flora glanced across at Alistair, and was pleasantly surprised to see that he appeared calm; his face still and set with purpose. Only a slight flicker in his hazel eyes betrayed the nerves behind the steady façade.

Silently, she reached out and slid her hand into her brother-warden's, giving his calloused palm a brief rub. Alistair brought Flora's fingers to his mouth and kissed them, smiling down at her with bright affection.

" _Fish-roped,"_ he murmured, letting her fingers go with a gentle squeeze. "What can I not do with my brave, beautiful sister-warden at my side?"

"You couldn't buy me a surprise present."

"What?" said Alistair, who had not expected an answer.

"You couldn't buy me a surprise present," Flora repeated, patiently. "If I was by your side. Because then it wouldn't be a surprise."

Zevran laughed openly, both at Alistair's nonplussed face and Leliana's enraged expression.

"Did you not hear Arl Eamon?" hissed the bard, her malevolent tone in stark contrast to the piety of her dress. "Inside,  _now!"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So I've taken a few liberties with the layout of Denerim's noble district and the royal palace, just like I have with the entire city, haha. I love the idea of Denerim as a coastal city perched on the edge of this vast, green saltwater estuary, with lots of waterways and canals extending inwards. I also have a major soft spot for castles (HOW COULD I NOT LOVE CASTLES? I am a Medievalist historian, lol), and I wanted to expand upon the basic as fuck Royal Palace map you get given in game. Incidentally, the word 'palace' is derived from the Palatine hill in Ancient Rome, where all the top nobles used to live! Etymology!
> 
> Also, Leliana is strapping Flo up in a bodice because she doesn't want to risk any sharp-eyed noble in the Landsmeet spotting the slight curvature of her body. Just because Alistair is kindly assuming that his sister-warden's slight belly is a result of her greed, doesn't meant that the other nobles of Ferelden will be so naïve.


	249. In The Landsmeet Chamber

The main doors of the Royal Palace opened into a long stone hall, vaulted with wooden beams that spanned the ceiling in overreaching arches. Two great hearths sat opposite one another, their ochre radiance competing with the sunbeams streaming through windows set high in the walls. A massive royal blue carpet spanned the entire length of the chamber, the silk well-trodden and worn thin in places. A multitude of banners were draped from the ceiling, bearing the arms of Ferelden, of Denerim, and of the House of Theirin.

At one end of the chamber, a raised platform contained two high-backed stone thrones, neither one occupied.

"There's the seat that Loghain's been warming," Finian murmured to Flora; the nobles having paused to wait for the Wardens. "Can you see the imprint of his rear?"

Flora snorted in a manner that drew scowls from both Wynne and Leliana. She glanced at her brother-warden, who seemed to be maintaining his steady, purposeful air. Alistair had actually been distracted by two large carved Mabari that flanked the doorway, so realistic they almost looked as though they might bark at intruders.

"This place isn't so bad," he said brightly, only the slightest hint of strain evident at the corners of his mouth. "They've got statues of dogs."

As their group proceeded down the middle of the great hall, Flora's head turned from side to side. The Royal Guards stood in silent vigilance with their faceless closed helms; but they reminded her of the Templars at the Circle, and she was not afraid of them. Eamon led the way towards a high archway near the end of the hall, clearly having attended the Landsmeet on past occasions.

Just before they could pass beneath the archway, a strident female voice hailed them from the far side of the chamber.

A formidable, well-dressed woman in her middle years strode towards them across the hall. She had short, greying dark hair cropped just above her ears, and there was something about her square-set jaw that was oddly familiar to Flora.

"Arl Eamon," the woman declared, turning small, clever eyes on their group. "It's good to see you. How are Isolde and young Connor?"

Eamon, a practised politician, gave no reaction at the mention of his son.

"Alfstanna, the pleasure is all mine. They are both… well."

The Bann of the Waking Sea nodded, scanning their faces impatiently. When her eyes settled on Flora, she let out a bark of hoarse laughter.

"And there's no mistaking you for anything other than Teyrn Bryce's daughter, my lady. I wanted to thank you for rescuing my brother."

Flora suddenly remembered where she had seen that square-set jaw before.

"The Templar in the dungeons," she recalled, raising her pale eyes to the older woman's face. "Howe had taken him prisoner."

"Aye, and held him for months in squalor," muttered the Bann, her face darkening. "Anyway, I just wanted to thank you in person – Irminric is the only family I have left. Sighard is already in the chamber; I know he wants to thank you too for saving his son."

A cloud had fallen over Alistair's face by the time that they turned to continue on. This was, however, more due to the reminder of Flora's time spent in Howe's captivity than to any trepidation over what was about to transpire.

Together they headed over towards the archway, the stone-lined entrance that led into the chamber where – according to ancient tradition - the Ferelden Landsmeet had always been held. Legend suggested that when the Alamarri tribal leaders came together to choose their first King, they had made him swear on this patch of land that he would always respect the decision of the Landsmeet - or suffer outright rebellion. Although nobody knew whether the story was true or apocryphal; it had become another part of Denerim's rich and fiercely defended heritage.

The Landsmeet chamber was contained in the oldest part of the palace, a cavernous hollow in the midst of Ferelden's beating heart. It was long and lofty; with crumbling tiers of stone seating on flanking walls. The royal seats were placed on a ledge only fractionally above the rest – to reflect the view that the Landsmeet could, if desired, overrule the wishes of any ruler.

The far wall was made up entirely of ceiling-height leaded windows that led out onto a stone balcony. In days long past, kings had addressed their people from this lofty veranda, until more recent builders crafted better locations for such a purpose. Now, the balcony looked out over the western Alamarri plains, the hills of the Bannorn faintly visible in the distance. Yet today, high wooden shutters had been pulled shut over the windows; the chamber was lit from within by a multitude of iron candelabras suspended from the ceiling.

Many nobles had already taken their seats on the crumbling stone ledges. There were sixty seven members of the Landsmeet with the right to cast their vote, although the main eighteen members – those seated in the first few rows – took precedent for speaking.

As Flora followed her eldest brother inside the chamber, she recognised some of the nobles already seated; several of them had travelled with the Wardens' party from Redcliffe to South Reach. The Bann of Calon was already gazing, entranced, at Leliana, with whom he had briefly dallied. Others, she recognised from the previous day's Chantry service.

Yet there was no time for Flora to stare overlong at the faces of the nobility; Eamon was gesturing for them to sit on the crumbling ledge in the very front. As Flora took her seat, she realised vaguely that she had not yet practised what she was going to say. Not wanting to think too much on it – she always spoke better when her words were spontaneous and unrehearsed – she distracted herself by gazing at their surroundings.

As one would expect in a chamber so ancient, there was evidence of several repairs. However, some of the damage done appeared to have been inflicted  _deliberately –_  angular scratches on the plasterwork, a wooden railing struck repeatedly with a blade. The frowning Flora nudged Leliana, whom she viewed as the font of all knowledge.

Leliana did not disappoint, explaining that the damage had been inflicted during the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden. The emperor had not been impressed with Ferelden's conciliar feudalism, and had allowed his  _chevaliers_ to openly vandalise the ancient Landsmeet chamber. Some of the scars had been deliberately left to remind the Fereldan nobility of the consequences of dissension.

" _All rise for Queen Anora!"_

Flora had just opened her mouth to ask another question, when the sound of metallic boots tramping in unison echoed into the chamber. Those nobles already present rose with a rustling of fabric, their heads turning expectantly towards the archway. Flora felt her brother-warden tense, but a moment later he rose alongside her, his face as still and set as a statue.

Despite the fact that it was his daughter who bore the royal title, Loghain stalked first into the Landsmeet chamber. He was clad in full armour as though preparing for battle, a scowl embedded on his gaunt-cheeked face. One of the greying braids was coming loose; as they watched, the general reached up to brush the stray hair impatiently away from his face. He looked entirely unamused, barely acknowledging the gathered nobles before taking his seat on the raised platform.

Anora followed in his wake, her lips tightly pursed and anxious. Her golden hair had been woven into an artful display of spirals and whorls that must have taken her maids at least an hour to create. A handful of nobles murmured greetings; she lifted a thin hand to acknowledge them briefly. Her gaze went immediately to the Wardens and their party as they stood in the first row, Cousland navy mingling with Guerrin ochre and Bryland green.

They took their seats once more, and Flora heard Alistair exhale unsteadily beside her. Long, calloused fingers rested on his thighs, fiddling with the hem of his fur-lined tunic.

An older man with trembling hands and a white beard rose to his feet after shooting a nervous glance towards Loghain.

" _Ceorlic, Bann of the Southern Bannorn,"_ Finian murmured in his sister's ear. "Deep in Mac Tir's pocket, mostly due to the fact that his lands border Gwaren."

In a slightly unsteady voice, the bann announced that the seventy first Landsmeet had been called by Eamon Guerrin, to discuss a number of  _urgent issues._

As Ceorlic spoke, he darted increasingly anxious looks over in Flora's direction. This confused her slightly – as far as she could recall, they had never met – until she realised that Loghain had most likely intended for  _Howe_ to officially declare the Landsmeet open.

_He's heard what I did to Howe,_ Flora realised, with a little flash of realisation.  _He's scared of me._

She smiled sweetly at the white-bearded man and he promptly stumbled over his words, mispronouncing  _convocation_ and earning himself a glare from Loghain.

Once Bann Ceorlic had finished speaking, a faint sheen of sweat visible on his forehead, he glanced across to Eamon. As the man who had called the Landsmeet, the Arl of Redcliffe was expected to introduce the issues that needed to be debated.

The elder Guerrin rose smoothly to his feet, taking a practised stance in the centre of the chamber. Turning to take in his audience, he raised his voice so that it carried up to the vaulted ceiling.

"I raise two issues for this session of the Landsmeet to discuss, each one vital in their own way for the continued survival and wellbeing of Ferelden. First: the acknowledgement of the Blight that is currently ravaging the south - "

There was a small outburst of murmurs and whispers from the stands; expressions ranging from denial, to alarm, to studied nonchalance. Eamon raised his voice, pressing onwards.

"It can be ignored by Denerim no longer. And the second issue: the succession. It has been six months since Ostagar, and a new ruler must be found. Now- "

"With all  _due_  respect," Loghain interjected with a little snarl from his raised seat. "Ferelden already  _has_  a ruler: my daughter."

There was another collective intake of breath from the nobles present. Traditionally, no debate took place during the opening session of the Landsmeet – it was intended to be simply an opportunity for the one who had called it to make their issues known.

Eamon took this breach of convention in his stride, turning eyes the shade of peeled grapes on Loghain.

"With  _equal_  respect," he replied calmly, in a tone that suggested he bore none. "A woman from Ferelden's  _third_  family does not take precedent over a son of the King. This is not Orlais, where the great families scheme and plot to manipulate their way to the throne. We have a clear and historic system of primogeniture."

Flora glanced sideways at her brother-warden, who was sitting straight-backed beside her with his chin lifted. The candelabra overhead lit each strand of his bronze-gold hair as though the heavens themselves had already crowned him; and if he was nervous, there was no sign of it.

"Anyway," Eamon continued, as Loghain glowered at him from his raised chair. "I wish to present my old ward officially to the Landsmeet – Alistair Theirin."

Duly summoned, Alistair rose to his feet and went to his uncle's side, standing a head over both Eamon and the majority of nobles present. There was a soft intake of breath from the crowd – many of the nobles had been present at the cathedral yesterday, but had only gained a fleeting glimpse of Maric's younger son.

The old King had been popular with both people and nobles, having ruled Ferelden for over two decades. He had been a warrior king in the most literal sense of the word - having overthrown the Orlesian occupation and resumed native rule. As Alistair stood before the Landsmeet, it was clear that  _this_ young man – so like his father in feature and colouring – also had the build and stance of a warrior. Despite the fur-lined tunic and well-cut boots, his was a frame that would be equally comfortable in a full set of armour.

Loghain cleared his throat, a derisive smile creeping over his features.

"Now he presents himself," the general murmured, although there was no humour in his tone. "The stable boy who would be king."

Alistair paused for a moment, his eyes meeting Flora's briefly before turning to Loghain.

"You believed Cailan to be a fool," he said, enunciating the words slow and clear, so that everyone could hear. "But at least my brother died in defence of his country; while you seem on course to let the enemy overrun it without lifting a finger."

A dark and mutinous scowl settled over Loghain's face and he slumped back in the chair, tapping his fingers irritably against the scarred wooden railing. Anora shot him a little glance out of the corner of her eye, her lips tightly folded.

Eamon cleared his throat, his eyes turning towards Fergus.

"Your Lordship?"

Fergus rose to his feet in a smooth motion, and went to join Eamon in the centre of the chamber. Flora followed obediently in his wake, hearing an interested surge of murmurs swell up from the tiers. She could see several nobles – presumably those who had witnessed her heated exchange with Loghain in the cathedral yesterday - craning their necks to get a better view.

"I present my younger sister, Florence Cousland, to the Landsmeet," Fergus continued, his hard stare challenging anyone to enquire as to her whereabouts for the past fifteen years.

Flora stood silently at his side, wondering why her strapped knee had chosen this particular moment to begin throbbing. She was grateful that Fergus had not reeled off the unwieldy litany of her middle names.

_Chastity Popelyn Ragenhilda? What were my parents thinking?_

Introductions finished, Eamon headed back towards their seats. Teagan shifted aside to let his elder brother sit back down, the arl letting out a soft exhalation.

Bann Ceorlic, a flush prickling around the collar of his tunic, clambered laboriously upright in preparation to announce the order of proceedings for the next few days.

Before he could speak, Loghain was on his feet once again, raising his voice to a bark. In response Alistair half-rose from his seat, expression curdling.

"I'm not finished with you,  _Flora_."

Fergus came instinctively to his sister's defence as she paused, turning with his features contorted in anger.

"You will address my sister with the respect due a daughter of Highever," the young teyrn demanded, his eyes flashing like pale lightning.

Teagan reached up to put a restraining hand on Alistair's arm, while simultaneously murmuring reassurance to Fergus.

Flora turned around slowly, summoning the vision of the traitorous general that she had held in her mind for the past six months. Anger and a sense of injustice had demonised him in her memory until he was practically eight foot tall and fire breathing; whilst his real life counterpart was shorter, paler and greyer than she remembered. The only similarity between her malefic conjuration and the man standing before her were the eyes: dark, purposeful and utterly incensed.

"It's fine, Fergus," Flora replied, taking measured strides back into the centre of the chamber. She contained past where they had stood, coming to a halt mere yards in front of Loghain as he glared down at her.

"I don't mind. General Mac Tir and I are both northerners, after all; and northerners are known for speaking plainly to one another."

There was a rustle of interest from the chamber as the audience recognised the similarities in cadence and pattern of speaking between the two opponents.

"Flora, there was just something that I wanted to confirm with you," Loghain murmured, his voice soft and dangerous as a snake. "Something so patently  _ridiculous,_  I was sure it could not be true."

Flora could almost feel her companions tensing behind her, and she took a deep breath; her mind racing over what revelation Loghain might be preparing to deliver.

"My breath is  _baited like a fish hook,_ " she replied, already weary of Denerim politics. She had never been more grateful for her ten years spent in Herring, where any pressing matter was resolved in the span of a single grunted exchange.

This comment earned her a glare from Loghain, who narrowed his eyes before continuing.

"I've heard that you've been calling yourself  _Warden-Commander,"_ he drawled, dry amusement ringing in each word. "I presume that this is mere outlandish rumour – I mean, you leading an army?  _You?!_ A mere slip of a girl?"

The scorn shone on the general's gaunt-cheeked face as he looked her up and down.

_Acting Warden-Commander,_ thought Flora obstinately, letting her gaze wander over the man's posture. Despite the casual contempt in his voice, his shoulders were stiff and his head was dropped low like a predator, his fingers clenched around the railing.

_He knows I'm a threat._

"I apologise for not being twenty years older, and for my lack of a phallus," Flora retorted, wondering if she was even allowed to say  _phallus_ in front of the Landsmeet. "But, I promise that my army will be just as effective. They won't hold my lack of greying beard against me."

" _Army?"_

Loghain changed tack, his fingers tightening on the wooden railing as the derision rolled freely from each word. "I see no  _army_ before me. I've heard that a ragtag collection of miscreants have been wandering the countryside spreading panic and  _false rumour. Orlais_ is the true threat!"

By the end, he was bellowing; the flat northern vowels coming across more strongly as he roared, spittle landing on the flagstones.

Flora had no idea what a  _miscreant_  was, but she was delighted by Loghain's loss of control, and the resulting emergence of his native accent. He sounded exactly like an infamously grumpy Herring local from her childhood, who used to lose his temper with regularity as his excessive weight impeded his daily routine.

"Just because you can't  _see_ something, doesn't mean that it doesn't exist," she retorted with her own adolescent scorn, entirely unruffled by his loss of temper. "You can't  _see_  the Darkspawn horde ravaging the south, but – as will be clearly proven over the next week – it  _is_  happening."

Somewhere in the distance, Chantry bells began to chime, calling the midday service. Loghain paused, raw fury moving over his face like a living creature. Flora stared up at him for a moment, hearing the distant toll of a bell ringing mournfully in the back of her skull.

_Poor, lost Lothering; first to fall._

When she continued, she deliberately allowed tendrils of anger to creep into her words for the first time. Flora knew that the power of her voice lay in its distinctive, northern edge, cutting as the wind blown in from the Waking Sea.

"And with regard to your first comment," she snarled back, raising her voice over the tolling of bells both real and remembered. "I'm surprised that you can stand here –  _here_ , in the heart of Denerim – and claim that a girl from a fishing village is  _not_  capable of leading an army!"

There was absolute, utter silence in the Landsmeet chamber; as though the audience were collectively holding their breath.

Without waiting for Loghain to respond, Flora turned on her heel and strode back towards her seat.

"Arl Bryland has an extensive library," she delivered over her shoulder as a parting shot, pale eyes blazing. "You might want to borrow a  _history book_."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol so Flora is of course referring to Andraste, who was a Denerim native back when it was a little fishing village!
> 
> So I've changed a couple of things about the Landsmeet for my story – first, by increasing the number of nobles present, second, by extending the length, and third, by creating a separate proper chamber for it (rather than some giant hallway where everyone just stands around, lol). Weirdly enough, one of my favourite bits to write about was the vandalism of the Orlesian occupation in the Landsmeet chamber – the scars of their contempt towards Ferelden's more conciliar rule. It reminds me of when you go to the Reichstag in Berlin, which is mostly completely new and modern and beautiful, but also preserves the Soviet graffiti from when the Red Army invaded Berlin at the end of WW2. As part of its legacy! So cool!
> 
> For some reason the autocorrect on my phone (on which I write my whole story, lol), always changes 'warrior' to 'war dork' ? Maric the War Dork King, wtf?! Cailan deserves that nickname more, poor sod.
> 
> Flora isn't intimidated by Loghain's bellowing for the sole reason that his northern accent emerges more when he is yelling, which reminds her of Herring and home!
> 
> It's probably the first time that someone has ever used the word phallus inside the Landsmeet chamber, lol.


	250. Your Father Would Have Been Proud Of You

The Landsmeet chamber erupted with excited babble as Flora sat back down beside Alistair, slightly out of breath. Her heart was beating a rapid staccato between her ribs; but her face remained settled in its usual haughty nonchalance. Loghain sunk down with an ugly scowl as Bann Ceorlic rose to try and regain order. Anora shot her father a small, anxious glance from the corner of her eye, which he duly ignored.

Leliana, who was sitting in the second row, took advantage of the general uproar to lean forward and whisper in Flora's ear.

" _Magnifique, ma petite."_

Flora had no idea what Leliana had just said, but was cheered by the warmth of the bard's tone. Sitting back against the stone bench, she felt the heat of Alistair's thigh seeping into hers as he pressed his leg against her breeches. Risking a quick glance down the row, she saw hard and blazing triumph on Eamon's face, which filled her with a measure of reassurance.

_Maybe me saying phallus wasn't so bad after all._

The Landsmeet opening was concluded quickly after that, with Bann Ceorlic never fully able to gain control over a restless and excitable audience. Loghain stalked out midway through the closing address with a face like thunder, causing the chamber to scramble hastily to their feet as his daughter hurried in his wake.

Deftly steering a path through the crowds of converging nobles, Eamon swept their party back through the entrance hall and onto their waiting horses. Flora barely had time to exchange two words with a grinning Alistair before they were heading back through the palace grounds towards the noble district.

To Flora's alarm, the arl set a faster pace on this return journey – not quite a canter, but more than a trot. Fortunately, her horse dutifully followed its stable-mates, and she was able to concentrate on staying squarely atop the saddle. As they headed back through the noble district, a light summer drizzle began to fall; the accompanying breeze whipping the adjacent estuary up into a lather of seafoam.

The rain increased in fervour just as they arrived back at the Guerrin manor, water pooling in the cracks between the cobblestones. Stable boys ran to greet them, grabbing hold of reins and bringing out flagons of warm ale.

Alistair was off his horse in the blink of an eye, splashing across the cobbles and reaching up to his sister-warden. Flora slid gratefully down into his expectant arms, and he held her tight to his chest, exhaling unsteadily against her hair.

"How did you know what to say to Mac Tir?" Alistair murmured feverishly as he pressed a kiss to Flora's neck, heedless of the presence of her brothers. "The look on his face!"

"Dunno," replied Flora honestly, earning herself another snort from Wynne - albeit a kinder one. Grinning, Alistair bent an elbow above his sister-warden to shield her from the rain – rather pointlessly, since she was a northerner and used to it.

"Alistair, you carried yourself like a prince," Eamon interjected, hunching his shoulders against the downpour. "Your composure in the face of opposition was laudable."

Despite himself, Alistair couldn't help but stand a little straighter, a pleased flush creeping up from his fur-lined collar. Teagan caught his eye, giving the young Theirin an encouraging nod.

"And, Florence- "

Eamon's stare slid downwards to where Flora was turning her face into the salty breeze, eyes closed. "Flora?"

Flora turned to look at him, hair swept into turmoil by the ride back from the Palace. The arl smiled back at her, his gaze softening.

"I remember when I first saw you on the ramparts at Redcliffe Castle," Eamon said quietly, eyes fixed on hers. "The morning after you saved my life. Do you remember what you did?"

Flora nodded, summoning the memory of that chilly dawn day when she had perched on the ramparts and gazed out at the half-frozen Lake Calenhad.

_Sten came and lectured me about never doing any training._

_I still never really do any training._

"You dropped to hands and knees," Eamon continued, reminiscing. "You were barely able to look me in the eye. And  _now,_ you're verbally sparring with the most powerful man in Ferelden, in the halls of the Landsmeet itself."

"' _Verbally sparring'_ ," repeated Flora, impressed with his phrasing. "That sounds better than 'arguing'."

"I wish that Bryce could have seen you today," finished the arl, smiling down at her. "He would be very proud of his daughter."

Standing next to Eamon, Fergus smiled and gave a slight nod of confirmation; Finian grinning unrestrained on his other side.

"Pa relished a good spat in the council chamber when he was younger. He'd have loved to see you take on Loghain."

To her horror, Flora felt two fat tears break free of her eyelashes and roll down her cheeks; the arl's gentle words combining with an unprovoked lurch of emotion.

Alistair put an arm around his sister-warden's shoulders and drew her to his chest, pressing a fierce kiss to the top of her head.

"Ready for some lunch, my dear?"

" _Ye-es,"_ she sniffed, wiping her nose surreptitiously on his sleeve.

The servants had laid out a spread of food on the table in the main hall, platters of everything from baked goods to cold cuts. Oghren was sitting happily in one corner, his plate piled high with sweet Orlesian fancies.

"Oi! Sparkles," he called out, spotting Flora's distinctive dark red head amongst the others. "Your Warden friend left a message for you."

The next moment, the dwarf nearly choked on a sugared almond, eyes expanding.

"By the Stone! Are yeh strippin' off in the middle of the hall, lassie?"

Flora shot Oghren a scowl as a dozen pairs of eyes swivelled in her direction.

"No!" she hissed back defensively, yanking at the ribbons of the navy bodice. "I can't properly  _eat_  in this thing."

Leliana's jaw dropped as she watched Flora wriggle out of the restrictive garment before shoving it neatly under the table with the toe of her boot. Untucking the shirt so that it hung loose over her breeches, Flora immediately felt more comfortable than she had done all morning.

"Thank you," she breathed, holding out her hand to take the parchment from the dwarf.

Letting the scroll unravel, Flora held it in one hand while simultaneously taking a large bite from an apple. Riordan's handwriting was spidery and difficult for her to decipher; forcing her to mouth the words laboriously to herself.

" ' _Still- scorched… Searching – for… Grey Warden…_ crotch.'"

Flora stared down at the message in confusion, brow furrowing as she swallowed the mouthful of sweet fruit.

"Grey Warden  _crotch?"_

She looked instinctively around for Alistair, but he was trapped in conversation beside the table with Leonas Bryland.

"Grey Warden  _crotch_ sounds like something I'd be interested in," purred Zevran in Flora's ear, pecking the back of her neck neatly. "Especially after your display at the Landsmeet this morning. I adore mouthy women."

"What does it say?" she replied, thrusting the parchment towards the elf. He dutifully took it, dark eyes scanning the short note.

"Grey Warden  _cache._ Cache is another word for  _armoury_. He's tracking it down, but it's taking longer than expected."

"Maybe it'll have some armour that actually _fits_  me," Flora replied, wistfully. "When I joined the Wardens, I had to wear clothing for a male dwarf. My breeches always used to fall down in the middle of battle."

Zevran giggled, leaning against the wall as he surveyed the room. "My poor  _sirenita._ How traumatic for you."

Flora snorted, then headed to the table and began to gather sundry items from the platters onto a cloth. She picked items that were easily portable – cut vegetables, bread rolls and durable fruit – before tying the corners of the cloth together.

"Are you not staying here to eat, Florence?" Leliana called across the room, her eyebrows rising. Alistair's head swivelled around immediately, neatly truncating the conversation he had been having with Leonas.

Flora shook her head, shoving the bundle into the pack she had retrieved stealthily from the bedchamber earlier. Coming to a halt in front of Eamon, she gazed earnestly up at him.

"Do the guards know me now? Will I get arrested for being an apostate again?"

Eamon replied in the negative, his eyebrows rising.

"Now that Howe has been – ah – well, now that he's no longer a problem, there's no need to keep your presence hidden. The guards have been informed that you are permitted to be in the city, and to use magic if necessary."

"Like if someone's skull needs  _breaking in two!"_ interjected Oghren with a loud belch; the dwarf heartily approved of the manner in which Flora had dealt with Howe.

"Flo, why are you asking?" Alistair interrupted, hastily abandoning his stack of cheese sandwiches. "Are you going somewhere?"

Flora nodded, retrieving a threadbare woollen jumper from the pack and pulling it on over her head. Once she had knotted her hair in an untidy bundle above her ears, the transformation from teyrn's daughter to Herring native was complete.

"I'm going back to the docks," she replied, slinging the pack over her shoulders. "There were a lot of refugees there – people from the south who've fled the Darkspawn. I  _know_  I heard the Frost-cough when we stayed at the Pearl, and now I can heal without getting into trouble."

There was silence for a long moment, and Eamon exchanged a brief look with his younger brother.

"But - it's  _raining,"_ protested Finian after a moment, widening his pale grey eyes incredulously. "The docks will be even damper and  _more_ miserable than usual!"

"Good, I like rain," replied his sister, an edge of stubbornness in her voice. "Arl Eamon, do you just follow the big canal east? I don't know the way from here."

"I'll take you," interrupted Leonas abruptly, curt as usual. "You shouldn't wander around the city without protection, Howe or no Howe."

The mention of Howe's name caused a flicker to pass over Flora's face. Before her imprisonment, she would have made some glib comment about having the  _best protection in Denerim_ within her own fingertips; but after recalling the feel of the Tevinter suffocation collar around her neck, she was not so quick to joke.

"Thank you, Arl Bryland," she replied earnestly, sensing Alistair shifting from foot to foot at her side. "I'm sorry, I don't want to be an inconvenience, but… it doesn't seem right to sit here for hours, not when I could be more use elsewhere."

_**Good girl.** _

Flora's brother-warden caught her fingers in his hand and squeezed them tightly, eyes communicating intimacies that he would have vocalised if they had been alone.

"You don't need to justify yourself to me, child," replied Leonas, making a swift gesture to one of his retainers.

In the end, Leonas, Leliana and Alistair ended up accompanying Flora to the docks. Preparations for the upcoming Summerday festivities were underway – despite the simmering tension lying just below the city's celebratory façade. Grim-faced Chantry officials directed the placement of flower wreaths and tree boughs, while city guards were stationed on every corner, hands on their weapons. Denerim thrummed with anxiety like an over-tautened lute string, and it was easy to imagine violence erupting at the slightest provocation.

Such was the activity on the streets that they travelled on foot, weaving their way through the crowds beside the main canal. Zevran had accompanied them as far as the market square, before departing in the direction of the alienage; murmuring that he had some investigations to finish. With his absence, the rain increased in both intensity and tempo; soaking through all layers of clothing save for oil-treated leathers.

Despite the fact that she was now able to use her shield freely in their defence, Alistair still kept Flora's hand clutched tightly in his. Such was his preoccupation with his sister-warden's wellbeing that he barely paid heed to the stares and murmurs that followed in his wake.

Leliana, the hood of her Chantry robe pulled low over her face, was conversing with Arl Leonas in muted tones as she picked her way delicately around the puddles. The crowds were beginning to thin as they neared the docks, and the bard reached surreptitiously inside her sleeve to adjust the angle of the wicked blade strapped along her forearm.

"They're comparing Alistair to Maric," she murmured to Leonas, stepping aside to let an upcoming trader with a handcart pass. "I've only ever seen paintings of the old king. Are they so similar?"

Leonas snorted, shooting the trader a glower that prompted the man to swerve his handcart rapidly to one side.

"You'll find no two people in Thedas with a greater resemblance," he replied bluntly. "It's uncanny. The docks aren't far now."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: A random little story about Flora's conception – she actually started off as Florence Cousland proper, a teyrn's daughter raised at Highever who had exceptional skills with a bow and arrow and loved to hunt, lol. Then I decided I wanted to make life a bit more difficult for myself and combined the Cousland-Amell plotlines so that Flora was a Cousland sent away for possessing magic, and raised in ignorance of her heritage. Then I decided that I wanted to make life even MORE difficult, and made her incredibly limited in terms of her powers – and completely useless, offensively. So the spirits of compassion and valour that assist Flora are so powerful that they essentially block her from channelling any other school of magic.
> 
> But actually, this last point was vital for Flo's character development, since her entire character is built around being a kind person. This is what attracted the spirits to her in the first place, and enables her to be such a potent spirit healer! So even though they're fighting the Blight, and challenging the Landsmeet, and Flora is surrounded by Ferelden's highest and mightiest – she still finds time to lend assistance to those who might need her skills. Ultimately, although part of me thinks that my story would have been a lot more exciting with a bow-wielding badass Katniss Everdeen heroine, I'm glad that Flora is fundamentally just a nice girl, lol.


	251. Waging War On The Frost Cough

As they reached the Denerim docks, the rain abated to a fine, misting drizzle blowing straight in from the estuary. Leonas and Leliana turned to the young Cousland healer, waiting for her to dictate their next move. Flora led them towards the entrance to the fish market and then came to a halt, her eyes swivelling appraisingly over the stalls and jetties.

For several moments she stood still beside the stone pillar, ears pricked and waiting. Then, from a nearby cluster of abandoned wooden stalls, came a hollow rattle of a cough. Flora's head swivelled towards the sound, her eyes lighting up.

With some difficulty, she extracted her fingers from Alistair's hand, and made her way behind the stalls. A group of refugee families had made an impromptu camp amidst the mice and stinking run-off from the fish market. A harassed father reprimanded two grubby children for playing with objects they had found in the gutter, while their mother huddled beside them in a threadbare blanket. The woman was bone white and sweaty, a dry rattling coming from her ribs as she breathed; and particles of ice clung to the corners of her mouth.

"Hello," said Flora, and the group huddled behind the stalls looked up at her with mild confusion. "I heard Frost-cough. Can I help? I'm a healer."

The man frowned and Flora reflexively ducked, in case anyone threw anything.

"A  _mage?_ We can't 'ford your services," he replied bluntly, the south shaping his words and phrasing. "We've not even got coin to pay for t'boat to Kirkwall."

"I don't cost anything," said Flora, and then caught sight of the Pearl's facade in the background. "Well, maybe  _one hundred fish,_ ha-!"

"What?"

The man scowled and she shook her head hastily, unslinging her pack and dropping to her knees.

"Sorry. I mean – I don't cost anything."

For a moment she gazed at the man, stuck in a state of limbo; desperate to inch toward to attend the patient but unwilling to do so without permission. The man stared back at her, suspicious, his eyes moving over the two men and the Chantry sister standing unobtrusively to one side.

One of the children crept up, nudged their mother's limp, clammy hand, and then retreated with a little sniff. It was this that made up the man's mind more than anything, and he gave a stiff nod.

"Go on, then."

Flora beamed, shuffling forwards to kneel beside the slumped woman. She let out another rattling cough, and Flora had to stop herself from wallowing too deeply in indulgent memories of Herring.

_Frost-cough was the first illness I ever healed. We called it 'fisherman's lung'._

_My oldest enemy, we meet again! This analogy is in honour of Arl Leonas, who is clearly more comfortable in armour than velvet tunics._

She spread nail-bitten fingers over the woman's throat and let her gaze blur, her mind's eye refocusing inside the coagulated cavity of the woman's chest. She could see the Frost-cough clinging to the pink innards of the lungs, white-blue fragments creating an unnatural sheen over the soft, wrinkled tissue.

_Territory scouted, enemy sighted._

Blinking and shaking her head to restore her external vision, Flora took a deep breath; feeling gilded plumes of magic emerging in her own lungs. The woman coughed again, her eyes half-focusing on Flora.

"Keep still," Flora whispered, reaching down to pat the woman's cheek gently. "It might sting a bit."

_Unleash the troops!_

_**This is a clumsy analogy.** _

_Untrue! It's an excellent analogy._

Flora leaned forward with the golden mist surging joyfully up her throat, and planted her mouth squarely on the woman's frost-covered lips. Exhaling, she let the magic spill freely into the woman's mouth and down her throat.

Letting her gaze slip back inside the woman's chest, Flora could see the golden mist blossoming inside her frosted lungs. The grey-blue particles of infection were burnt away in seconds, leaving only a greasy sheen on the wrinkled crevasses of flesh.

_First assault successful! Now for the reinforcements._

_**This is painful.** _

_No, it's clever!_

Flora exhaled several more times in rapid succession, until she had no air left in her own lungs. Finally, once she was satisfied that no lingering fragments of Frost-cough remained, she sat back and surveyed her work with satisfaction.

_Ha! Territory reclaimed. General Mac Tir is on the run – I mean, General Frost-cough._

The woman opened her eyes, the sclera clear and unclouded. The colour had returned to her cheeks, and she pushed herself to sit upright with little effort.

Flora swallowed the last remnants of magic back down into her own stomach, feeling a distinct prickling in her belly. Her knee gave a little twinge of protest as she clambered upright, using a stone pillar to lever herself to her feet.

"Barnus?" breathed the woman, turning to her husband with a face furrowed in confusion.

"The lass mended you," he said, gruffly. "So, s'it healed now?"

Flora nodded, shifting from foot to foot.

"Yes. Do you know if there's anyone else that needs… mending?"

The woman thought for a moment, then gestured further inside the fish market.

"Other side, over by the warehouse. There's lots of Frost-cough. Than- "

"It's fine," Flora said hastily, interrupting the woman before she could offer her gratitude. "Thank  _you_."

Alistair strode off immediately after his sister-warden as she made for the warehouse; but Leliana paused for a moment, smoothing her Chantry robes over her thighs.

"Where have you come from?" she asked, wanting to confirm her suspicions.

"Gwaren, sister," replied the man, a note of sadness tingeing the word. "But there's nothin' left for us there no more."

Leliana nodded tightly, glancing across at Leonas.

"I see. Thank you."

They spent the rest of the afternoon down at the docks, amidst miserable refugees and the poorest residents of the city; time slipping away until the sun was inching itself down over the western Bannorn. It was a quick and muddied sunset, veiled with ominous wisps of cloud. A grey drizzle had begun to fall, just heavy enough to make everything soggy and damp.

However, Flora was delighted at the opportunity to exercise the full range of her skills again – something that she had not been able to do during their seclusion at the Pearl or her captivity under Howe. She healed a dozen cases of Frost-cough, several fevers of unknown origin and one particularly nasty case of scabies. Then there were the injuries sustained while fleeing from the Darkspawn, or the ensuing hardships. She healed a broken leg that had not set properly, along with several cracked ribs and a shattered pelvis.

As Flora worked, Leliana moved silently amongst the crowds, making gentle enquiries and taking mental notes. The majority of the refugees were indeed from Gwaren, but there were also a handful from Lothering. Each had a pitiful story detailing their plight, different in origin but with the same final goal in mind – to leave Ferelden without looking back.

Alistair's face darkened as he heard each one explain how desperate they were to leave; how anywhere – Kirkwall, Ansberg or even  _Minrathous_  – was preferable to remaining in Denerim. One man declared that he would rather live forever in the Anderfels than spend another day in Ferelden. Everyone they spoke to seemed convinced that the country was doomed, and that it was only a matter of time before the city too was overwhelmed by the horde.

"And what are the nobles doin'? Arguing about which stately arse should sit on the throne!" one old man declared bitterly, as Flora crouched over his swollen foot. "Nah, we've got to save ourselves. They're not going to help us."

Alistair shot an agonised look towards Leonas Bryland, who let out a grunt of brief acknowledgement.

"Can't say it isn't true," he muttered, watching Flora yawn, golden energy spilling from the corners of her mouth.

"These people deserved  _protection_ ," hissed Alistair, running an anxious hand over his rumpled hair. "No wonder they're turning their backs on Ferelden. Damn that whoreson Mac Tir- "

"Look to your sister-warden," Leonas replied, interrupting him bluntly. "She's tiring."

Alistair immediately turned to Flora, who was hauling herself to her feet with a little grimace.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, stepping forward to put an arm around her narrow shoulders. "I think that's enough for one day, don't you? You'll put the apothecaries out of business."

Flora grunted, unable to stifle a wide yawn.

"But- " she said, unconvincingly. "I'm not tired. I could do more."

"You've done enough,  _ma petite,"_ Leliana added, as Alistair shot the bard a grateful look. "I don't like the look of those clouds."

Flora immediately craned her head upwards; the fisherman's daughter able to read the sky better than any book.

"Oh, that's only a bit of rain and wind," she replied, the words interspersed with another yawn. "Can I not quickly just check down that alleyway? I think I heard a cough."

Using finger and thumb, Alistair tilted Flora's pale, earnest face up to his. Her indignant eyes were the same indecipherable colour as the sky overheard, and tiny drops of rainwater clung to her lower lashes. Bowing his head to close the foot of height between them, he pressed his lips softly against her protesting mouth.

When he withdrew, Flora was quiet and compliant; sliding her fingers into his without protest. He smiled at her and she blushed, dropping her eyes to her boots.

Now that Denerim's occupants had withdrawn to their homes or shelters, it took their party less time to navigate back along the winding streets towards the noble district. The paper decorations hung up for Summerday wilted in the drizzle as the water level of the canals slowly inched upwards. In accordance with Flora's confident predication, the gathered clouds issued nothing more sinister than rain of medium intensity, and the occasional gust of wind. The orange glow of sunset lit up the rain slick cobbles until they gleamed like raw amber.

Leliana curled herself into her Chantry robes, pulling her hood as low over her face as it would go as she stepped gingerly around the puddles. They were almost at the main market square, the halfway point of their journey.

"These shoes were  _new,"_ she complained, eyeing the water-stained silk slippers in dismay. "They were from a charming little  _atelier_ in Val Royeaux. Now – I might as well give them to Finian's Mabari hound to chew on!"

"Jethro's attacked a few of my boots too," added Alistair, rubbing Flora's knuckle with a calloused thumb as they followed the bard towards Denerim's main square.

Suddenly Leliana went rigid, forcing Leonas to bring himself to an abrupt stop behind her. Her entire stance seemed to shift; head tilting and hand sliding towards her concealed blade, from lay-sister to assassin in seconds.

"There's something occurring in the square," she murmured, pale blue eyes turned to navy by the lengthening shadow. "I don't know what."

Sure enough, the sound of muffled shouts and calls were faintly audible between the darkened buildings ahead.

"The traders should have closed their stalls by now, surely?" Alistair offered, tightening his grip on Flora's hand. "Is there some sort of… Chantry-last-day-of-spring festival we don't know about?"

Leliana shook her head in a quick back-forth of denial, continuing forward.

"Let's go," she murmured, ensuring that her blade was within easy reach.

As they entered the market square by its south-eastern entrance, the source of the noise became apparent. There was another protest going on, a swell of people converging on a battalion of armoured Royal Guard. The citizens of Denerim appeared more frightened than angry, their faces reflecting the hues of sunset.

"Why won't anyone tell us what's going on?"

"My cousin is from Lothering! She said her husband was killed by a – a  _monster!"_

"Are the Darkspawn coming here? We want to speak to the General!"

"Why hasn't the queen spoken? All she does is call for calm!"

The reassuring replies of the guards were obscured by the rain and the anxious babble. When the crowd surged a little too closely around them; their captain barked an order and the guards withdrew their swords in a clear gesture of warning.

"Let's go," muttered Leonas, putting a hand on a grimacing Alistair's elbow. "There's nothing that can be done to reassure them until the Landsmeet is over."

"Arl Bryland is right," interjected Leliana, her voice low and urgent. "We should leave."

Suddenly, there were roars from behind them as a large group of off-duty labourers spilled forth from a tavern, ale-breathed and belligerent. Sensing trouble brewing in the square, they were eager to partake. Several of them still clutched bottles and flagons, their eyes fixed on the hapless guards.

"Let's go, boys!"

"Time for some action."

Leliana grabbed Flora's damp woollen elbow, pulling her away from a startled Alistair. To her mild confusion, Flora found herself being manhandled into the middle of the road, directly before the path of the mob. Not looking where she was going, she stepped straight into a puddle, water splashing over her boots.

"Go home to your families!"

Leliana's voice rang out through the drizzle, her pale blue eyes stern. The sight of a lay-sister manifesting in the centre of the street momentarily confused the drunken workers.

"You don't need to cause trouble. The city is restless enough tonight," the bard continued, raising a hand to beg calm even as she delivered the instruction.

Several men, cowed by the pairing of the command with Leliana's Chantry robes, skulked quietly off down side alleyways.

"Why should we listen to an  _Orlesian?!"_ demanded a half-shaven man, made confident by ale. "You girls had better move, or- "

Those who remained made a sudden, threatening surge forwards. Leliana darted a quick glance to Flora, and Flora dutifully stepped forward to meet the mob. Light blossomed from her fingertips, weaving outwards in seconds to create an interwoven golden lattice. She exhaled unsteadily and the barrier unfolded itself further at each end, until the entire road was blocked off.

"It's a mage!"

Flora felt the gentle sigh of magic passing through her as the men on the other side of her barrier ranted and railed. A few of the more daring – or drunken – shoved half-heartedly at the shield with elbows and shoulders, before admitting defeat.

"Bah! Let's go, lads."

Gradually, the mob dispersed with much muttering; disappointed to be deprived of their brawl in the square.

Leliana smiled triumphantly at Flora as the disconsolate men trickled off into the shadows

"Crisis averted!"

"Nicely done," muttered Leonas, reluctantly impressed by the bard's quick thinking. "Could've been a nasty incident."

Flora lowered her hands, the shield disintegrating into a shower of incandescent, heatless sparks. Alistair stepped towards her, his face a mixture of anxiety and relief.

"Flo, I- "

A bottle came winging its way out of nowhere, hurled by a particularly truculent man as he scuttled away. Droplets of flying ale mingled with the rain as it spun end over end through the drizzle. Sailing neatly over Alistair's shoulder, the bottle struck Flora square on the side of the temple. She lost her balance, falling against her brother-warden as he made a frantic grab at her elbow; the bottle smashing on the damp cobbles at their feet.

"Flo!  _Flora_ \- "

Flora put a hand to her head, more shocked than hurt, a bruise blossoming rapidly underneath the skin.

Alistair thrust her without hesitation towards Leonas Bryland, before striding off through the shadows with jaw set and anger blazing in his eyes. Leliana slipped unobtrusively after him, unwilling to let the bastard prince go unsupervised.

"Here, sit down, lass."

There was an unusual softness to the arl's voice, as though some of the coarse edges had been smoothed away. He steered Flora across to an empty stone trough, guiding her to sit on the edge while reaching for his water-pouch. It turned out to contain some sort of spiced whisky, the liquor promptly distilling itself beneath Flora's tongue as she took several gulps.

"How's the head?" he asked quietly after a few moments, taking the pouch back and tucking it inside his tunic. "Can you see straight? My Habren once took a head-blow from a horse's hoof, and she saw double for a day afterwards."

"I can see fine," Flora replied, taking a deep breath to calm herself. To her mild alarm, the reflexes of battle had become demonstrably slower during their time in Denerim.

_I would have reacted more quickly to that bottle two months ago, while we were still travelling._

_Sten was right; I should practise more._

"Perhaps my daughter  _still_ sees double. Would explain why she buys two of everything," Leonas continued wryly, and Flora let out a surprised giggle, unused to the stern-faced arl showing a semblance of humour.

Leonas smiled down at his late friend's daughter, who had been so reminiscent of Bryce during the morning's Landsmeet session. The drizzle continued to fall steadily, but both arl and teyrn's daughter ignored it.

"Well, I liked buying things too when Bann Teagan took me to the market," she confessed, slightly shame-faced. "Did he give you the pastry? I got you a pastry. If he didn't, it's probably stale now."

"Aye, he gave it to me," replied Leonas quietly, reaching out to brush the dark red hair to one side to inspect Flora's forehead. The skin above her eyebrow was mottled and blue-black, an echo of the bottle's glass edge. "Now, you ought to mend this before Alistair catches sight of it. Poor lad's nerves are shot already."

Flora obediently lifted gleaming fingertips to her temple, smoothing away the bruise in absent-minded circles. By the time that Alistair emerged from the shadows of the alleyway, the bruise had faded to the faintest ghost of a mark.

Alistair, breathing hard and with one leather glove clutched in a bare hand, crossed immediately to Flora's side. He lifted the hair away in a repetition of Leonas' earlier gesture, inspecting the unblemished skin.

"Are you alright, my dear?" he asked, taking a gulp of damp air to calm his racing heart.

Flora nodded, catching a brief glimpse of blooded knuckles before her brother-warden slid the glove back on.

"I'd like to… go back now," she said carefully, eyeing his fist with slight awe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: The reason why Flora ducked reflexively when helping the refugees was because Carver Hawke threw a flagon at her head back in Lothering, lol. Anyway, I wanted to start and finish the chapter on the same note – hence, the bottle being thrown. I also wanted to demonstrate how Flora's reactions aren't quite as refined/sharp as they were when she was travelling around Ferelden in a constant state of semi-alertness! She's gone a bit soft in city life! She needs to sort that out before the final battle!


	252. Just Try And Relax

Wardens, bard and arl returned to the nobles' district without further incident, the estates of Ferelden's greatest families rearing up in shadowed masses on both sides of the road. There was a sliver of moon in the sky just visible behind a thin veil of cloud, but the stars were obscured by the unending drizzle. The rain-mottled surface of the estuary was further disturbed by short, choppy waves, throwing up petulant sprays of sea foam against the sidings.

Arl Bryland took his leave with a nondescript grunt of farewell at his own adjacent manor. Leliana, hissing at the state of her saturated shoes, ushered both Wardens quickly through the shadows towards the Guerrin estate.

They made for rather a pathetic sight on their entrance into the hall, waterlogged and dripping. This was in stark contrast to Finian, who was the picture of elegance as he lounged beside the hearth chattering away to Bann Teagan. Wynne was sitting opposite with book in hand, which the senior enchanter promptly dropped into her lap at the state of them.

"Maker preserve us," Finian drawled, sauntering over with a spreading grin. "What's crawled out of the estuary this evening? A holy trout- "

He blew a kiss towards Leliana, who narrowed her eyes as she slid back her saturated hood. Undaunted, Finian continued, his gaze sliding across to the dripping Alistair.

"A particularly  _girthy_ eel…"

Alistair went slightly pink, unsure whether Finian was engaging in insult or flirtation. The young Cousland flashed him a wink, accompanied by a wicked lightning grin; before moving to ruffle his sister's wet hair with affectionate fingers.

"And a sweet little herring."

"Herring aren't  _little_ ," replied a scornful and soggy Flora. "Well, maybe they are in Arl Howe's traitorous ocean. But in the Waking Sea, they can grow up to  _this_ long."

She held up her index fingers about a foot apart, solemn face earnest. Finian continued to smile at her, expression smooth and unruffled as any Orlesian courtier. Only the slightest flicker in his rain-grey eyes, a mirror of Flora's own, betrayed his nonchalant countenance.

Eamon's servants had prepared the Wardens' chamber already, lighting the hearth and drawing the shutters closed against the drizzle. A full load of logs smoked in the hearth, while the candelabra above cast a pool of light over the flagstones.

A yawning Flora stood before the hearth, dripping steadily onto the rug as she inspected her fingertips, which were pink from the afternoon's excessive expenditure of energy.

"Sorry, bear," she murmured, eyes dropping to the soggy animal skin beneath her feet. "I'm raining on you."

Abandoning her sore fingers, Flora pulled the damp wool jumper over her head and draped it over a pair of decorative antlers.

Suddenly, she felt breath warmer than the heat of the fire against the back of her neck. Familiar lips came to settle on her ear, a tongue teasing inside the lobe with focused precision. She shivered, feeling her brother-warden press himself against her body from behind.

"Let's get these wet clothes off," Alistair murmured, reaching around Flora's waist to unfasten the button on her breeches. She caught a glimpse of red and reached down to intercept his wrist, lifting his hand before her face. Her brother-warden's knuckles were grazed, and she brought the wound instinctively to her mouth.

"You hit him?" she mumbled, lips working over the reddened skin. "The bottle-thrower?"

"Actually, I wanted to kill him," he replied bluntly, resting his chin on top of her head. "I restrained myself."

Flora let his hand go, the skin on his knuckles intact once more. Alistair immediately returned his fingers to her breeches, his teeth worrying gently at the lobe of her ear.

"Now, where were we?" he continued softly in her ear, sliding the breeches down over her thighs. "I believe you were about to take your smalls off for me."

"I was?"

"You were, my darling."

Ignoring Leliana's earlier warning about letting her brother-warden see her naked - lest Alistair make the connection between her morning nausea and gently rounded abdomen - Flora defied the voice of reason and shoved down her smallclothes, letting them drop onto the long-suffering bearskin's head.

"Sorry again, bear," she whispered, feeling Alistair press himself more urgently against her.

"What?"

"Nothing. Ha, you can see through my shirt! What  _poor quality material_. In Herring, our shirts are sturdily made of flannel and- "

Then Alistair was manhandling her to face him, pupils blown wide with desire as he gazed down at his sister-warden. She had not been telling a falsehood about the transparency of her shirt, and his leonine stare swept up and down the length of her damp body, breath catching in his throat.

"Maker's Breath," he murmured, voice thick with lust. "Look at you, sweetheart. So gorgeous. I  _have_  to have you."

He swept her up into his arms, covering the distance to the bed in a handful of impatient strides.

_Ha, Leliana!_ thought Flora, triumphantly.  _My shirt is still on! He can't see my stomach._

Moments later, her smugness faded as Alistair bore her hard down on the bed, face blazing with intensity. He divested Flora of the shirt with a closed-fist yank of linen, ignoring her plaintive cry of  _buttons!_

He stared down at her, wordlessly, and Flora held her breath.

_He's going to say something,_ she thought, her panic growing with every moment of silence.  _It's so obvious –_

"My beautiful girl," Alistair said after an elongated, excruciating pause. He covered her breast with a mouth, issuing a grunt of satisfaction, fingers sliding downwards between her thighs.

"Flo, you're so tense," he murmured a short while later, returning his lips to her nipple. "Relax, sweetheart."

_How am I supposed to relax?!_ Flora thought, wildly.  _Your mouth is inches from my stomach. Any minute, you're going to notice how that bump isn't soft belly fat, it's firm, and rounded –_

As it turned out, Alistair gave no impression that he  _had_  noticed. He rolled over and drew his sister-warden on top of him; letting her adjust herself until she was comfortable straddling his thighs.

It took the anxious Flora a long time to find a satisfactory rhythm, dampness beading on her forehead as she rode him with teeth-gritted. Alistair moved dutifully underneath her; reaching down with a thumb when he saw that she was getting increasingly frustrated. Eventually, she began to squirm on top of him, with mouth open and tangled hair clinging to her sweat-slick breasts.

At long last, Flora let out an incoherent whimper as her back arched; the climax all the more intense for the difficulty in achieving it. Alistair, who now needed relief so badly that it almost  _hurt_ , gave Flora a hasty kiss before rolling her off him. Pulling his sister-warden to the edge of the bed, he threw her legs over his shoulders and sheathed himself back into her with a single thrust.

He drove her into the mattress with hard, punishing stroke; letting out primitive grunts as he relentlessly pursued his own climax. Flora clutched the tangled blankets to gain some traction, the breath forced from her lungs by her brother-warden's exerting pace.

" _Maker_ \- " Alistair spent himself without warning, face contorting as the world went temporarily white around him. After several moments spent clutching blindly at the bedpost, he wobbled unsteadily over to the dresser to pour himself a flagon of ale.

Downing the contents in their entirety, he filled the tankard again and brought it back to the bed.

Flora was sitting up, rather dishevelled, with the blankets strategically draped around her waist. Alistair grinned at his sister-warden rather stupidly, before handing her the flagon. She took several gulps, feeling the alcohol distil into water on her tongue, then beamed back at him.

"Maker's Breath," Alistair said impulsively, watching her lean off the edge of the bed to place the flagon on the flagstones. "It actually  _hurts,_ sometimes."

Flora sat back upright, turning a healer's eye on him.

"What hurts?" she replied immediately, golden energy sparking from beneath her nails.

Alistair grinned, sitting back down and reclining against the cushions. Lifting an arm for Flora to nestle against his chest; he pressed a fierce kiss to the top of her head.

"How much I love you. It almost feels like… like a pain in my chest."

Flora inhaled against his arm, unsteadily. Despite the sudden, hormonal prickle of tears in her eyes, she kept her tone light and cheerful.

"Do you want me to try and heal it?"

"There's no mending this, my love," he murmured back, a yawn interspersing the words. "It's a mortal wound."

It did not take Flora long to fall asleep, wedged against the warm, solid muscle of Alistair's chest. The last thing she heard before passing through the Veil was her brother-warden murmuring soft affection into her ear, his calloused thumb compulsively rubbing the gold Cousland ring on her left hand.

Some time later, Flora was immersed in a most peculiar dream. Oghren had just revealed himself to be a spy working in secret on behalf of the Archdemon, when an insistent Orlesian accent wormed its way into her mind.

"Florence!  _Flora, wake up."_

Yawning, Flora opened her eyes to see Leliana crouched beside the bed, a finger held to her lips. The room was still bathed in shadow, slivers of moonlight passing through the shutters and illuminating the dancing Mabari above the hearth.

"What hour is it?" Flora whispered, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and yawning even more widely. "I was having  _such_  an odd dream."

Leliana winced as Alistair let out a soft, sleepy grunt and flung an arm across Flora's waist.

" _Ssh!_ Don't wake him. It's one bell after midnight. Come on, the- " here, she lowered her voice until it was barely audible, " – the  _midwife_ is downstairs."

Flora swallowed, feeling a reflexive lurch of nausea deep in her gut. Carefully extracting herself from Alistair's grip – his limbs were like tentacles, they were  _everywhere_ – she pushed back the blanket and clambered out of bed.

Leliana shot her a look of disapproval, lips pursing.

"You're  _naked!"_ the bard hissed, flaring her nostrils. "I thought you weren't going to let him see you fully unclothed – ah, Andraste preserve us!  _Never mind_. Here, put this on."

Leliana thrust out the scarlet wool dressing robe with a little huff. Flora dutifully wrapped it around her body, creeping barefoot across the flagstones in the bard's wake.

The lay sister opened the door with practised silence, glancing once more over her shoulder to ensure that Alistair was sleeping soundly. The bastard prince lay sprawled across the bed, his hair silvered by the moonlight, snoring loud and contented.

"Should I leave him a note?" asked Flora, wistfully glancing back at her brother-warden's strong chest.

Leliana shot her a scornful look, eyebrows shooting towards the ceiling.

"Saying what?" she murmured, setting off down the corridor with a nod to the attendant guards.  _"'Back soon, just finding out when your child is due'_?"

"The midwife might not even say that at all," replied the barefoot Flora belligerently, trying to keep to the rugs laid across the chilly tiled floor. "She might say,  _of course you're not with child, you've just eaten too many desserts."_

Leliana snorted wryly, reaching back to clasp Flora's hand in hers.

"We all wish that were the case,  _ma petite."_

They descended the steps down into the main hall, which was deserted save for the night guard. Leliana, who already seemed to know her way intimately around the Guerrin estate, headed down a series of increasingly obscure side corridors. It soon became obvious that they were in a part of the manor not intended for noble usage – these were servants' quarters, with narrow passages and little in the way of décor.

The bard came to a halt outside a nondescript wooden door, turning to face Flora. Tutting without rancour, Leliana reached out and smoothed a hand over the young Cousland's head, trying to flatten the dishevelled strands.

"We can't have you going in there with bed-rumpled hair," she murmured, licking her finger and pressing down an errant curl. "Why not tie it back before you lie with him?"

Flora shrugged, eyeing the wooden door as though the Archdemon lurked on the other side.

"Alistair always pulls it loose," she mumbled, taking a deep breath. "Let's just get this over with."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol Alistair has DEFINITELY noticed the curve of her belly! But since he's not experienced with the female body, he just assumes that it's the product of eating too much – and is far too gentlemanly to ever comment.


	253. The Midwife

The room behind the door was small, dim and plain; a discreet bedchamber for a handful of servants. Ashes lay in a small hearth in the corner, while moonlight streamed in through a single, high window.

The chamber also seemed more cramped due to the number of people occupying it. Both Guerrin brothers stood alongside one wall, while Leonas leaned against the hearth. Wynne and Finian were sitting on one of the narrow bunks; the latter fiddling anxiously with russet curls that now drooped to shoulder length.

On the opposite bunk, an elderly woman waited patiently, still wearing her travelling cloak. Her hair had faded with age, but her rich, nut-brown eyes were bright and sharp, despite the lines that framed them.

Flora clutched the scarlet wool dressing robe more tightly around herself, anxious eyes darting towards Finian. Her brother, who was the only other person in the room clad in his nightclothes, shot her an odd grimace that was intended to be a reassuring smile.

"You understand the need for discretion," Eamon repeated, fingers resting on a full coinpurse.

The old midwife cackled, nodding her head as shrewd eyes settled on Flora.

"Aye, milord. Don't fret, you've more than paid for my silence. Come here, lassie."

Flora swallowed, inching over the threshold as Leliana gave her a small pat on the elbow. Senior enchanter shot junior apprentice a sympathetic look as she shuffled across the room, taking deep breaths to calm herself.

"No need to look so frightened, girl," murmured the midwife, rising to her feet and gesturing Flora forward impatiently. "Alright, show me."

Swallowing hard, Flora turned her back on the rest of the room and let the folds of the dressing gown fall open. The old midwife reached forward, running a practised palm over the rounded curve of Flora's abdomen.

"Which one of this lot has got you in this predicament then, child?" the woman murmured, fingers inching across the taut flesh. "Didn't your mother warn you about what noblemen were like when you got the job?"

Flora blinked in confusion for several moments, then realised that the midwife assumed she was a servant.

"Um," she replied, not sure how to respond. "No?"

The midwife clucked, shaking her head as she cast an eye over the array of nobles gathered at the edges of the room.

"He looks like a ladies' man. He the father?"

Flora turned her head, following the old woman's gnarled finger towards Teagan. The bann coughed, averting his eyes from Flora's bared shoulders. The youngest Cousland suddenly had to resist the urge to laugh, the situation so desperate that it was almost ridiculous.

"To tell the truth,  _any_ of them could be the father," she whispered to the midwife conspiratorially. "We'll just have to wait and see whose nose it has."

Finian had to stifle a little cackle as both Wynne and Leliana rolled their eyes in unison. The look on the nobles' faces varied from surprise to red-faced incredulity.

"Aren't you a little hussy," murmured the midwife, her tone distinctly frostier. "Well, based on the size of that belly- I'd say you were three months gone."

"Conceived during the return to Ostagar then," Leliana murmured to Wynne; the senior enchanter nodded, having already surmised this.

"So the child would be due…" Eamon prompted, clearing his throat with an awkward cough.

"Round the end of Kingsway, aye."

"And how long before she gets – gets  _noticeable?_ " Leonas enquired bluntly, making a euphemistic gesture around his stomach.

The midwife cast another eye over Flora, noting the slender frame and the fine-boned face.

"She's a little lass, and there's scant spare flesh on her. I'd say she's got another month of being able to hide it under clothing."

To Flora, their conversation sounded as though it was taking place underwater; the voices muffled and distant. The only word that stood out to her was  _Kingsway_

"It's definitely not just food?" she asked abruptly, cutting across their exchange. "You're sure?"

There was a note of pleading in her tone. The midfield glanced at her with some sympathy, then gave a slow and definitive nod.

"It's a child – or the beginnings of one," the old woman replied, apologetically. "Sorry. Too late for the pennyroyal tincture now; it'd take you with the babe."

Her knees suddenly weak beneath her, Flora sat down hard on the bunk beside Wynne. Bending forward, she put her face into her palms, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes to stop the tears. Such was the intensity of her fright that she did not hear Eamon conclude business with the midwife, gaining yet another confirmation of discretion before sending her on her way with a servant.

Eventually, she became aware of a hand rubbing up and down her spine in rhythmic, reassuring strokes.

"There, there," murmured Wynne briskly, her lips taut and pale. "This is partially my fault. You're a junior from my Circle, I should have chaperoned you more closely."

"No, it's  _my_ fault," chimed in Finian, his handsome, like-featured face twisted in distress. "I'm your brother - I should have looked after you."

"And perhaps I should have put more effort into beguiling Alistair," added Leliana, earnestly. " _I_ would not have allowed myself to get into this predicament."

"It's  _our_  fault," Flora interrupted, raising her face from her hands and giving a little shrug of defeat. "Me and Alistair. We were careless. Me, especially – it's my magic that made it possible in the first place."

There was silence for a long moment, the truth of her statement hovering uncomfortably in the air.

"Well," Flora continued after a moment, swallowing hard. "Then we have a month to end the Blight. Leliana's corsets can only pull so tight before I can't breathe."

Finian shot her a little sideways smile, leaning across to plant an affectionate kiss on his sister's cheek.

"I'll  _stitch_  you into your clothing, truss you up like a Satinalia turkey," he offered, helpfully. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll be skinnier than me."

He smiled down at her, doing his best to hide the worry behind a light-humoured façade.

Despite herself Flora giggled at her lanky brother, who had the slender, spare frame of an intellectual. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she looked around at the others.

"Who's going to be the father of this child, then?" she asked, deliberately forcing some cheer into her tone. "Not Arl Eamon, your wife dislikes me enough already."

Teagan laughed and offered a witty rejoinder, but Flora was barely listening.

_Alistair is the father. And he doesn't know._

She let Leliana escort her back up to the bedchamber as though in a dream, clutching the scarlet wool tightly around herself. Despite the mildness of the evening and the healthy flames burning away in the hearth, Flora suddenly felt very cold. Leaving Leliana at the doorway, she shuffled across the flagstones towards the bed; where Alistair was lying exactly as they had left him, carelessly sprawled amidst the tangled blankets.

Flora perched on the edge of the mattress and gazed down at her handsome brother-warden as he snored, with a face made cool and statuesque by the moonlight. Shrugging off the scarlet woollen robe, she curled up beside him, an involuntary shiver running the length of her spine.

Alistair murmured, reflexively reaching out to draw her more tightly against his chest. Flora let him wrap his limbs around her, grateful for the closeness; inhaling his warm, masculine scent.

"Mm" he mumbled against the back of her neck. "My love."

_A spreading foulness; tendrils of Blight crawling over red leaves and tangled tree roots._

_An army marching beside a wide river; made up of the creatures that dwelt in the deepest, rotting places of the world._

_The Archdemon wheeled above a forest that predated humanity, with a wingspan that blotted out the sickly yellow sun. It landed on a cliff, head hanging low and snakelike, then let out a blast of molten violet flame as it surveyed its armies below._

_Flora was crouched behind a boulder mere yards from the creature itself, the stench of Blight rolling off it in great, putrid waves. From her proximity, she could see the hard, leathery texture of its body; the scales jagged as fragments of glass. Its great, bat-like wings were bent to either side, each one tipped with a scythe-like claw that dug into the stone._

_She felt something hard and cool in her hand, and looked down to see that she was holding a sword._

_**What are you waiting for?** _

_I don't know how to use this, Flora thought wildly. I don't use swords._

_**When the time comes; you must.** _

_Then suddenly the Archdemon swung its head round, and it had the skeletal face of Howe. Flora recoiled, dropping the sword and falling backwards onto her rear. She felt something grab her arms to restrain her; and then her vision was filled entirely by the blazing symbol of a Chantry sunburst as it lowered itself towards her forehead._

Flora woke up shuddering and sweating, consumed by the overwhelming desire to be sick. The room was grey with the light of pre-dawn as she thrust herself from Alistair, who had been woken by her panicked, sleep-tangled cries. Clambering blindly out of bed, ignoring his plaintive call of  _"Flor - ?",_ she lurched across the room and made a grab for the basin resting on top of the dresser.

Clutching it in her hands, Flora dropped to hands and knees and retched in what she hoped was the direction of the bowl. It was mostly thin, watery acid that burnt her throat as it surged upwards from her stomach, and she sensed her eyes prickling with tears.

Then she felt Alistair's hand between her shoulder-blades, rubbing in low, soothing circles as the fingers of his other hand clutched her hair away from her face.

"One moment, sweetheart," he murmured as she finished retching, planting a kiss on the back of her tangled head. "Let me just cover you up – there we go."

Alistair draped the scarlet dressing robe over her shoulders, and then raised his voice.

" _Guard!"_

One of the Guerrin night watch immediately ducked inside the chamber, bowing their head respectfully.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Could you call a servant to bring something to drink?"

The guard nodded and withdrew hastily, shutting the door softy in their wake. Flora took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, only for the horrible conjunction of Howe's head on the Archdemon's body to manifest itself once again. She sat back on the flagstones, noticing the bearskin rug staring disapprovingly at her.

Flora stuck her tongue out at it as her brother-warden pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

"Was that aimed at me, my dear?" Alistair breathed in her ear, and she shook her head, smiling despite it all.

"No, at the bear."

"Good," he murmured, pushing himself upright and going to retrieve a pair of breeches.

Soon afterwards, two servants arrived with several tankards and a flagon of watered-down wine. They took away the basin as they departed; assuring a frantically apologising Flora that it was no trouble at all.

Once the door had shut behind the last servant, Alistair sat before the hearth and poured them both a flagon with a steady hand. He handed one to Flora, then took it hastily back again as her trembling hand deposited half of the contents down her chest.

"Alright, sweetheart, let me help you."

The casual lightness of his tone was betrayed by an anxious thread running through each word. Carefully, keeping her chin in place with a finger, he tilted the flagon and tipped the watered wine into her mouth.

Once Flora had inhaled half of the contents, tongue prickling as the magic rose to refine the alcohol back to water, Alistair lowered the flagon.

"Maybe we could ask that senior Warden – once he gets back from finding this mysterious cache – about whether the taint could do this?" her brother-warden suggested tentatively, watching Flora sprawl backwards on the bearskin. "There must be something causing the sickness."

"Mm."

Flora gave an ambiguous grunt, tilting her head sideways to gaze at the bear's stuffed, snarling face. She reached out a finger to touch one of its long fangs, bared in perpetuity.

"I think the Archdemon and the army are moving," she said after a moment, watching Alistair's head snap down to hers, his nostrils flaring. "I saw them passing the Brecilian Forest. They were following that river – what's it called?"

"White River," replied Alistair, a shadow passing over his face. "Maker's Breath - that's not far at all. We  _have_  to get the support of the Royal Army and start organising the city's defences."

He fell into a troubled silence, gazing off towards the smouldering ashes of the fire with a pensive expression. Flora looked up from the bear's mouth, her brother-warden's face anxious and upside-down from her sprawled perspective.

"I also dreamed that Arl Howe was Tranquilising me," she added, knowing that this was supremely unimportant compared to the movements of the horde, but wanting it off her chest regardless.

Alistair, as expected, immediately let out a little hiss of anger. His fingers tightened around the flagon until the metal bit into the skin, and he let it go abruptly on the flagstones.

"Maker's Breath," he said though gritted teeth; the maintenance of composure a clear struggle. "I swear, if I'd ever got my hands on him – they would have heard the screams in Minrathous."

Flora, who was calmer now, made no reply. She hoped that Howe's spirit was grateful that she had spared his temporal body from prolonged torture.

_I did you a favour breaking your head apart like an egg. A quick death was more than you deserved._

Alistair had a face like thunder now, storm clouds of anger darkening his eyes and pulling his mouth taut at the corners. Flora peered up at him appraisingly from the bearskin, not wanting her brother-warden to begin the day in a foul mood.

"I'm going to need another bath," she observed innocently, letting the scarlet folds of the dressing robe drop away from her chest. "I spilt wine everywhere."

As she had hoped, the anger in Alistair's eyes gradually began to recede; replaced by a slow-burning desire.

The bastard prince gazed down at her, exhaling unsteadily as he shoved the flagons to one side. Without hesitation, he bent his head and pressed his mouth to her small breast, tongue teasing up the remnants of the wine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol so the midwife is under the impression that Flora is some servant girl impregnated by one of the nobles, hence the secrecy!
> 
> I just wanted to emphasise in this chapter how bloody inconvenient Flora's pregnancy – literally nobody is happy about it! It's made the situation infinitely more complex, unwanted by everyone … and since Flora is the linchpin of their factional bid to usurp Loghain from the seat of power, her body and wellbeing is essentially a public concern (public, in this case, being the other nobles – save for Fergus and Alistair, of course!)


	254. The Second Day Of The Landsmeet

In defiance of the previous night's drizzle, Summerday dawned bright and hopeful. During the breaking of their fast, Eamon revealed the plan for the next four days of the Landsmeet; during which the evidence for the existence of a true Blight would be presented. During the month spent at South Reach, their faction – coordinated by the Arl of Redcliffe – had gathered a variety of witnesses to testify as to the Darkspawn horde's size and strength. Flora and Alistair did not  _technically_  have to attend – neither of them were twenty one, the minimum age for casting a Landsmeet vote – but Eamon wanted them to maintain a silent presence for the duration.

Assisted by Leliana, Flora dutifully strapped herself into a navy blue bodice and pulled the strings as taut as they would go. Thus constricted, she went to join the others as they gathered in the courtyard before the Guerrin estate, waiting for the stable-boys to produce the horses.

To her surprise and relief, Alistair stretched down a hand to haul her onto the front of his own saddle. She twisted her head to beam quizzically at him as he reached around her waist, gripping the reins in a casual hand.

"I want to ride with you," he murmured softly, against her ear. "I want to walk into the Landsmeet with you. I want to show them all how proud I am to stand at your side."

Flora shot him a small, awed glance.

"Really?"

He nodded, lifting her left hand to his mouth and kissing her curling fingers.

"Happy Summerday, my love."

As they rode through the streets towards the Royal Palace, the sound of church bells echoed in the air around them, chiming out in discordant harmony across the city. Boys and girls, dressed dutifully in white, were being escorted to their local Chantry in preparation to join the procession. The crimson paper rosettes and bows had recovered valiantly from the previous night's soaking, adding splashes of vibrant colour to the Fereldan stone.

Yet Alistair's wistful eye was not drawn to the decorations or the children processing to their local Chantry. He was instead gazing at the young couples sitting hand-in-hand, laughing and carefree as they perched on walls and leaned against market stalls; either newly wedded or about to be.

"Hey, Flo," he murmured as Leonas led the way onto the final meandering road leading up towards the Royal Palace. "How does a boy propose marriage to a girl in Herring?"

Flora shot her brother-warden a suspicious glance over her shoulder; his expression was guileless and innocent.

"Well," she replied slowly, as the trees and lush vegetation of the palace grounds swelled up around them. "The boy catches a fish and presents it to the girl. If the girl says yes, they cook and eat the fish together."

"Of course, it involves fish," interjected Leliana, who had naturally been listening in. "Does any part of Herring life  _not_ involve fish?"

"Hm," said Flora, taking the question literally. "I don't think so. They're quite integral."

Passing within the makeshift fence, they headed through the grounds of the Royal Palace; the waters of the green estuary beyond glinting like cut jade in the sun. After the stable-boys took charge of the horses, Eamon led the way into the great entrance hall. Flora gave one of the stone Mabari a pat on its vast paw as they passed between them.

The entrance hall hummed with activity, as Ferelden's great and good formed small, excited clusters within. As soon as Eamon Guerrin made his entrance, flanked by the Couslands and Alistair Theirin, the whispers reached a new, feverish pitch.

"The witnesses are already seated in the chamber," murmured Eamon in Alistair's ear, nudging him discretely towards the pillared Landsmeet entrance.

As they seated themselves once more in the great tiered stone chamber – the site of some of Ferelden's landmark decisions – Flora cast a curious eye over the men and women seated opposite. They were an odd collection; their differing garb suggesting a mix of peasant, soldier and minor gentry, as well as a handful of retainers clad in ragged livery. She remembered that the golden dragon and black background had decorated Mac Tir's tent at the camp in Ostagar.

"Many of them are from Gwaren," Teagan murmured in Flora's ear, noticing her curious glance. She nodded, recognising another woman as belonging to the caravan of refugees that they had rescued from the Darkspawn at South Reach.

The last few nobles were trailing in, but both Loghain and his daughter were yet to make an appearance.

"This chamber is where Calenhad Theirin was crowned in 5:42 Exalted. Legend suggests that he not only made the tribal lords swear loyalty to him, but also their Mabari." Finian explained helpfully to Alistair. The bastard prince let out a noncommittal grunt, aware of the rumours.

Suddenly, there came a low call of recognition across the stone chamber.

" _Lass!"_

An old soldier, missing an arm and with armour in dire need of a polish, rose from the witness stands. He also tugged the young man up who had been seated beside him, a handsome youth who immediately looked embarrassed.

"Lassie!" the grizzled lieutenant repeated, enthusiastically. "Do you remember us?"

"I think he's talking to you," Leliana murmured to Flora, who narrowed her eyes, squinting across the chamber. The vast shutters across the Alamarri balcony were still closed, and gloom hung over the Landsmeet hall.

Then in a flash it came back to Flora, and her face lit up with recognition.

"The soldiers from Lothering!" she breathed, remembering. "I  _do_  remember you."

She rose to her feet to meet them as they crossed the flagstones, the youth clearly apprehensive about approaching the tiered ranks of nobles. The old lieutenant – who had been through too much to pay much heed to precedent – clapped Flora on the back and grinned at her through his beard.

"Well met, lass! I knew it were you, soon as I saw that red hair."

Flora beamed, delighted that they had escaped the fall of the unfortunate town. The lieutenant eyed her, taking in both the fine clothing and finer company.

"Ah, I remember well that night we met," he murmured, shaking his head ruefully. "Our men had been decimated, barely got out of the valley alive. Young Leon had that- "

"Arrow wound in his back," replied Flora, suppressing a little inward shudder as she recalled those desperate first few days after Ostagar. "It was Blighted."

The lieutenant nodded, shaking his head.

"Thought he were a goner. Then you come along – all grubby and dressed as a boy – and breathed life back into him. Leon, show her your shoulders now."

It was undeniably an order. The youth coughed, but turned obediently and loosed his tunic vest enough to let it drop between his shoulder-blades. There was the faintest pink blotch nestled against the skin, no more noticeable than a birthmark.

Flora grimaced on seeing the pale smudge, recalling how tired she had been.

"Sorry," she said, apologetically. "Usually, I don't leave any scars when I heal."

There came the sound of movement and booted feet approaching from the doorway; Leon hastily shrugged his tunic back on while both Flora and the one-armed lieutenant turned their heads towards the approaching footsteps.

"Better go back to your kin, lass," murmured the old soldier, nudging Leon pointedly in the arm.

Flora withdrew back towards the tiered seating, and was just about to sit down when the queen entered.

Anora swept regally into the room as though she were a Theirin by blood, chin held high and handsome face impassive. The Landsmeet chamber rose dutifully to acknowledge her as she went to the raised end platform and took her seat.

Loghain followed soon after, dressed in full armour as though he were heading directly from politicking to the battlefield. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead as he entered, lip curling in pre-emptive scorn. The moment that the general sat down, slumping in the chair with fingers pressed to his forehead, he assumed an expression of utter boredom.

"Alright," he muttered, barely loud enough for the front tier of nobles to hear. "Let's get this farce over with. What a waste of my time."

The second Landsmeet session ended up lasting for over seven hours; with a single recession barely long enough to take a breath of fresh air in the palace grounds. The balcony remained stubbornly shuttered off, and the chamber grew steadily warmer as the day wore on. One by one, men and women came to the stand and spoke with varying degrees of confidence about what they had seen at Ostagar. Falteringly, each witness explained what they had experienced in the valley during that fateful night; when their king was overwhelmed and the Wardens all but eradicated from existence.

Flora was grateful for Alistair's thigh pressed against her own, solid and reassuring. She had not counted on how difficult it would be to listen to this new perspective on Ostagar; a battle in which she and Alistair had only been on the periphery.

Now, as the careworn lieutenant recanted how he had lost an arm to a Hurlock's rusted blade, the grass beneath his feet stained red as the tiles in a slaughterhouse; Flora realised that he was describing the scenes that Duncan would have witnessed before he died.

Swallowing, grateful that her face's natural solemnity disguised both apprehension and grief, Flora forced herself to listen to the recanting of what had transpired below the shadow of Ishal. It did not make for easy listening, and over time she felt Alistair turn as rigid as a board; as though he were making the transition from a creature of flesh and blood to a stone-carved statue.

At one point, sometime during mid-afternoon, a woman who had lost both legs below the knee gave testimony to the king's death. She had once been an archer of some repute, alleged to have the keenest eye in Ferelden. In the battle, she had stationed herself just above the main field, in order to gain the best view of the foe. In unfaltering tones, she described how she had caught sight of King Cailan being confronted by an ogre near a cluster of crumbled pillars. She had then lost sight of him in the general turmoil, but the implications were clear.

Flora pressed her knee hard against Alistair's, risking a glance sideways and seeing that his face was grey beneath the olive tan. He was staring across the Landsmeet chamber with naked incredulity, and Flora followed his gaze to the raised platform. Loghain wore the same dispassionate scowl that had been plastered across his face all day; but it was Anora whom Alistair was staring at with disbelief.

The queen was gazing down at her lap, fiddling with a loose thread that had pulled free of her salmon-coloured sleeve. If she felt any remorse at hearing how her husband had died, it was not shown on her face; which was as haughty and cool as ever.

When Bann Reginalda enquired as to how the woman had come to lose her legs, the archer raised her head and met Reginalda's gaze with a steady, still-sharp eye; before unfalteringly explaining that they had been  _eaten_.

The rest of the Landsmeet passed in a blur, as did their eventual exit from the chamber. The sun was just beginning to submerge itself in the western Bannorn when they emerged from the Royal Palace; bathing the city in shades of muted indigo and violet.

Alistair did not say a word as they mounted the horses in preparation for the journey back to the Guerrin estate. Flora felt her brother-warden sitting stiff and unyielding against her back, his arms rigid around her waist. As they rode down through the palace grounds towards the noble district, she felt his breath, heated and feverish, against the back of her neck.

_Duncan would have been with the king,_ Flora thought, knowing that Alistair must have been brooding on the same detail. _Was Duncan killed by the ogre, too?_

They arrived back at the Guerrin estate to the sound of the Chantry bells chiming, announcing the traditional evening Summerday service. Fergus made his excuses and withdrew to the chapel, wishing to pay tribute to the wife he had lost on the day that they had married, nearly a decade prior. Leliana accompanied him, seemingly producing her Chantry robes from nowhere.

Flora slithered down from the saddle, grateful for Finian's assisting hand. Alistair dismounted behind her, barely paying heed to what the others were saying; his hazel eyes dark and troubled. Eamon drew his old ward aside to murmur encouragement at him, raising his voice over the joyful calling of the bells. Flora waited patiently for Eamon to finish, gazing at her brother-warden as he grunted a monosyllabic response to the arl's comments. Alistair was still pale beneath the tan, his lips folded tightly and dark smudges beneath his eyes. He seemed to have aged over the duration of the Landsmeet, seeming far older than his two decades.

As soon as Eamon had turned away to talk to Wynne, Flora slid her fingers into Alistair's hand and smiled tentatively at him. He stared back down at her, high points of colour flaring in his cheeks and a strange, humming tension set in his eyes.

"Alistair," she whispered, then he was pulling her inside, tugging her urgently by the hand through the entrance hall and up the staircase. Flora felt her knee protest at his speed and gritted her teeth, his fingers clamped vice-like around her own.

The door of the bedchamber was still closing when his mouth crashed onto hers. It quickly became apparent that Alistair was intent on obliterating the insidious whispers of Ostagar, to purge the afternoon's unwelcome revelations with mindless lust. Flora clutched at her brother-warden, having nearly lost her balance as he crowded her roughly against the dresser. She reached out for a surface upon which to gain traction as his mouth moved to her neck, desperately seeking something intangible as he thrust his body against hers.

"Flo," he whispered hot into her ear, and she felt him straining against her thigh. "Please –  _I need to-_  "

She nodded, and Alistair let out an incoherent sound of desire. Turning Flora around to face the wall, he tugged down her breeches; sliding a knee between her thighs to part them as he fumbled with his belt. Spitting against his palm, he took himself in hand, before sheathing himself inside her with a groan. The ensuing coupling was fast and ungentle, his breath erratic against her neck and fingers clutching hard enough to leave marks. Something about it reminded Flora of the first time that they had lain together at Ostagar; the product of a desperate need that had nothing to do with desire.

_Was that when we made this… mistake?_ she thought gloomily as Alistair panted mindlessly against her ear.  _The Maker is playing a cruel jest on us if that's true._

Then she felt her brother-warden shudder against her, a strangled cry slipping between his lips. He dug his fingers into Flora's hips hard enough to make her gasp; broad shoulders trembling as he threw his head back.

Moments later Alistair pressed his sweaty forehead against her shoulder, breathing unsteadily. She let him slump there for a moment, then reached back to pat his cheek.

"Maker's Breath," he muttered once he had regained coherent speech, clearly distressed. "That was  _so_  inconsiderate of me. I'm sorry, my love. Here, let me- "

He lifted Flora up bodily and took her to the bed, loosening her breeches in order to remove them fully. She reached down and touched the top of his head with her fingers, brushing them against his sweaty ear.

"Alistair, you don't need to," she whispered, propping herself up on her elbows as he knelt between her legs. "You don't need to… to  _compensate_  me."

He peered up at her with almost comical confusion and Flora smiled back down at him, patting the dishevelled golden hair.

" _Honestly_ ," she repeated, her eyes searching his face. "I'm starving, though. Do you want to help me find the kitchens? It's only a matter of time before I'm banned from these ones too, so I want to take advantage before that happens."

"I love you," Alistair said abruptly, standing upright and gazing down at her as she lay sprawled on the blankets. " _So_  much, I don't even fully understand it."

She replied in kind, watching her brother-warden press a kiss to the top of her thigh.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: The over 21 thing to vote in the Landsmeet is something I just literally made up, haha. I just wanted another layer of irony in there – Ferelden's fate rests on the Wardens' shoulders, yet politically they aren't even old enough to have a legal say.
> 
> I wanted to have a lot of contradictions in this chapter – it's Summerday, which is meant to be welcoming the start of summer, new life, marriage, optimism etc; and yet they spend all day sitting in a stuffy, darkened chamber hearing about the slaughter and death that took place at Ostagar. I wanted to reflect this in the sex scene that takes place at the end – much like when they first slept together at Ostagar, there's a sense of grief and pain that motivates the act - Alistair is desperate to purge the knowledge of how his commander died from his mind. And of course unbeknownst to him, there's the creation of new life taking place inches away within his sister-warden's belly!


	255. Stew, Secrets And Surprise Visitors

Flora led the way through the passage and down the main steps, taking the same route as when she had been to see the midwife the previous night. Alistair followed his sister-warden dutifully as she navigated the narrower passageways; head turning from side to side as she sought out any clue as to the kitchens' location.

Servants and retainers clad in Guerrin livery looked startled to see two of the arl's most esteemed guests prowling around in the back corridors. They bobbed their heads respectfully, flattening themselves against the wall to make room for the Wardens as they passed.

Finally, more by chance than design, Flora stumbled across the kitchens. The low stone chamber was deserted; with the last meal of the day already served, the kitchens would not be used again until morning. The ashes were still hot in the great hearth, the wooden tables scrubbed clean in preparation for the next day. Bunches of pungent herbs dangled from the ceiling, in a valiant effort to keep away the mice.

Alistair set about resurrecting the fire while Flora rummaged around the pantry in search of ingredients. She emerged some time later with armfuls of vegetables, and a slab of cold beef wrapped in cheesecloth. To her immense relief, her stomach seemed unusually docile in the face of the raw meat.

"If we were nearer the fish market, I would have made fish stew," Flora explained, letting the ingredients roll free from her arms onto the table. "It's fine; I'll use this inferior substitute instead."

Alistair, perching on a small stool as he nudged at the flames with a poker, peered up at his sister-warden curiously. She had manhandled the beef into place on a stone slab and was cutting it into chunks, humming to herself tunelessly.

Flora caught his eye as he gazed up at her and went slightly pink, tipping the beef into a copper pan.

"I know I can't sing," she muttered, coming around the table with pan in hand. "I'm sorry for the horrible noise. I'm no Leliana."

Alistair smiled as Flora slid the pan onto the iron rack above the hearth, hissing between her teeth as she dislodged the poker with her elbow. The golden shield expanded around her fingers as she reached into the middle of the flames, swiftly retrieving the poker from the coals.

"No, my love," he murmured, rising to his feet and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I was counting your freckles."

Flora, who had not been expecting this answer, went slightly pink as she returned to the table. Alistair went to stand beside her, offering himself duly for assignation.

"What can I do, darling? Give me a job."

"You can sit and rest," Flora replied sternly, tilting her head as he ducked down to press his lips against her cheek. "I'm used to doing this by myself. Just sit and… don't worry. About anything."

Obediently Alistair returned to the stool, leaning his head against the wall. The gentle sizzle of the roasting meat, the rhythmic chopping of Flora's blade and the cedar scented smoke were oddly soothing – it reminded him of sneaking into the Redcliffe Castle kitchens as a boy. Before long, he had fallen asleep, wearied from the emotional demands of the Landsmeet.

Flora sang Bones in the Sand hoarsely under her breath, alternating between cutting up the vegetables and prodding at the roasting meat with a wooden spoon. The task took longer than usual since she was unable to resist eating small cubes of raw turnip and potato; delighting in the sensation of their cold flesh against her teeth. The occasional servant came in to retrieve ale and tankards, shooting Flora odd looks as she stood behind the wooden table.

Flora had retrieved the pan from the fire and was just on the verge of combining vegetables and meat in a cooking pot, when she felt a familiar tug at the back of her mind. It was so strong compared to what she had become accustomed to feeling from Alistair, that for one irrational moment, she thought that some Darkspawn creature had burrowed its way up through the cellars.

Then Riordan emerged through a small side door that Flora had previously paid no heed to, dropping the hood of his cloak around his shoulders. She was so startled – having barely seen him since their escape from Fort Drakon – that she nearly dropped the pot on her toes.

"Greetings, young sister," he murmured, in the accent that was a strange mixture of Orlesian and northern Ferelden. "I apologise for startling you."

"It's fine," Flora replied, eyeing him curiously as she carried the cooking pot over to the hearth. "Did you find the Grey Warden…"

She trailed off, knowing only that the word was not crotch.

"Cache? Aye," Riordan replied, greying hair tied back in a ponytail as he strode across the kitchen and retrieved several raw carrots; biting into them without care. Flora glanced at him tentatively as she adjusted the position of the pot over the flames.

"Do you want some of my stew? It shouldn't take too long."

"It's alright, young sister. I find that my sense of taste is increasingly dulled nowadays," the senior Warden replied, though offering no further explanation. "Is he king yet?"

Flora followed Riordan's gaze across to Alistair, who was snoring against the wall with the most peaceful expression he had worn all day.

"No," she replied, watching Riordan inspect a raw turnip and discard it. "The Landsmeet hasn't finished yet. They'll vote by the end of the week."

Riordan glanced across at her, shadows obscuring his expression. When he spoke next; there was a slightly odd tone to his voice.

"Once it's been decided – we need to talk, young sister."

_**There's something he's not telling you.** _

Flora stared at the senior Warden, and he averted his eyes, shoving various items of food into a leather pack.

Changing the subject rapidly, Riordan tilted his chin across at the sleeping Alistair.

"You know, if I hadn't been present at his Joining, I wouldn't have realised that he was a Warden. The taint is only a faint whisper in his blood."

Flora felt another throb of guilt, leaning over to stir the pot with a long-handled wooden spoon.

"That's my fault," she muttered, gloomily. "I think I've drawn it from him, through… ah."

She made a euphemistic gesture and Riordan gave a circumspect nod in response. Any surprise that he felt at Flora's hesitant suggestion was duly suppressed beneath the impassive mien of command.

"You'll need to explain this to me at some point," he replied abruptly, heading back towards the small side entrance. "But now is not the time. Farewell, young sister."

Flora gazed wistfully after the senior Warden for a moment; the sobriquet was a poignant echo of Duncan's own habit of referring to her as little sister. The water began to bubble and she nudged the pot away from the heat, giving it a little stir.

Before long the vegetables had thickened and blended together; the smell of seasoned beef filling the kitchens of the Guerrin manor. Using the long-handled hook intended for such purposes, Flora removed the pot from the fire and manoeuvred it onto the table with a soft grunt of effort.

Alistair continued to snore softly as she retrieved bowls and spoons from a high wooden dresser against the wall. Rummaging in a cloth-covered basket, Flora found a loaf and tore it in two, unable to resist taking a small bite from one crusted end. A moment later, slightly shame-facedly, she took a bite from the other end.

Placing the bread beside the bowls, she padded over to the hearth to rouse Alistair. He was slumped on the stool with his head tilted back against the wall, snoring softly. Flora leaned forward and patted him gently on the cheek, feeling the beginnings of stubble forming on his strong jaw.

"Brother-warden," she whispered and he let out an incoherent mumble, reaching out sleepily to pull Flora onto his knee.

"Mm," he murmured, yawning and burying his face in her neck. "My lovely sister-warden. Come here, sweetheart."

Flora let out a little cackle, squirming on his thigh as Alistair planted a clumsy kiss somewhere near her ear, hand sliding surreptitiously inside her shirt.

"Food is ready."

This was perhaps the one thing able to distract Alistair from attending joyfully to his desires. Withdrawing his hand, he nudged her gently off his knee and rose to his feet, inhaling with a slightly startled expression.

"Flo, that smells good!"

Flora resisted the temptation to stick her tongue out at his incredulity, instead following him over to the preparation table.

"It's only beef stew," she replied, with a little shrug. "I wish I'd had some haddock, or red porgy."

"Red what?"

"Red porgy," Flora explained patiently as Alistair ladled the stew into two bowls. "It's a fish. They're about the same size as a freshwater crappie, but they taste better."

"Naturally." He grinned at her, handing across one of the bowls. "Maker's Breath, I love you."

There were no chairs except for the simple stool – servants not being expected to sit whilst undertaking kitchen duties – so they sat on the swept flagstones. Alistair laughed at the sly mouthful that had been bitten from the end of his bread; ruffling his sister-warden's hair as she claimed defiantly that it must have been mice.

"Mice with twenty-eight teeth," murmured Alistair, recalling their conversation in the Tevinter tower. "More tooth than creature."

Flora shot him an evil little smile and he grinned at her, slinging an arm around her shoulders.

"Can you eat like that?" she challenged him, then squealed as he attempted to manoeuvre spoon into mouth in this new position; prompting dropping a cooked carrot down the neck of her shirt. "Aaah, that was hot!"

"Where did it go? I'll get it!" her brother-warden volunteered enthusiastically, putting down spoon and bowl, and delving a hand down the front of her shirt. Flora began to laugh, clutching the remains of her bread and squirming against the wall.

"That's not a carrot!" she protested as he pressed his mouth to the hollow of her throat.

"Can you two not keep your hands off one another for an hour?" came an irritated Orlesian-accented voice from the doorway.

Leliana stood there, an incongruous sight in her Chantry robes, arms folded and lips pursed as she watched Alistair reluctantly withdraw his hand.

"You have a visitor."

Flora glanced at Alistair and he gave a shrug, tossing one last chunk of Denerim cheddar into his mouth.

The Wardens followed Leliana back down the servants' corridor towards the main part of the manor; ducking past curious retainers in the narrow passageways. Alistair kept his sister-warden's fingers clamped tightly in his, touched by her efforts to distract him from the ghostly echoes of Ostagar. Every so often, he brought Flora's hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her skin, smiling down at her as she beamed back up at him.

Leliana led them back into the entrance hall, where the grim trio of Eamon, Teagan and Leonas stood waiting beside the hearth. There was an odd tension in the air; none of the men were speaking and the Arl of South Reach had his arms folded across his chest.

Alistair's smile quickly faded from his face as he surveyed the three men, fingers tightening briefly around Flora's before dropping her hand.

"What is it?" he asked abruptly, eyes moving from junior to elder Guerrin.

"Who is it?" added Flora, noting how Leonas kept glancing towards a small chamber that lay just off the main hallway.

"Well," murmured Eamon, an odd expression twisting his features. "You should… see for yourselves."

Alistair looked down at Flora, who gave a little shrug and nodded.

The bastard prince strode across the entrance hall, a frown creasing his forehead as he approached the side chamber. Flora followed in his wake, feeling magic prickling reflexively between her fingers.

_Just in case it's an enemy,_ she thought to herself. _But if it was Loghain, surely Eamon wouldn't let us see him alone?_

The side chamber was small but well-appointed, with several stuffed armchairs and a large fur spread over the flagstones. A painting of a stately-looking woman with Eamon's nose hung above the hearth, glowering down in disapproval at the room's occupants. A lone figure stood silhouetted against the flames, clad in the silverite armour and closed helmet of a Royal Guard.

Hearing them enter, the soldier turned around and removed its helm; to reveal the handsome, hawk-like features of Anora Mac Tir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So although the Howe kidnap thing has already come and gone in my interpretation of the plot, I definitely wanted to include the part where Anora comes in disguise to visit you. I think she's such a fascinating character, and there are so many parallels between her and Flora – they're both teyrn's daughters, they both are strong-willed and stubborn, they both are linked to a Theirin … and most importantly, they are both hugely influenced/moulded by their respective fathers (or her adoptive father, in Flora's case).
> 
> I like this chapter because it's a nice domestic interlude between the politics and the drama (and the fighting in upcoming chapters when we return to the alienage!). Flora gets to demonstrate her bog-standard, basic bitch cooking skills, which pretty much consisted of grilled fish and fish stew, lol. Incidentally, fish stew sounds absolutely fcking disgusting; I tried chowder once and it made me want to be violently sick!
> 
> Bones in the Sand is what Flora likes to sing on random occasions – it's a typical grim sea shanty; inspired by those tragic Canadian Maritimes shanties I used to hear at school in New Brunswick, all about shipwrecks and drowned sailors, and mourning widows. Typically, it's a classic Herring wedding song, lol.
> 
> A freshwater crappie is an actual legitimate fish, believe it or not … who named it? Why?


	256. A Visit From The Queen

Anora's dark eyes, so similar in shape and hue to Loghain's, blazed at the Wardens across the small chamber. Delicate and deliberate, she reached up to tuck a stray strand of golden hair back into the tightly wound braid around her head. Her poise was enviable; despite the cumbersome armour, she carried herself every inch a noblewoman as she stood beside the quietly crackling hearth.

"Well met, Prince Alistair, Lady Cousland," the Queen of Ferelden said, in a tone that was far more refined than the rough, northern accent of her father.

Flora, sensing Alistair rigid with shock beside her, gave a dutiful bow that she hoped would suffice for the both of them.

"What are  _you_ doing here?" Alistair asked rudely in place of a greeting, already bristling at the presence of a Mac Tir within the heart of the Guerrin manor.

To her credit, Anora did not flinch at the harshness of his tone. She let a small smile creep over her face, bowing her head.

"I've come to talk," Cailan's widow replied mildly, running a finger along the top of the hearth. "That's all."

Alistair let out an unconvinced grunt, eyeing her as though she were a snake curled in the bottom of his boot. Anora diplomatically turned her attention to Flora, who was standing awkwardly to one side and wishing desperately that she was back in the kitchens with a bowl of stew in her lap.

"Bryce's little daughter," she said at last, raising her eyebrows as her gaze trawled up and down; taking in the dishevelled clothing and unkempt, dark red curls. "I always wondered what happened to you. How old are you now, seventeen?"

"Nineteen," muttered Flora, gloomily.

A small, humourless smile twisted the corner of Anora's mouth as she slid the metal gauntlet from her right hand, inspecting a raw patch of skin between her fingers.

"My childhood rival," the queen continued lightly, placing the metal glove on top of the hearth. "You're aware that if Fate had followed Maric's plan, you would be queen, and not I? He always intended to secure that Cousland-Theirin alliance."

Flora grunted, shifting surreptitiously from foot to foot. She could almost hear Alistair grinding his teeth beside her, disliking any reminder that his beloved sister-warden had once been intended for the bed of his brother.

Anora gazed at her for a moment longer, the smile rapidly dissipating. Slowly, her eyes returned to Alistair; who was standing with thunderous expression beside his solemn-faced companion.

"Anyway," Loghain's daughter murmured, her voice slow and measured. "I've come to speak to Prince Alistair, alone. So if you wouldn't mind…?"

Flora  _didn't_  mind: to the contrary, she was delighted to be given an opportunity to escape. However, as she made to leave, Alistair's fingers shot out and gripped her wrist, keeping her in place.

"My sister-warden stays," he said flatly, in a tone that invited no argument. "Or we both leave."

Anora paused for a moment, as Flora gave a little inward grimace. Finally, the queen sighed and inclined her head, lips folding tightly together.

"So be it."

Now past the point of caring, Flora sat down in one of the stuffed armchairs and crossed her legs beneath her; staring glumly down at the fraying hem of her shirt as Alistair glowered at Anora with open, prickling hostility.

"What have you come here for?" he challenged, blunt and uncompromising.

"I've come to make a proposal," the queen replied, meeting his gaze with the steady, dark stare of a Mac Tir. "If you agree, I will support your cause against my father at the Landsmeet."

Flora was unable to remain silent at this, her eyebrows rising in disapproval.

"You'd go against your own  _father?"_ she mumbled, shooting the queen a little glance out of the corner of her eye.

The queen ignored her, taking a step closer to Alistair. Alistair was staring back at her with open suspicion, lips pressed tightly together. The light from the hearth glinted off Anora's silverite armour, casting fragments of reflected light onto the flagstones.

"Together, we have a far greater chance of removing him from power," Anora continued, giving an earnest nod. "If we… allied ourselves."

Alistair's lip curled and he eyed her, keeping the woman a measured distance away.

"And what's in it for you?" he retorted, suspiciously.

"That you support my bid to remain queen, of course," replied Anora smoothly, her voice low and persuasive.

Then, when Alistair opened his mouth to protest, she continued quickly.

"Or, that we marry and rule jointly as King and Queen."

Alistair let out a sharp, incredulous bark of laughter, covering the distance to his gloomy sister-warden in a heartbeat's worth of strides.

"Humour isn't a Mac Tir characteristic, is it?" he murmured, reaching out to place a possessive hand on Flora's head. "Because that  _joke_ wasn't funny at all."

Anora wrinkled her nose, waving her fingers dismissively and without remorse.

"You could keep your mistress," she said, displaying shameless candour. "Maker knows, Cailan had his fair share of women. As long as you didn't  _flaunt_ her in front of the masses."

Flora wanted nothing more than to flee the room and return to the kitchens; to gobble down the remainder of the stew and then suffer indigestion for the rest of the evening. Even gastric discomfort would have been a welcome alternative to the situation she now found herself in; caught in the verbal volley between Theirin and Mac Tir.

"I would rather marry Bann Ceorlic," hissed back Alistair, hazel eyes blazing with outrage. "Is one Theirin the same as another to you, then? It doesn't matter which brother you're with, as long as it leads to the throne?"

"I've been  _trying_ to keep this country stable!" protested Anora, the strand of pale blonde hair unwinding itself from the tightly pinned braid.

"Betrayal runs in the family genes," retorted Alistair, lip curling. "My half-brother might have been a fool, but he didn't deserve to die in the way he did. Not only did you ally yourself with the man who left your husband to die; but now you plan to betray  _him_ too?"

A miserable Flora tried to make herself as unobtrusive as possible within the armchair, hunching her shoulders and letting the tirade pass overhead. She sensed the others hovering in the doorway, reluctant to enter without permission yet determined to hear what was transpiring.

"Is this denial on  _her_ account _?"_ demanded Anora at last. The queen pointed an naked finger towards Flora, who looked up with no small measure of alarm. "Why would you so publicly ally yourself with a  _mage_ of all people? They're dangerous!"

This was entirely the wrong thing to say to Alistair. His head snapped back towards Anora, eyes narrowing and focusing like a hawk setting its gaze on a field mouse. The corners of his mouth tautened and the pitch of his voice dropped to a soft, ominous level.

"You don't say another word about my sister-warden," he said, slow and threatening. "Flora could have the power to burn down this manor in a little finger and she'd still be less of a danger than you, _snake_. Now get out before I have the servants throw you on the street."

Anora's eyes widened imperceptibly, a flicker of alarm passing over her face before the impassive regality returned. Without another word, she retrieved her gauntlet and tucked the helm beneath her arm; striding imperiously across the chamber without sparing either of them a second glance. The other nobles, who had gathered at the doorway to eavesdrop, stood hastily to one side as she stalked past.

Flora, still frozen in the armchair, gaped up at Alistair. Despite two spots of colour flaring on his olive cheeks, the bastard prince appeared remarkably composed.

"The cheek of the woman," he commented lightly, although his eyes were still shadowed by anger. "I won't have anyone say a word against you, my darling. Not even the Queen."

Flora nodded dumbly, letting her brother-warden take her fingers and lift her hand to his mouth. Alistair smiled down at her, brushing his lips over the gold Cousland ring.

Taking Flora's hand, he led her across the chamber, pausing in front of the Guerrin brothers and Leonas Bryland.

"We don't need an alliance with a Mac Tir to win the Landsmeet," he said flatly, inviting no further comment. "Our case is strong enough without her."

Eamon gave a slight nod, tugging at the end of his greying beard.

"She's worried that her father is losing support," he said, slowly and thoughtfully. "She's trying to protect her own interests. The evidence today was rather damning."

Flora had not spoken a single word since expressing disbelief at Anora's willingness to betray her own father. Teagan noticed her staring solemnly at her feet, brows drawn together.

"Are you alright, poppet?" he asked quietly and she turned her rain-soaked eyes on him, quiet and forlorn.

"Herring has always had a rivalry with Skingle, the village on the next headland," she muttered, gaze distant. "But when a gang of wreckers moved onto our beach, Skingle came to help us get rid of them. I don't understand why everyone isn't working together to defeat the Darkspawn."

"That's politics for you," replied Leonas gruffly, and Flora gave a little scowl of disapproval.

"I  _hate_  politics," she murmured wistfully, eyes settled on the door. "Is the queen going to get back alright? Should someone go with her?"

"She got herself down here," replied Alistair bluntly, fingers tightening around hers. "She can get herself back up to the Royal Palace."

Flora gnawed at her lower lip, bewilderment writ naked across her fine-boned features.

"I can't believe she would betray her  _dad_ ," she said at last, brow furrowed. "I don't understand it."

She continued to voice her confusion as Alistair led her back up the steps and along the passageway to their bedchamber.

"Her own  _dad!"_ Flora breathed incredulously as the guards stationed at their door stood aside. "I wouldn't do anything to…"

She trailed off, remembering the one and only time that she had disobeyed her Herring-father; which had resulted in her capture and ignominious removal to the Circle.

The doors were softly pulled closed behind them, leaving both Wardens alone in the shadowed bedchamber. The shutters had been drawn against the night and the servants had built up the hearth, flickering amber light cast over the loll-tongued Mabari mural.

"Eamon was the closest thing to a father I ever had," replied Alistair, shrugging off his leather tunic and letting it drop onto the bearskin. "Although Duncan…"

He trailed off, a shadow passing over his eyes as they both recalled the soldier's description of the slaughter in the valley below Ostagar. Flora finished removing her boots and went to her brother-warden, reaching up to put her arms around his neck. Alistair bowed his head, a smile breaking through the gathered clouds on his face.

"Thank you for the stew," he murmured, moving a strand of hair away from his sister-warden's face. "I know that it wasn't fish, but it was still very good."

Flora shrugged, letting out a little ambiguous grunt. Alistair gazed down at her for a moment more, calloused fingers lingering against her cheek.

"Flora?"

She peered up at him, wary at his use of her full name. His hazel eyes bored into her own, the green flecks lit like cut glass by the firelight.

"I love you," he said, steady and measured. "And I want you  _infinitely_  more than I want the throne. I'll take the crown if it means the removal of a Mac Tir, but the first person who suggests I distance myself from you for  _appearance's sake- "_

His tone grew light, but there was no jest in his eyes.

"Well, I'll exile them to Orlais; otherwise known as a fate worse than death."

Flora's face immediately crashed into a scowl as she recalled the outfits worn by patrons of the Pearl's Val Royeaux-themed night.

"Oh no!" she breathed, appalled. "It would be kinder to execute them."

Alistair laughed, lifting her up onto his waist easily with an arm and nuzzling his face against her shoulder. "Come to bed. I want to thank you for my stew  _properly."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So I wanted to have a chapter to show off the hardened Alistair in his full glory, so to speak, haha. So Flora sits there like a useless lemon for the entire thing.
> 
> I just wanted to write a good Theirin vs Mac Tir showdown! I wrote a super fascinating paper a while ago in collaboration with a genetic scientist on the epigenetics of command – epigenetics being the concept that traits/characteristics could be passed on genetically. My bit was NOT to do with the actual science, haha… it was looking at the traits of leadership and how they manifested in three generations of Tudors.
> 
> It's totally theoretical and kind of a silly theory, but I thought it was quite an interesting concept to explore in my headcanon – the latent command/dominance exhibited by Alistair, in concord with his royal bloodline.


	257. Unrest In The Alienage

Sunrise the next morning heralded raised voices and dissension within the bedchamber. Alistair flatly refused to attend the third day of the Landsmeet without the company of his sister-warden, who was crouched over a bowl periodically disgorging the contents of her stomach.

Both Eamon and Leonas had tried without success to persuade Alistair that at least  _one_  Warden had to be present during the second day of evidence, but the bastard prince had stubbornly rejected the possibility of leaving her. Flora, pale-faced and wishing that _everybody_  would just leave her alone, knelt before the hearth and took deep gulps of air. When she looked up, Teagan had caught her eye, his gaze entreating.

"Alistair," Flora croaked, throat hoarse from the passage of stomach acid.

Immediately, her brother-warden abandoned the argument with Leonas and went to her side.

"Sweetheart?"

Flora swallowed, taking a gulp of water from Leliana's offered pouch.

"You need to go," she continued, watching Alistair's nostrils flare. "One of us has to be there when the evidence is presented. You know Loghain will seize the advantage otherwise."

"Flo- "

" _Alistair."_

But Alistair wouldn't be dissuaded, the shadow of past anguish darkening his hazel irises.

"Flo, the last time I left you,  _Howe…"_

He trailed off, despairingly, eyes searching her face. Flora reached up, slightly green about the gills, and touched the fur-edged collar of his tunic.

"Howe is dead," she whispered. "And if Loghain was going to hurt me, he would have done it while I was Howe's prisoner."

Alistair stared at her a moment longer, then gave a tight little nod, kissing her softly on the forehead before rising to his feet. He swept his gaze around the chamber, settling on Wynne, Leliana and Zevran.

"Stay with her," he instructed, almost succeeding at disguising the tremor in his voice. "Don't let her out of your sight."

Zevran met his hard stare with dark Antivan eyes, and something unspoken passed between the two men. The elf inclined his head slightly to acknowledge the bastard prince's silent entreaty. Finally, with great reluctance and under mild duress from both uncles, Alistair took his leave. Flora was left crouching over the bowl, fingers clenching its ceramic edge, feeling utterly miserable.

Her companions settled in around her; Wynne admiring the woven antlers that had been crafted into elaborate candelabra. Leliana settled down in the armchair beside the hearth and produced a lute from places unknown, humming softly to herself.

"This is a very fine chamber compared to the one assigned to me," complained Zevran as he wandered across to the full-length mirror, although there was no true ire in his tone. "And your view is far better."

Flora was in no position to appreciate the view as another coil of nausea twisted its way through her innards. She let out an indecipherable grunt before ducking her head back over the bowl.

"Enjoyed too much Antivan rum last night,  _mi sirenita?"_ the elf enquired, grinning as Flora shot him a malevolent stare. "Ah, don't give me those heated eyes; you know they drive me  _wild."_

"Don't make fun of me," she begged, wondering how there could possibly be anything left in her stomach to expel. "I feel horrible."

"An unfortunate consequence of your condition,  _mi corazon,"_ murmured the elf, as Wynne let out a little sigh and turned over a page. Flora moaned, slumping over the bowl and coughing.

"It's not fair, it's not  _fair_."

Fortunately the nausea passed within the hour and after Flora had bathed and changed clothing, she felt far more cheerful. Leliana flung open the tall windows, letting the smell and sound of the saltwater estuary flood inside the bedchamber.

As though recalling that it was now Bloomingtide, a shy bride of a sun ducked its face behind a thin wisp of cloud. The temperature was balmy and not a hint of breeze disturbed the flat, green surface of the estuary; while the sails of the tall ships rested limp against the masts.

The manor seemed oddly empty without the nobles and their retainers, with only a handful of servants remaining to perform daily chores. Leonas' daughter, Habren, arrived mid-morning accompanied by two guards struggling to carry a vast oak chest. They deposited it by the hearth in the entrance hall, sweating and red-faced. Leliana immediately swooped forwards and pried open the lid, eyebrows rising as she took note of the chest's contents.

"There must be enough clothing in here to last a month," the bard exclaimed, holding up a dusky rose gown with gold trim. "Lovely!"

"Thank you," said Flora dutifully, hoping that her horror at the arrival of so many detested dresses did not show on her face. "That's very kind."

Habren blushed, tucking braided strands of dark hair behind her ears.

"Father told me about my mother's arbour," the arlina murmured, directing her gaze to the flagstones. "I look forward to seeing it when he lets me return to South Reach."

Flora smiled at the girl, in slight disbelief that they were only a handful of years apart. She felt as though she had more in common with Oghren than she did this refined young woman, who spoke in a cut-glass accent and carried herself with regal poise.

After the arlina had departed in the company of the guards, Leliana began to rummage through the chest with almost maniacal glee.

"There's  _shoes_ in here too! What a lovely gesture. Ooh, this is rather fetching."

Flora gazed longingly at the double doors leading out into the noble district, wishing that she had darted out alongside Habren Bryland.

"Do you think I could go to the palace and join the Landsmeet?" she asked wistfully, watching Leliana hold up a scarlet bodice in front of her own busty figure. "I think I should."

"Come now, child," Wynne replied, peering over the top of her book. "By the time that you get up there, the afternoon session will have started, and you know that they won't open the doors until it's finished."

Flora groaned, lifting her chin obediently as the excited Leliana pressed a burgundy velvet tunic to her chest.

Zevran, who had been lounging against the hearth with a pensive look on his face, cleared his throat.

" _Mi florita,_ there is something we could do to occupy your afternoon," he murmured, immediately drawing narrowed eyes from Leliana.

"Does it involve retiring to the bedchamber?" asked Flora suspiciously; since the elf did have a precedent of making such lecherous suggestions.

Zevran smiled at her, sauntering across the flagstones to finger the thick velvet of the tunic.

"That's always an option,  _carina,"_ he replied, giving the requisite leer. "However – I have been making some enquiries within the alienage. There's something… not right there."

Flora gazed at the elf, recalling how they had ventured into the alienage together on their first full day in Denerim. The narrow streets had been oddly deserted, and there had been a strange atmosphere hanging between the ramshackle buildings.

"Not right?"

Zevran nodded; features neutral but eyes dark with purpose.

"I've questioned some of the resident elves. They're saying that people have been going missing. Have been for months."

Leliana let the shoe she had been cradling drop back into the chest, her attention now fully focused on the Antivan.

"And they haven't just escaped? Fled the city to join the Dalish, or on the boats to the Marches?"

Zevran shook his head, firelight playing across the sleek, platinum blond hair.

"Not according to the ones I've spoken to. They've been people with families. And in large numbers, too."

"When large numbers start disappearing, they've usually been taken as slaves- "

"Or sacrifices," Wynne interrupted, closing the leather cover of her book. "It could indicate the presence of blood magic."

Flora had been listening dutifully to their discussion, head turning back and forth. Grateful to be distracted from trying on the arlina's wardrobe, she cleared her throat.

"Let me get my boots and we can go and have a look."

"Alistair isn't going to be happy," muttered Leliana darkly as Flora scuttled towards the staircase. "He entrusted his sister-warden into our care to keep an eye on her; not to encourage her into dangerous situations."

"Ah, she's a sturdy little creature," replied Zevran, running his fingers absentmindedly over the hilt of his dagger. "And I'll still be keeping my eye on her.  _Both_ of them."

Once Wynne had received her own staff from the upper quarters, they made a discreet exit from the Guerrin manor. The sun, after making such a promising start, had retreated behind a thick blanket of cloud. A sea-mist was rolling in along the estuary, slow and thick as double cream; enveloping the tall ships in a pearly miasma. Leliana frowned, drawing up the hood of her cloak against the rising dampness in the air.

"This is what we call a  _fish-souper_  in Herring," Flora explained enthusiastically, and was ignored by all.

Since the horses had accompanied the nobles to the Royal Palace, they had to make their way to the alienage on foot. Now that the festive atmosphere of Summerday had faded – the paper decorations lying wilted on the cobbles – prickling tension bubbled once again in Denerim's streets. The citizens were nervous, gathering in doorways to exchange hushed whispers about refugees and rumours. Pale-faced, they shared some of the disconcerting stories that were slowly filtering up from the south. Such was the strange, unsettled atmosphere within Denerim that Loghain had reassigned all guards from the city walls to patrol the streets instead; both to calm and to quell.

_A horde of monsters; the shadow of a vast creature silhouetted against the sun._

_Are the rumours true? Is it really a Blight?_

_The general says that it's a lie. Spread by the Wardens to engineer their rise to power!_

_Well, my neighbour's nephew was from a little village near South Reach, name of Lothering…_

Zevran led their party to a small iron gateway tucked between two warehouses, which led into the alienage at its southernmost tip. Unusually, it was unguarded – the sentries reassigned to potential trouble spots within the busier parts of the city.

The alienage was just as cramped and depressing as Flora remembered; the decrepit buildings huddled together on either side of narrow, dirty streets. The elven tree in the central square looked forlorn and abandoned, and several of the parchment strips formerly tied to its branches had fallen to the cobbles.

"Well," murmured Wynne, who had not been in an alienage for many decades. "It seems that there are worse places to reside than in a Circle."

"Mm," Leliana replied, her fingers resting on the hilt of her dagger as she gazed around at the desperate squalor. "The Maker loves all His children, including these elves. He would not approve of such desperate conditions."

Flora was retying the parchment strips back onto the branches, ignoring the protesting twinges of her knee.

"It's awful," she said bluntly, tying the final written prayer carefully back onto a slender twig. "It's not right."

Suddenly, there came an angry, high-pitched shout from a nearby alleyway. A female elf, scrawny in build and clothed in a stained blue dress, erupted from between the buildings with a small knife in hand.

" _Get out, shems!"_ she shrieked, the fury molten on her face. "Haven't we troubles enough?!"

Wynne held up her hands for peace even as Flora gaped; the elf seemed so wide-eyed and forlorn that even the knife wielded in her hand had an air of desperation. Zevran stepped forward, failing to be dissuaded even when his customary smile fell flat.

"Hold, sister," he murmured amicably, mind working furiously behind his peaceable expression. "What have  _we_  done, specifically?"

The woman kept the knife up, hand quivering. Her green eyes were gleaming with unshed tears, although she appeared willing to die rather than allow them to fall.

"Haven't we  _enough_  troubles without you?" she repeated, her voice trembling.

"Troubles?" asked Wynne, her voice soft and persistent. "What do you mean?"

An image drifted to the forefront of Flora's mind of a disconsolate blonde elf in a prison cell; she was unsure whether it had been summoned by her own memory or prompted by her spirit allies.

"There's sickness here, isn't there," she said slowly, remembering the woman's bitter words. "I met an elf, who told me. Do you know her? I think her name was Tabris."

The redheaded elf went rigid, her eyes widening imperceptibly.

" _Kallian?_ Is she alright?! Where did you see her?"

"In the dungeons of a barracks," replied Flora, suppressing a small shiver as she remembered how nonchalant she had been, convinced that either Eamon or Leonas would come for her. "I don't know what happened then, I'm sorry. Arl Howe took me prisoner."

The woman stared at her for a moment, the hand holding the knife slowly lowering. The anger seemed to drain from her face, replaced by naked fear.

"I'm Shianni. Kallian Tabris is my cousin," she said quietly, shoulders slumping in defeat. "She's been on the run ever since she killed the Arl of Denerim's son. I thought - I'd  _hoped_ that she had made it out of the city."

The elf must have caught a flicker of reproval on Wynne's face, because she let out a hiss and spat onto the damp flagstones.

"Don't you  _dare_ feel sorry for some pampered noble brat," Shianni hissed, a long shadow falling over her face. "He terrorised us. He and his friends killed Kallian's husband. They – they  _took_ me…"

There was a horrible silence and Shianni swallowed, lifting her chin high once more.

"Anyway, he's dead and rotten now. But we don't want any more trouble."

"What kind of sickness is it?" Flora asked, instinct taking over. "I mean – what symptoms? I'm a healer," she clarified, as Shianni shot her a strange look. "I healed Meina's son."

Realisation dawned on Shianni's face, as her auburn brows drew together slowly.

"You're the human girl who was here the other week," she said, slowly. "I saw you from a window. You're the one that healed Dalen."

Flora nodded, as a flicker of movement in the alleyway to the right caught her eye. Zevran reflexively slid sideways to flank their group, lithe as a cat, one hand gripping the hilt of his blade.

"I can heal most illnesses," Flora explained earnestly, wondering if she had imagined a tan-skinned woman lurking in the nearby alley. "But not the common cold."

_Or the morning nausea, more's the pity._

The sea mist had begun to descend, settling on roofs and rolling down gutters with an almost viscous liquidity. Accompanying it was a noticeable drop in temperature; the air had a damp, sodden quality that chilled the lungs when inhaled.

Shianni grimaced, putting a hand to her head and running her fingers distractedly through her rumpled ginger hair. She gave an involuntary shiver, glancing up at the fog as it lowered like a shroud over the alienage.

"Our Elder – our  _hahren –_ Valendrian is missing also," she muttered, shooting them a darting little glance. "Nobody realised that he was sick. He seemed well enough to me. But they won't even let us in to see if he's alright?"

"Who are  _'they'?"_ Leliana asked immediately, her own eyes sliding sideways to the alleyway, before meeting Zevran's. The bard's unspoken message was clear:  _We're being watched._

" _Mi sirenita,"_ Zevran murmured in an undertone as the elf prepared to respond. "Stand closer to me,  _cara."_

Flora was vaguely amused at the notion of her companions defending  _her_. However, she knew that they were merely concerned for her safety, and so she shuffled obediently alongside the Antivan elf.

"The healers at the Tevinter Hospice," replied Shianni, gesturing vaguely to the south.

"Tevinter? What are  _they_  doing in Denerim?" Wynne exclaimed, startled enough that she did not notice the drops of rain speckling onto the cobbles. "Forgive me for my prejudice, but founding a  _hospice_ for Denerim's poor and destitute doesn't quite fit in with their national character."

"Maybe they're here to trade," said Flora obliviously, thinking on market stalls from the far-flung corners of Thedas clustered in Denerim's main square. "That's what most foreigners come here to do."

"Mistress Shianni," asked Leliana, outwardly polite even as her mind worked furiously. "Could you please take us to this…  _hospice?"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: The mist is important! All will be revealed… soon (ish)
> 
> Haha her companions are definitely over hearing Flora talk about Herring, lol. She's like WE CALL THIS FOG A FISH-SOUPER IN HERRING and everyone ignores her, thinking just stfu already.
> 
> Gaol is an archaic spelling of jail, but I love it and will wilfully continue to use it.


	258. The Tevinter Hospice

The red-headed elf nodded glumly, setting off down a narrow passage between two decrepit buildings. Wynne, a frown of concern deepening the creases on her face, followed in Shianni's wake. Leliana dropped back several yards, darting down as a side-alley as another fleeting movement caught her eye.

At one point Flora thought that she saw the face of one of the elven children from their previous visit to the alienage, pressed mournfully against the smeared glass of an upper window. She stopped in the centre of the road and squinted up at the crumbling stonework in a vain attempt to confirm her suspicions.

Zevran glanced over his shoulder and hissed between his teeth at seeing their young healer gawking up at a nearby building. Striding back, he reached for her fingers and clasped them tightly in his own.

"Mi florita, please stay close to me," he murmured, a vein twitching imperceptibly above his eye. "This venture is my folly and should you return to the Guerrin manor with so much as a scratch on that creamy skin, your brother-warden will sever my manhood and feed it to the Mabari."

The kind-hearted Flora allowed herself a snicker but clutched his hand obediently; letting the elf keep her so close that she was practically treading on his heels.

"We've been in much more dangerous situations than this," she protested, as Shianni murmured a response to a quiet enquiry from Wynne. "Why are you so worried now?"

Zevran flashed her a wry little grin, teeth very white against the tan of his skin.

"Hermanita, you must take care of yourself in your… condition."

"Well, I still have to kill the Archdemon in this condition," Flora pointed out sensibly, and Zevran had to turn his face away with rapidity to hide the ensuing grimace.

Shianni led them down a series of maze-like alleyways. Leliana joined them after several minutes, with a slight shake of the head towards Zevran to indicate that she had found no one. The mist had fallen so thickly that they could barely see more than a handful of strides ahead.

"It's so empty," the bard breathed, glancing at a cluster of abandoned stalls as they passed. "I heard that there were thousands of elves living here."

"Who wants to be on the streets when there's sickness about?" retorted Shianni indignantly over her shoulder, striding down the cobbles alongside a polluted water channel. "We can't afford your fancy apothecaries. Here we are – the Tevinter Hospice."

They had entered a small square with squat stone buildings constructed on three sides. A sickly tree sprouted in the centre, yellowed leaves littering the flagstones beneath its twisted branches.

A pair of human guards stood before an unobtrusive doorway, conversing in low and urgent tones with two mages clad in navy robes. They all had the same distinctive Tevinter colouring with tan skin and ash-brown hair; their facial hair sculpted according to Minrathous custom.

Dropping back to walk alongside Leliana, Shianni jerked her head silently towards the group gathered around the entrance. Zevran let Flora's hand drop but murmured at her to keep close, advancing towards the men with a brilliant smile plastered across his face.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he purred, dark eyes moving from one man to the other. "I've got a terrible pain in my groin, and was hoping that somebody was available to inspect it."

His light-hearted comment was met only with glares and looks of confusion; Leliana rolled her eyes and muttered something about incorrigible elves under her breath.

Zevran switched tactics, nudging Flora forward a fraction.

"I hear that you've had a problem with sickness," he offered, as Flora gave a solemn nod. "My friend here is a healer of rare ability. Perhaps she could have a look at your patients?"

Careful.

Flora felt the warning flare at the back of her skull and blinked in confusion.

"Well, excuse me if I fail to be impressed by some wild little Ferelden hedge witch," drawled one of the Tevinter mages, the corner of his lip curling in derision. "We've got things under control here, thank you."

Flora glanced sideways at Wynne, who had narrowed her pale blue eyes as she gazed at the two men. Leliana had also bristled, fingers straying to the hilts of her daggers.

The second healer looked Flora up and down, and then drove his elbow none-too-surreptitiously into his colleague's ribcage.

"Forgive his rudeness," the second man interjected smoothly, an insincere smile creeping over his features. "We would appreciate the opinion of another healer."

Flora stepped forward dutifully; but when Zevran and the others made to follow her, the guards unsheathed their swords in eerie unison.

"There's plague inside," murmured one mage, fingers creeping forward towards Flora's elbow. "We couldn't possibly let the rest of you in. Just the girl – I mean, the healer."

Flora looked down in confusion as a hand gripped her elbow, steering her towards the door. It reminded her far too much of being manhandled by Howe; she let her shield expand outwards from her skin in a single golden pulse, just enough to send the man stumbling backwards.

The next moment Zevran had sprung forward, lithe as a cat, and pinned the offending party against the wooden door with a blade to his throat.

"You dare place a finger on her?" he enquired, tone light and deadly.

"Guards!" yowled the second mage, flame springing from the palms of his hands. "Kill them!"

Wynne brought up her staff to send a shower of ice crystals over the man, extinguishing the fireball before he could launch it across the cobbles. Flora shuffled rapidly backwards, avoiding Leliana's leap into the fray as she unsheathed glittering twin blades. The bard's movements were almost poetic as she spun gracefully on the spot, seeking out weak spots in the Tevinter-crafted armour.

Both Shianni and Flora watched from a safe distance as the latter's companions dispatched of the mages and guards with lethal efficiency. Flora only had to intervene once, bringing up a gleaming barrier to shield Wynne from a bleeding guard's desperate sword-lunge.

Within a short time, there were four dead Tevinter corpses leaking their lifeblood over the cobbles. A few minutes later, the bodies were discretely dragged into a nearby alleyway by the two assassins.

"Alright," murmured Zevran, sliding a hand over his head to smooth down the rumpled platinum hair. "No scratches, I hope, mi sirenita? I rather value my manhood and would prefer it to remain attached."

"No scratches!" piped back Flora, who had kept well-clear of the fighting.

The elf smiled at her, turning his dark Antivan gaze on the hospice entrance.

"Then let us see where this leads us."

Wielding a small silver key retrieved from one of the guards, Zevran inserted it into the lock and nudged the door open.

It opened into a large wooden chamber with exposed ceiling beams, a number of empty beds lined neatly on each side of the room. A cabinet filled with glass vials stood against the far wall. The room was completely deserted, the beds made up with bedding so pristine that they appeared to have never been used.

"But – this makes no sense!"

Shianni elbowed her way past Zevran, staring around at the silent room.

"Where is everybody? We know they've been coming in here."

The female elf took several paces into the centre of the deserted ward, her eyes darting between the untouched beds and the glass vials in the apothecary cabinet. Even they appeared to be empty; placed for show rather than for genuine purpose.

"Hello? Hello?"

"Help!"

The plea came thin and plaintive from the back of the ward, through a wooden archway. Tentatively, the assassins leading with blades bared, they advanced through the empty chamber. The archway led into a small adjacent room, lit by several dangling candelabras.

This chamber continued all the customary paraphernalia of an office, a pair of untidy desks faced each other opposite a bookshelf crammed with paperwork. However, the illusion of administration was somewhat marred by the row of iron cages along one wall; each filled with at least two terrified elven prisoners. There were men, women and even children huddled against the bars, their clothing stained and eyes wild.

"Please, help us!"

"Help! Before they come back!"

Shianni let out a little cry of distress, hurrying across the chamber to wrap her hands around the bars. The others approached behind her, with expressions ranging from wide-eyed confusion to sheer, white-hot anger.

"Nalia, are you – are you sick?" the redheaded elf breathed, her gaze settling on a familiar face. The woman shook her head bitterly, letting out a desperate bark of laughter.

"Sick? None of us are sick! It's all a front for the Tevinter to smuggle us away to Minrathous."

Flora, who knew what Minrathous was after reading about it in Exotic Fish of Thedas, ventured forward tentatively.

"Why do they want to take you to Tevinter?" she asked, inserting her fingers around the bars of the first cage.

"As slaves, I assume," Zevran murmured lightly, a dangerous current running through the words. "It seems that the Vints were here to trade, after all."

Leliana hissed between her teeth, shaking her head in disapproval.

The iron bars of the cage blossomed outwards, splayed up into the air like bent fingers in the way of Flora's expanding shield. The elves contained within almost tripped over each other in their haste to clamber down, letting out little cries of relief. They appeared in healthy enough condition despite the imprisonment; their captors clearly wanting to keep them in decent physical condition.

"This is a terrible thing," the bard murmured, following Wynne's example and offering her water-pouch to the grateful captives. "The Maker loves all of His children, including the elves dwelling in our cities. They should be protected from those wanting to prey on them!"

A gloomy Flora continued to work her way along the row of cages, bending the bars of each one wide enough for its occupants to slip through. She understood what the definition of a slave was, but had naively assumed that the term was used to refer to animals – she did not realise that it could apply to people too. Just then she heard her name crop up in murmured discussion between Zevran and Wynne; and duly pricked up her ears.

"… take her back to the manor," the Antivan was saying in low tones as the senior enchanter nodded. "Slavers – could get unpleasant."

"No one is taking me anywhere!" Flora interjected, eyes wide and outraged. "I'm not an ice-packed fish being transported to market."

"Where's the hahren?" Shianni demanded meanwhile of a dark-haired elf with leonine features as he clambered down unsteadily from the cage. "Have you seen him?!"

The dark-haired elf shook his head, darting anxious little glances over his shoulder as though expecting more Tevinter guards to come flooding through the archway.

"I don't know, cousin. They took the other prisoners through that doorway."

He gestured with slender, trembling fingers at a plain door half-hidden behind a threadbare curtain.

Leliana withdrew her blades and ventured towards the doorway, shoving the patched material to one side before nudging tentatively at the door. It swung to reveal a nondescript wooden corridor, floorboards trodden down from frequent use.

Wynne eventually managed to persuade Shianni to remain behind, with gentle, firm assurances that they would be able to resolve the matter. The anxious elf, gnawing at her lip, eventually agreed to stay with the recently freed prisoners.

"Stay close to me, carina," Zevran murmured as they ventured inside the narrow wooden passageway.

There were no windows to illuminate the narrow corridor, and once the weighted door swung shut in their wake, they were in darkness. Flora raised her hand, summoning heatless white-gold flame to her fingers; the light glancing over the dusty wooden walls as they proceeded.

"I thought only animals could be slaves," she said out loud after a moment, and was immediately shushed by both Leliana and Zevran.

"But you can't own a person," she continued in an undertone, undeterred. "I don't understand."

Wynne, advancing alongside Flora with staff raised, let the corner of her mouth twist ruefully.

"Unfortunately, child, there are some who do not share that belief," the senior enchanter murmured as they descended a precarious wooden staircase. "The Tevinter Imperium of old was built on the back of slavery, and such practices did not die out when their empire shrunk."

Flora scowled darkly to herself, almost colliding with Leliana's back as the latter came to an abrupt halt. They had reached a doorway, slivers of candlelight creeping beneath the ill-fitting frame. On the other side were muffled voices, though the wood masked the particulars of their conversation.

The elf put a finger to his lips, gently leaning his weight against the door. It was locked, and he let out a little growl of displeasure.

"One moment. I've brought my tools- "

Zevran moved away from the door to disguise the sound of rummaging through his own pack.

Just then, there came a sudden splintering of wood as the door erupted outwards into the room; broken into fragments by the pulse of Flora's expanding shield. Momentarily stunned, her companions watched agape as their Cousland healer stormed through the broken doorframe, pink-faced with indignation.

"Slavery" she bellowed in her hoarse, distinctive tones. "Is BAD!"

"Not one of her more eloquent entrances," murmured Leliana, withdrawing her daggers and following in Flora's wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ugh I still can't get over the slavery thing, so fucked up! I can't believe Loghain silently condoned it. Perhaps I'm showing my ignorance as a relatively new fan of the DA universe, but it seems so incongruous to his character.


	259. Shutting Down The Slavers

Flora came to a halt, the pulsing shield expanding and contracting in time with her own outraged breaths. She had emerged in what appeared to be a long, low warehouse, lit by blazing torches bracketed on the walls. A makeshift office had been set up on one side, a desk overflowing with paperwork resting in front of several large chests.

On the other side, a row of empty cages lined the entire span of the wall, rusting and in poor condition. Accompanying tools of the trade were hung up on pegs alongside the cages: manacles of all shapes and sizes, fetters designed for the legs, with lengths of chain coiled on the floor like snakes. Most of the cages were unoccupied, except for an elderly man slumped at the far end. The salt-tang of the sea pervaded the entire space and the air itself was damp; distantly, they could hear the sounds of the gulls beyond the walls.

Unlike the fraudulent hospice, the warehouse was not deserted. A half-dozen Tevinter guards were gathered at the makeshift office area, speaking to someone seated at the desk. When Flora made her unsubtle entrance, the guards startled, then fumbled for their swords with shouts of anger.

Zevran, rolling his eyes at Flora as he passed, smoothly sidled past her and faced the oncoming guards with a wide smile. The sharp-eyed elf had spotted a bearded man in elaborate scarlet robes sitting at the desk; from his stance and placement, it was clear that he held a position of some authority.

"Can't we talk about this instead of resorting  _immediately_ to bloodshed?" the former Crow purred, a dangerous edge to his words. "Businessman to businessman?"

"You're not a businessman,"interjected Leliana, withdrawing a gleaming blade strapped to her thigh.

"I'm  _self-employed,"_ countered Zevran as the man rose to his feet, mouth pursing in alarm.

The dark-eyed slaver already had done some rapid calculations. Despite possessing the crude advantage of numbers, he recognised that the intruders were made up entirely of mages and assassins – far more dangerous than simple hired guards with swords.

He therefore raised a hand to calm his men, clearing his throat and adopting the same casual tone that the elf had set.

"I am Caladrius, and as a Tevinter merchant, I am always in favour of negotiation," he murmured, keeping one eye on the red-faced and indignant Flora. "Although I am slightly confused as to the reason for your entrance. I was assured that the authorities would not interfere with our business operations here."

"Do we  _look_  like the authorities?" Wynne interrupted archly, her fingers on her staff. "Although your statement is interesting… and  _quite_ telling."

Just then, an elf with a wicked-looking bow slung over her shoulder entered from a doorway behind the desk, startling as she saw the crowd within the warehouse.

"Devera, I find your security somewhat  _lax_ ," drawled the slaver, as she crossed hastily to his side. "We have intruders – although they claim not to be from the authorities."

Devera, face flushed with anger, turned on said 'intruders'.

"Why are you here, then?!" she demanded, spittle flying between her teeth. "This whole operation has got nothing to do with- "

"You're an elf," interrupted Flora, her brow furrowing.

The woman shot her a slightly incredulous look as though to say,  _clearly, idiot?_

Undeterred, Flora continued. "Why are you enslaving your own kind?"

" _Pah!_ Don't insult me!" Devara retorted, her fingers moving longingly over her bow. "I am a citizen of the Tevinter Imperium, and an agent of the Minrathous Circle. I am as unlike these pathetic creatures as you are."

" _Servant_ , rather than agent, one would presume," murmured Wynne, and duly received a dark glare.

"Devara, peace. You shouldn't be rude to our esteemed guest," drawled Caladrius, the light of recognition dawning at last. "Forgive me, Lady Cousland. I did not recognise you at first. Perhaps Wardens should bear some distinctive mark for ease of identification? A brand, perhaps?"

"Lady  _who?"_ muttered Devara, obstinately.

Caladrius rolled his liquidous dark eyes in apology.

"Devara, you really ought to keep abreast of current affairs. The Lady Cousland here has quite publicly pitted herself in opposition to General Mac Tir, which obviously explains her presence here."

"Well,  _obviously_ ," said Flora, who had no idea what he was talking about.

The slaver gazed at her a moment more, his nose wrinkling.

"Regardless, I'm sure that we can come to some sort of a deal to avoid any… unpleasantness?"

"Seems a bit late for that," pointed out Flora, reasonably. "You're running a  _people smuggling operation."_

" _Mi florita,"_ murmured Zevran, his dark eyes surveying the guards as their fingers tensed over the hilts of their swords. "Step back just a fraction, please."

The female elf, Devara, glowered at the intruders, and it seemed as though there would be nothing she would enjoy more than shooting an arrow through each of their faces.

Caladrius, displaying carefully measured calm, reached into his desk and retrieved a velvet pouch. With a showman-like gesture, he let a torrent of gold coins cascade out into the wooden surface; a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Silence is a commodity one can purchase," he drawled, sitting back and steepling his fingers. "I trust that one hundred gold buys me sufficient time to complete my operations."

Leliana let out a small, contemptuous snort, her pale blue eyes moving between Caladrius and the elf.

"The Maker detests those who claim ownership over His creations," she breathed, her fine-boned faced contorted in disapproval.

Caladrius remained silent for a moment, his eyes focused on Flora. To his intense irritation, she was not even looking at the desk; her head swivelling from side to side.

"I can smell the sea," she said, vaguely.

_**Careful.** _

The man's eyes flared with brief, molten fury at what he perceived to be Flora's deliberate impertinence. In a single, smooth gesture he rose from his seat, withdrawing a dagger that had been secreted in his sleeve. Continuing the arc of motion, his arm swept sideways and drew the dagger across the female elf's throat. She dropped to her knees with a strangled gasp, clutching at the ruined skin beneath her chin as scarlet arterial spray pumped out.

Even as Devara let out a throaty gasp, the slaver shot out a hand before his unwanted guests. There was a crackle of malignant energy and a black mass sheared through the air towards them. It collided with a glimmering, incandescent golden wall and dissipated into nothingness.

"Blood mage!" called Wynne in warning, retrieving her staff from her back as a scowling Flora held a hand up, channelling the shield from her fingertips.

"Attack!  _Attack!"_ Caladrius snarled towards his guards, who dutifully advanced with blades readied.

It was a short and brutal battle. Despite being outnumbered, Flora's shield efficiently negated the odds for her companions. She had retreated to a safe distance and was dutifully conjuring magical barriers where needed around the vulnerable bodies of her friends; fingers coaxing forth the golden energy in gleaming walls which neither blood magic nor steel blade could penetrate.

Two of the guards' lives were claimed by Caladrius himself, sacrificing them to fuel his own maleficar spells. These were neutralised by Wynne, who then managed to land a silencing incantation with perfect accuracy over the gasping slaver's face.

Leaving the senior enchanter to deal with the blood mage, Zevran and Leliana focused on cutting swathes through the hapless Tevinter guards. Before long, each guard was little more than a pile of bloodied meat upon the warehouse floor; one guard cut down by Leliana's flung dagger as he tried to make a break for the exit.

Seeing the last of his guards expire with a bloodied gasp, Caladrius opened his mouth in a last-ditch attempt to save himself.

"Warden, call off your hounds!" he choked, through a throat still constricted by Wynne's earlier silencing. "I can offer you  _power_ \- "

"People keep trying to make me more powerful," replied Flora, brow furrowed. "I don't  _want_  to be more important. I was happy being a nobody from Herring."

While Caladrius was gaping at her, Zevran rose like a pale, gilded ghost behind his shoulder. The blade was drawn across the slaver's throat almost silently, like the singular stroke of a silvered pen.

The Antivan stepped neatly aside as the maleficar's body crumpled to the floor, nostrils wrinkling. There came a few moments of silence as he turned around to survey the others; face twisting almost comically in despair.

" _Mi sirenita,"_ Zevran said at last, a grimace twisting his features. "Your brother-warden is going to kill me. Look at the state of you."

"Look at the state of us  _all,"_ Leliana protested, with a little  _moue_ of dissatisfaction. "My new bodice!"

Flora looked down at herself, then across at her companions. Although none of them had received injury, their clothing was soaked in arterial spray – more as a result of Caladrius' reckless, bloodied incantations than their own attacks. She gave a mild shrug, then followed Wynne's crooked finger across to where the elven  _hahren_ was slumped in a far cage.

While the two mages freed Valendrian and checked him for injury; Zevran and Leliana began to ransack the slaver's desk, sorting through paperwork and shuffling through ledgers.

"This operation had been ongoing for  _months,"_ Leliana breathed in disgust, sharp eyes scanning the dates scribed on the ledger. "The transportations first started in Firstfall- "

" _That's just after Ostagar!"_ an eavesdropping Flora bellowed across the room, and then was immediately reprimanded by Wynne for screeching like a fishwife.

Zevran's dark eyes settled on a folded sheet of parchment, bloodied and tucked into the dead slaver's sleeve. Opening it up, he caught sight of a familiar wax deal at its base, and after scanning the note's contents, his brows shot upwards.

They left the warehouse the same way that they had entered, through the windowless passageway and false hospice. The sun was just easing itself downwards, breathing tendrils of pink and amber across the dusky sky – yet the sky seemed prematurely dark due to the sea-mist still thronging the streets.

An anxious Shianni waited in the courtyard with a small crowd she had coaxed from their self-enforced quarantine. There were cries of delight as they saw their beloved  _hahren_ walking tall and injured, although this quickly turned to despair and rumination as he explained the Tevinter slavery operation. Once the frantic questions had started to run in circles, Valendrian excused Flora and her companions gently; assuring them that he would handle the situation further.

This proved timely intervention, since the sun was now sinking inexorably into the Bannorn, the pastel shades of the sky deepening into violet and navy. The blanket of fog above their head thickened until the narrow streets were cast into premature darkness.

They left the alienage via its northern exit, not quite  _rushing_  but making rapid pace. Flora's knee was beginning to throb after a day spent standing on it, and she had to pause more than once to tighten the leather strapping. Their journey back to the noble district was hampered not only by the sea-mist coagulating the streets, but also by traders and merchants closing up shop and retiring for the evening.

Finally, they arrived back on the wide boulevard that bisected the noble district just as the brazier-lighters were making their rounds. Cauldrons of flame blazed like bastions in the fog, casting blurred puddles of light onto the cobbles.

Through the mist cloaking the boundary of the Guerrin manor, they saw streaks of lantern light punctuating the gloom, along with the silhouettes of men and horses. The nobles had clearly also just returned from the Palace, stable boys scuttling around their feet like Mabari pups.

"Halt in the name of the arl! Who goes there?" demanded an over-enthusiastic guard, withdrawing his sword and advancing courageously through the mist.

Zevran let out a rather mean giggle, which did not help the situation. The guard raised his voice as the men gathered around the horses looked across.

"I mean it! What's your business- "

"It's me," said Flora, who wanted a bath and some food, not necessarily in that order. "Please don't attack us."

She recognised the distinctive bulky silhouette of Arl Leonas, and the lanky form of Finian; yet she did not feel the customary prickle in the back of her mind that indicated the presence of her brother-warden. Frowning, she was about to open her mouth and enquire as to his location, when a familiar shape made its way through the mist towards her.

" _Flo?!"_

Alistair's anxious hazel eyes settled on her, then widened in dismay as he saw the bloodied clothing.

"Maker," he breathed, swooping forward like a mother hen spotting a lost chick. "Are you  _hurt?!"_

"No," said Flora patiently, letting her brother-warden run his hands up and down her arms and abdomen to confirm this. "It's not my blood."

Alistair's voice dropped to a soft and dangerous level, his eyes moving over her shoulder towards her companions.

" _Whose_ blood is it, then?"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OOOoooh Alistair is not happy about Flora being immersed in some dangerous situation in his absence, lol. He is being quite unreasonable considering she has built-in protection, but he loves her and is overly concerned about her welfare.


	260. Thinking With Heart Not Skull

Flora and her companions were given a period of grace to cleanse themselves of the afternoon's gore. Once she had bathed and changed her bloodied clothing, Flora returned downstairs and walked inadvertently into the middle of an argument taking place in the entrance hall.

Alistair was standing alone and outraged beside the hearth, face flushed and fists clenched. Facing him were Flora's other companions, arms folded and equally indignant. Jethro, Finian's mabari, lay before the hearth with chin resting on paws, looking disconsolate. The other nobles, not wishing to get involved, were busying themselves in conversation on the periphery of the room.

"She's hardly  _vulnerable,"_ Leliana countered, nostrils flaring in a uniquely Orlesian fashion. "Florence has got the best defences of us all."

"Leliana is right, Alistair," Wynne murmured, her tone soothing. "You're letting your emotions cloud your good judgement."

"But you took her into a  _fight!"_ Alistair retorted, the disbelief writ stark on his face. "Why put her in unnecessary danger?! If they  _were_ Tevinter, they might have had some of that…  _silencing_ stuff that Howe had."

"She was never in any danger!" retorted Zevran, the Antivan accent sharpening each word like the cut of a blade. "Alistair, you  _know_  that I would guard Flora with my own life; she is like a… little sister to me."

Flora, not particularly wanting to join the heated debate, sat down gloomily at the foot of the steps. Letting their angry exchange drift over her head, she began to fiddle with the fraying sleeve of her woollen jumper. With guilty fascination, she pulled at the strand and watched the end of the sleeve begin to unravel; stitches unwinding themselves back into crinkled wool. She wished that she had not washed her hair, since it now hung cold and wet between her shoulder blades.

"Hey, Sparkles," murmured a familiar gruff voice from behind her. "Fancy a walk?"

Flora nodded gratefully up at the dwarf, who appeared relatively sober despite clutching a half-empty bottle of wine.

"There's an unguarded doorway in the wine cellar," Oghren continued in an undertone, flashing yellowed teeth at her in a conspiratorial grin. "Quietly, now."

Pushing herself awkwardly to her feet, Flora followed in the dwarf's wake; feeling only the slightest twinge of guilt at leaving without giving notice.

_They're all arguing about me without actually talking to me,_ she thought defiantly, following Oghren as he took a sharp right turn into a servant's passage. The narrow corridor soon led to a descending stone staircase, lit every third step by a torch bracketed on the wall.

Sure enough, just as the dwarf had promised, there was a small doorway half-hidden between two great brewing vats. Oghren grinned at her, before shoving the door unceremoniously open with a knee.

"Told yeh!"

The door opened out into a swirling miasma of sea mist, cloaking the district like a mermaid's bridal veil. It had settled thick as a blanket, hanging in trailing skeins from lead roofing and rolling leisurely down crudely-hewn gutters. Oghren, unused to such weather, appeared to now be having second thoughts about venturing out. Flora, who had not seen such thick mists since her days in Herring, was delighted.

"Eh, lass, maybe actually we should stay inside-" the dwarf began, casting a wary look through the silvered gloom.

"It's only a bit of fog, it won't hurt you," Flora assured him, plunging forward into the mist until she was swallowed within its depths. The dwarf groaned, filled his lungs with a gulp of air, and ventured in her wake. The mist was cold and sodden, lining the throat with dampness after each inhalation.

For several panicked moments Oghren thought that he had lost their young healer in the miasma; visions of an enraged, sword-wielding Alistair flooding his mind.

"Sparkles?"

"Over here," came Flora's voice, drifting from somewhere to the dwarf's right. "Don't fall in the water."

" _Where?!"_

"Look for the light!"

A golden gleam caught his attention, suspended like a lantern in the middle of the mists. The heatless white-gold flame could not burn away the dampness; instead, it ignited the billowing mist from within like a blossoming of ghostly amber.

As Oghren approached the gleaming beacon, he could see that the glow was coming from a waving hand. Flora was sitting on the cobbled ledge at the side of the road, her legs dangling down to the saltwater below. The dwarf let out a brief exhalation of relief, coming to join her. She reached up a hand to aid his less-than-steady descent, not wanting him to plummet headfirst in the estuary.

"Can you swim?"

"What? In  _that?!"_ The dwarf gestured out at the small patch of visible mist-laced water. "No, lass."

"Huh." Flora thought about this for a moment, tapping her fingers absentmindedly over the leather strapping on her knee. "My brothers can't swim, either. I offered to teach them but they didn't seem that interested."

"Swimmin' is a skill only required by yeh precious fish, darlin'," countered Oghren, surreptitiously uncorking a small bottle. "I'd rather spend my time learnin' tricks that'll actually help me."

"It would help if you ever fell in any water," Flora retorted, rather defensively – swimming was one of the few things she knew how to do well.

"Which is somethin' I never plan on doing, so!"

They were silent for several minutes, the dwarf taking the occasional glug from his whiskey. There came the mournful cry of a sea-bird from somewhere above their heads; arcing through the mists like a white-winged blade.

"I don't understand why Alistair thinks I'm so vulnerable," Flora said after a moment, bewildered. "My shield has only got stronger since Ostagar, and yet he seems more worried than ever."

"It's because he loves yeh, lassie," the dwarf retorted, the words slightly blurring together. "Clearly."

"But it doesn't make  _sense!"_

"Where do yeh thoughts come from, Sparkles?"

Flora looked sideways at him, and then tentatively pointed to her skull. The dwarf nodded, jabbing a finger into the centre of his chest.

"When yeh love someone, thinkin' drops from the skull, to down  _here_. 'Specially if yeh new to the whole game, like your brother-warden. And yeh heart is ruled by passion, not logic."

"Oh," replied Flora thoughtfully, drumming her heels against the estuary wall. "But I love him, and I'm still using my skull to make decisions, I think."

"Yeah, but he wasn't just kidnapped and held hostage by a murderous arl," said Oghren reasonably, scratching at his moustache. "Those were the worst three days of the lad's life, lass. He was mad with fear, I'm not surprised the thoughts were driven out of his skull."

Flora blinked, a sudden surge of guilt overwhelming her conscience.

"I see what you mean. I have to go back," she breathed, using the dwarf's shoulder to propel herself upwards. "I want to see my brother-warden."

It took longer than expected to find their way back to the Guerrin estate, neither of them familiar with the layout of the noble district. The mist had soaked them both as efficiently as any rainfall, and by the time that Oghren spotted the soggy Guerrin colours hanging from a gatepost; the dwarf's teeth were chattering and Flora's hair was plastered to her face.

A pair of startled guards, who had been playing Wicked Grace in a wooden lean-to near the main entrance, leapt to attention as mage and dwarf approached.

" _Halt!_  Oh, Lady Cousland – they're looking for you inside. How did you get out?! I told them that you hadn't passed through here," said the senior, bewildered.

"Servants' door," replied Flora, shifting the weight from her sore knee. "Ow. Could we come in?"

"Of course, my lady."

The guards hastened to open the main doors, the entrance hall a haven of warmth and firelight in comparison to the damp gloom of the streets.

Although the chamber was full of people, Flora's eyes were focused on one alone; her anxious brother-warden at the foot of the steps. As Alistair met her gaze, his handsome face collapsed with relief and he visibly exhaled.

Ignoring everyone else Flora strode across the flagstones, leaving damp footsteps in her wake. She came to a halt before the staircase, staring up at him with her heart thudding against her ribcage.

"Flo, I'm sorry..."

Alistair began a stumbling apology for his earlier over-protectiveness, but Flora suddenly realised that she did not need to hear it. Not caring in the least if it did not comply with how teyrn's daughters were supposed to behave; she reached up her arms and let her brother-warden lift her against him, legs circling around his waist. He pressed his face to her neck, exhaling unsteadily.

"You don't need to be sorry for feeling scared," Flora whispered, his ear now conveniently beside her mouth. "I understand. If Howe had held you for three days, I wouldn't let go of your hand for a month.  _At least."_

Alistair groaned against her neck, fingers tightening their grip on her thighs.

"My love," he murmured into her skin, fierce and protective. "You're freezing. Come to bed."

"But everyone's going to dinner," breathed Flora, having smelt its preparation on first entering the hall.

"They can start without us," he replied, supporting her with a strong arm whilst turning towards the staircase. "Let me show you how much I love you."

Sometime afterwards, Flora lay against her stomach on the large bed that dominated their quarters; fiddling with a strand of hair and wondering idly if lying on her belly was bad for the creature incumbent within. The sun had set several hours prior but the mist still prevailed, bathing the stone veranda in silvered effluvium.

Alistair was in the process of pouring himself a flagon of ale, cheeks flushed and hair dishevelled. Lifting it to his mouth, he leaned against the wooden dresser and gazed at his sister-warden as she sprawled thoughtfully on the bed.

"You look like some… ancient Alamarri tribal queen," he said suddenly, recalling a history lecture from the Bournshire monastery. "So beautiful, Flo."

"Eh?" said Flora, who had no idea what he was talking about. "Ala- what?"

"Lying there Maker-naked on the furs," Alistair continued, voice thickening. "With your hair loose down your back."

Flora had no idea who the Alamarri were and so she smiled at him vaguely, before sitting up and reaching for her woollen jumper.

"I'm hungry," she replied, pulling it over her head before looking around for some breeches. "I want food."

Locating a pair underneath the bed, Flora pulled them on as Alistair retrieved his own tunic at a more leisurely pace, sated from their coupling.

"What's for dinner?" she asked as they left the chamber, guards stepping respectfully to each side as they passed through the doorway.

"Apparently, not much," replied her brother-warden, nonplussed. "There's hardly any food to be found at either market or tavern. Teagan said the servants were all talking about it."

Flora's brow immediately creased into a scowl.

"Who's eaten it all?" she demanded as they emerged onto the central landing, under the watchful eyes of the painted Guerrins. "Wasn't  _me_."

Alistair gave an amiable but unhelpful shrug, smoothing a hand over her rumpled hair.

To Flora's relief, the servants were clearing away the meat platters as they entered the main chamber. Her stomach gave a little roll of nausea as she caught scent of cooked chicken, flaky scraps still clinging to a mournful carcass. The nobles and the Wardens' companions were sitting down either side of the long table, either conversing in low tones or concentrating on the boiled vegetables and pottages placed before them.

Nobody made any enquiry as to why Flora and Alistair had arrived late. Eamon greeted them both with a cordial smile, before gesturing Alistair to a chair at his right. To Flora's slight surprise, there was another empty chair beside it – never before had the Arl of Redcliffe seated her so publicly next to Alistair during formal dining.

Finian grinned at her as she sat down, although Fergus could not quite meet her eye. The new teyrn was still unable to wholly reconcile himself with the reality of his little sister being  _anybody's_  lover, yet alone a prince of the realm.

" _Mi sirenita,_ you're looking well-rested," purred Zevran from across a noticeably barer table than usual, quirking a finely arched brow towards her.

Flora rolled her eyes at the elf just as Leonas grimaced and pushed away the platter of cut vegetables before him.

"Half of these are still raw! Does the cook think we're Orlesian and enjoy tiny, cold morsels of plant?" he grumbled.

"You _are_  half-Orlesian, Arl Leonas," Leliana pointed out with a delicate little giggle, and the militaristic noble gave a grunt of dissent.

"Bah! Give me something warm and meaty any day."

From the way that a delighted Zevran opened his mouth and then  _winced_ , it was clear that somebody – most likely the bard – had delivered a swift kick to his shin. A silent manservant immediately swooped forward, his intention to remove the offending cold-cut vegetables.

Flora reached out to intercept him, clutching the tray and bringing it before her. She turned her solemn, pale grey stare on the servant, her expression entreating.

"Please, can I keep it?"

"Of course, my lady," the servant replied hastily, bowing his head.

Flora, delighted, shoved aside the offending meat and began to devour her way through the platter of raw carrots and beans. When she discovered squares of insufficiently cooked potato nestled at the edge of the platter, she was so delighted that she actually felt slightly teary.

Fergus watched his sister demolishing the platter of raw food, shaking his head in bemusement.

"What a peculiar preference to claim, sister," he murmured, toying with a spoonful of beef pottage. "I remember that Oriana used to desire raw vegetables too, when she was -"

" _Oh!"_ With a pretty little gasp of dismay, Leliana knocked her wine flagon over.

A scarlet claret flooded over the table, splattering her robes. Immediately the courteous Fergus, who was sitting beside her, leaned forward to soak the liquid up with his tunic sleeve.

A servant sprang forwards with a cloth and the next few moments were occupied with cleaning up the wine. By the time that the offending flagon had been removed, Fergus had been efficiently diverted from his prior line of thought. Both Guerrin brothers exhaled in quiet relief, glancing at each other over Flora's head. Flora herself had no idea what had almost transpired, too busy delighting at the gritty, earthy texture of the raw turnip.

Alistair remained quiet throughout the meal, forking meat into his mouth with one hand while keeping the other on Flora's knee beneath the table. Just as an aged Fereldan ale was being brought out by the servants; he cleared his throat and swept his gaze over Wynne, Leliana and Zevran in turn.

"I'm sorry for getting angry earlier," he said, openly and without rancour. "I know you wouldn't let any harm come to Flo."

The bastard prince's eyes settled on the elf as he said this, and Zevran inclined his chin a fraction. Alistair nodded stiffly, grip tightening on Flora's non-strapped knee beneath the table. She dropped a hand to cover his, patting the back of his calloused fingers affectionately.

"Aye, tell us more about this slave operation," requested Teagan, his brow furrowed in distaste. "Poor sods – you say they were being taken to Tevinter?"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I liked writing the little interlude with Oghren giving Flora relationship advice! Also, ha ha at the Wardens going off blatantly to shag while everybody else starts dinner.
> 
> The Alamarri are the historical 'founders' of Ferelden – the ancient oft-warring tribes that consolidated to create the concept of a united nation. Since I see Ferelden as roughly based on the Medieval period, you could argue that the Alamarri were based on either the warring Anglo-Saxon tribes of the Dark Ages – OR go back even further, and suggest that they were the tribal Celts (which would parallel the Tevinter/Roman Empire thing).
> 
> Fergus being pretty clueless in this chapter, lol – he obviously doesn't know about Flora's pregnancy, he just thought the eating of raw vegetables was a coincidence.


	261. Letters And Tongues

After dinner Eamon suggested an early retirement to their respective bedchambers; since the next day would be the last chance to present evidence to the Landsmeet. There were only a few witnesses left to give their statements as to the existence of a true Blight; and then votes would be cast on the final day.

Back in the Wardens' bedchamber, using the mingled light of the interwoven-antler candelabra and crackling hearth, Flora practised scribing hesitant sentences. Eventually, she had covered an entire page of parchment with her wide, looping hand; wondering why several of her letters seemed to come out differently each time she wrote them. She held the parchment up before the fire, then turned it upside-down to see if her sentences made more sense that way.

While Flora scowled at her own untidy words, Alistair took a whetstone and linseed oil to Duncan's sword; methodologically sliding the stone up and down the dulled silverite. Before long the blade was honed to a sharp edge, the newly brilliant metal gleaming in the firelight. He lifted it up and turned it from side to side, admiring its sheen. From the look on her brother-warden's face, he was somewhere far from their bedchamber within the Guerrin's Denerim manor.

"Who are you running that into?" asked Flora from down beside the hearth. She bit absentmindedly at the end of her quill and then grimaced as she tasted ink on her tongue. "Oh,  _eugh_."

"General Mac Tir," murmured Alistair, a wistful expression on his face. "And then Howe. Actually no; both at once, in a single thrust."

He made a little gesture with his hand, imaginary blade impaling his two greatest foes.

"Arl Howe is  _dead,"_ replied Flora solemnly, reaching for her flagon and almost knocking the contents of the inkwell over the long-suffering bearskin rug. "Did you forget? I broke his head apart."

Alistair cast his sister-warden a rueful smile, sliding the sword snugly into its sheath and descending to sit cross-legged beside her. Bending his head forward, he swept loose strands of Flora's hair to one side and kissed the back of her neck tenderly.

"I didn't forget, my dear," he murmured, draping an arm around her shoulders. "But every night, I kill him again in my dreams. You did the man a favour by splitting his head open before I could get my hands on him."

Wanting to change the subject from Howe, Flora diplomatically retrieved her parchment and waved it at him.

"Could you check my work, please?"

Alistair took the parchment and scanned a critical eye over it, trying to suppress the affection that swelled reflexively whenever he saw her painstaking attempts to make sense. He had to read the paragraph three times before he could decipher it; eventually, he realised that it was a rambling homage singing the many praises of Herring. According to Flora, Herring was the  _true_  jewel of Ferelden. Its people were the bravest and best in all Thedas, and the beauty of its squat stone buildings was unrivalled even by the elaborate palaces of Val Royeaux. Her hand was childish, large and looping, the sentences ran on far too long without pause or punctuation, and many of the letters were backwards or upside-down entirely.

Yet the memory of drawing out the  _Kingstongue_  alphabet before a hearth in Redcliffe Castle still stood out stark in his mind; when he had pointed out that both Flora's name  _ended_  and his name  _started_  with the same character. She had pointed to the  _A_ with naked suspicion, the letter as unfamiliar to her as some Ancient Tevinter rune.

" _Alistair!_ Does it make sense?"

Flora's impatient voice broke through Alistair's reverie and he smiled at her, letting the parchment drop to his knee.

"I love the way you say my name, sweetheart," he murmured, reaching out to slide calloused fingers into her hair. "It sounds so different when you say it."

Flora pulled a little face at him, sliding the quill and inkwell to one side.

"Well, I don't  _sound_  like anyone else," she observed laconically, referring to her soft, slightly husky northern accent. "You'd never guess I was related to Finian and Fergus if we didn't look so alike. I sound like I should be serving them ale, or sweeping their fancy carpets."

"Well, I'd rather hear  _you_ say my name than anyone else," Alistair countered, tilting his sister-warden's solemn face up towards him, well-accustomed to her typical wide-eyed graveness. "Say it again."

"Alistair," said Flora obediently, prompting a little groan.

"Again, darling,"

" _Alistair,"_ she repeated, then began to squirm, giggling, as he pressed his face against her neck.

Relentless, he bore Flora back on the bearskin and grinned delightedly down at her. Administering a trail of heated kisses along her exposed collarbone and up the line of her jaw, he ended up with his mouth hovering over her ear.

"In fact, I'm going to make you _cry_  out my name," he murmured, fingers dropping to the hem of her nightgown to lift it up around her waist. "Over and over."

Sometime later Flora lay naked and slightly shame-faced in her brother-warden's arms, in the midst of a tangled nest of blankets and furs on the bed. Despite her reassurances to Leliana, she had so far repeatedly failed in preventing her brother-warden from seeing her unclothed. At the moment, the curve to her belly could be passed off as a product of their inactivity at South Reach; but Flora was well aware that there would come a point in the near future where her condition could no longer be disguised.

Alistair had fallen asleep, his gentle snores riffling the strands of loose hair beside her ear. The hearth had burnt down to embers, but it was a mild night and the chamber was not overly cold.

Flora was just on the verge of slipping through the Veil herself when she heard a strange, distinct tap. Opening her eyes, she peered around the room in mild confusion and then the tap came once again, a little more insistently.

This time she managed to divine its origin – the tall windows leading out onto the stone veranda that overlooked the estuary. Neither Flora nor Alistair had closed the shutters, and a dark figure stood silhouetted against the misted glass with hand raised.

After a moment of alarm, Flora identified the familiar shadowed form. Extracting herself from Alistair's arms with some difficulty, she reached for the scarlet wool dressing robe and shrugged it over her shoulders. Clutching the front of the robe closed with a hand, she padded barefoot across the cold flagstones and unfastened the window catch.

"Damned fog," Zevran complained in an undertone, stepping adeptly through into the bedchamber. "Can't see a thing out there. You needn't have bothered putting on a robe for me, my Rialto lily; I have seen you naked more times than I have enjoyed cooked dinners."

Flora rolled her eyes at him, shutting the window against the draught.

"Why don't you use the passage?" she asked reasonably, canting her head towards the doorway.

The elf cast Flora a smile, gulping down the remains of a half-drunk flagon of ale that had been sitting on the dresser all afternoon.

"The balcony runs the entire length of the building," he explained, gleefully. "I was planning to knock on your brother Finian's window and see if he lets me in."

She smiled at him and the Antivan flashed her a devilish wink, reaching out to take her hand.

"Come on,  _mi sirenita._ I have something to show you."

Flora followed the elf over to the dying embers of the hearth, which cast a ruddy ochre glow over the long-suffering bearskin. After the antics which had taken place on top of it earlier, she felt almost as though she ought to apologise to the unfortunate, long-suffering creature.

Zevran knelt in the small light of the hearth and Flora followed suit, keeping the robe clutched loosely closed with her fingers. He unfolded a small square of parchment, placing it against the stone so that they could both see the words scribed upon it.

Flora immediately recognised the distinctive wax seal at the bottom, initialled to confirm its authenticity.

"That's Loghain's seal," she whispered, her grey eyes rising to meet Zevran's dark, solemn stare. "Where is this from?"

" _Sí, carina._ I retrieved it from the desk of the Tevinter slaver earlier this afternoon," he murmured, using a deft finger to smooth out a fold in the parchment. "Look at what it says."

Flora squinted down at the words for a moment, the spidery handwriting sloping at a steep angle across the page.

"Please, could you read it to me?" she entreated, lifting her eyes to his face once again. "I can't understand his writing."

Zevran nodded, using his finger to trace the words while simultaneously vocalising them.

After he had finished, there was a long silence. Flora sat, dumbfounded, on the bearskin as the ramifications of the note echoed around her skull.

"You look appalled, my little Rialto lily," purred Zevran, reaching out to twitch the drooping robe back across her bare chest. "You don't want to believe that your traitor general could be capable of condoning slavery?"

Flora shook her head, staring at the elf in bewilderment.

"I just – I don't _understand_ ," she whispered, staring down at the note with utter perplexion. "I know he betrayed his King and the Wardens, but that was for political reasons. And when I was captured by Howe, he didn't tell the arl that I wasn't really Tranquil. And he… he kept Howe away from the bedchamber by pretending to summon him for a meeting. But this – this is just…  _evil."_

She gazed plaintively across at Zevran, who clicked his tongue and folded the parchment up into squares.

" _Mi límonita,_ people are complex creatures," he murmured, with a small and rueful smile. "Rarely is someone entirely good or entirely bad. There are many shades of grey inside one's conscience."

He reached out to tuck the note gently between the folds of Flora's robe, briefly caressing the hollow of her throat with a slender, skilful thumb.

"But he's a  _northerner,"_ Flora complained, feeling the crumpled parchment nestled against her breast. "Slavery! It's wrong. We're meant to have  _good morals_ on the coast _."_

Zevran gave an expressive Antivan shrug.

"The proof is before your eyes,  _carina,"_ he murmured, rising to his feet with catlike elegance before offering her a hand. "I leave the note in your care, to do as you will with it."

Flora took the courteous palm, clambering up with far less grace. She followed Zevran back over to the window, her brow furrowed. The elf unfastened the catch; swinging the frame open into the thick miasma of sea-mist.

"Thank you for the note," she said as Zevran grinned at her, offering his cheek expectantly. Flora leaned forward and kissed him gratefully on the fading black line tattooed just beneath his eye.

"Of course,  _nena._ " Quick as a snake, the elf darted his head forward and pecked her swiftly on the lips."Ha! Make sure you fasten the window tightly behind me. I'm going to pay a visit to your brother."

She nodded, watching Zevran step through into the clouded night. The fog was so dense that he was lost within it in moments, a dark silhouette against a shifting silvered background.

Flora closed the window and slid the latch home, troubled at the note's revelation. After tucking it safely away inside the top of her leather pack, she let the robe drop in a puddle of scarlet wool onto the flagstones.

Her reflection in the long mirror, dim in the muted glow of the embers, caught Flora's eye. In profile, the curve of her abdomen was more noticeable; a firm little swell that was quite clearly not just belly fat.

Sighing, hoping that Alistair was unfamiliar enough with the female body that he would be unable to tell the difference, Flora ran a hand over the rounded bump.

_I'm sorry,_ she said silently to the unformed creature clinging to her insides.  _This is the worst possible time for you to exist. I can't look after you the way I'm supposed to. I have to look after this country first._

_I'm sorry._

Swallowing the ensuing surge of sadness, Flora pressed her fingers to her eyes to stop the tears from spilling out. Shivering despite the mild night and her own natural self-heating, she returned to the bed and let herself drop onto the pallet mattress. Burrowing beneath the tangled furs and blankets until she found her brother-warden's bare chest, Flora pressed herself into the reassuring firm muscle and sinew.

"Flo," mumbled Alistair drowsily, opening an eye. "Did you have a bad dream, baby?"

"No," said Flora, feeling a small clench of fear at his choice of endearment. "I can't get warm."

Alistair let out a grunt and opened his arms to his sister-warden, pulling her against his chest and wrapping a thigh over her knee. Reaching out with a spare hand, he pulled as many furs and blankets as he could reach over and around the two of them.

"Is that better, my love?"

"Mm," she mumbled into his shoulder, feeling his arms tighten around her waist. His fingers sought out her own, clasping them in a calloused, strong grip. "Yes. Thank you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Flora is as confused as to why Loghain would endorse the sale of slaves as I am, lol! I did quite a bit of research into it and came up with nothing solid (which pissed me off because my job involves a ton of research, haha) – although there was this one interesting theory that suggested he did it to refill the Royal Treasury in order to finance Ferelden's defences, since he had personally bankrupted the treasury in the search for Maric. And there's also the fascinating blood magic theory as well that was suggested by a reviewer, thank you for that angle!
> 
> Aaaah I can't explain how much I enjoy developing the literacy sub-plot in my story! The incident that Alistair is recalling – where he teaches Flora the alphabet – took place all the way back in Chapter 30, All The Words We Speak.
> 
> OK so I know that the chapter title sounds a bit pervo, but it's actually not meant to be, lol. Letters refers to both Flora using her letters to write, and the incriminating note from Loghain… and tongue refers to her common northern accent, which connects her to Loghain and explains why she feels betrayed by him on a personal level. I know that Loghain sounds generic Evil Brit in game, but I headcanon him to have a northern accent that slips through when he's pissed off. He is from Oswin (a northern village) and only got made a teyrn as a reward from Maric, his stock is pure farmer!
> 
> Though I guess the chapter title could also refer to the other type of tongue considering what our Wardens get up to on that poor bearskin hohohoho


	262. The Fourth Day Of The Landsmeet

The next morning they made ready to travel to the Royal Palace once again. The sea mist still hung low over the city, cloaking the slate-roofed buildings like a shroud. The Alamarri plains to the west seemed almost an extension of the ocean itself; completely obscured by rolling grey fog. The noble retinue was preceded by retainers with torches aloft, burning away the mist in a swathe before the tentatively advancing horses. Still, visibility was poor and the great manors rose up out of the fog to either side like mythical behemoths of the sea.

Flora had been duly strapped into her bodice by Leliana, grateful that she had felt only the vaguest twinges of nausea when she had woken. She was perched in the saddle before Alistair, who had been dressed in yet another set of fine clothing that befitted his princely status.

"I hate these formal occasions," he murmured in her ear as they entered the palace grounds. "I can't wait to be alone with you again. That's the best part of my day."

Flora turned her head and smiled at him, wondering at the strange shapes of the trees as they materialised through the fog.

"One more day of evidence," she whispered back, under her breath. "Then tomorrow they'll vote and all the politics will be over."

The slaver's note was tucked inside her shirt, its contents burning her skin with their shamefulness. Despite Loghain's betrayal at Ostagar and his obvious contempt for Cailan as King; there had been a small part of Flora that had believed that  _maybe_ the general truly thought that he was doing the right thing. As a girl raised on northern practicality, she had reluctantly admitted that there was a brutal logic behind Loghain's decision not to send his troops into the valley.

_He knew I wasn't Tranquil. He knew I wasn't Tranquil; and yet not only did he keep it a secret, but he also told Howe that the collar was unnecessary and should be taken off._

But the general's tacit lenience towards the exploitation of the Denerim elves had shocked Flora because she could find no justification in it – it was an action entirely abhorrent.

Even the vast, sprawling structure of the Royal Palace was consumed by the sea-mist. It wasn't until the horses' hooves began to crunch against the gravel on the forecourt that Flora realised that they had arrived. Stable boys, trying to suppress their excitement at the coalescing fog, rushed out to take their horses, calling to each other in low undertones. The miasma was so thick that it obscured the hanging pennants; the colours of both Denerim and Ferelden faded and limp. Only the Theirin scarlet blazed defiantly despite the best attempts of the mist to mask it.

Alistair slid easily down from the saddle, landing with a solid crunch on the gravel. He reached up to help his sister-warden slither more tentatively to the ground, her eyes already moving over the foreboding stone façade of the palace.

The Royal Guards, faces hidden by their closed helms, stood wordlessly to one side as Eamon led the way inside the entrance hall. As she followed in Teagan's wake, Flora reached out to pat the great stone paw of the Mabari that flanked the left-hand side of the entrance.

_Wish me luck, dog._

"You do that each time we enter," said Finian in an undertone. "I've seen you!"

Her brother was clad in lambswool dyed a deep navy, and there were violet shadows beneath his eyes. Flora found herself wondering if Zevran was responsible, and had to stifle a giggle.

"Do you think the other dog will get jealous?" Finian continued, canting his head over his shoulder towards the Mabari's partner on the right side of the door.

"No," Flora replied, shooting her brother a conspiratorial look. "I pat that one when we  _leave_."

The Landsmeet chamber was already almost full, nobles on either side shifting and whispering to each other on the tiered stone ledges. The murmurs increased in fervour as Eamon and his party entered, and there were scattered calls of greeting addressed to  _Prince Alistair._

"An encouraging sign," murmured Leonas to Eamon, and the latter gave a slight nod.

Alistair, who was nearly on the verge of becoming accustomed to such salutations, inclined his head fractionally to acknowledge them. Finding that his teeth were only slightly gritted, he followed in Eamon's wake to their customary position on the front row.

"Look at Mac Tir," Leliana hissed to Flora as they sat down. Flora turned to take in the raised platform at the end of the chamber. The vast shutters were still drawn tightly, obscuring the balcony and the Alamarri plains beyond.

Loghain sat in one of the wooden chairs on the platform, face visibly creased and the beginnings of stubble sprouting across his jaw. The navy shadows beneath his eyes added a new hollowness to his already gaunt features. There was a brittle rigidity to his militaristic posture; as though the general's inner steel had been replaced by some lesser quality ore. The queen was not yet at his side, the throne conspicuously empty; proceedings would not start until she had arrived.

Flora gazed at the general for a moment, the incriminating note resting against her breast. Finally, making up her mind, she leaned across to whisper in Alistair's ear.

"I'll be back in a moment."

She could almost feel Alistair's sudden alarm and the rest of her party bristle as she crossed the Landsmeet chamber towards the raised platform. Her footsteps echoed against the ancient flagstones and Flora realised that a hush had fallen. Still, she kept walking determinedly, her gaze fixed on Loghain. As though sensing her pale stare, he raised his head and looked her square in the eye. If the general was surprised at her approach, no sign of it was apparent in his expression.

Flora came to a halt, gazing up at the wooden railing that guarded the royal platform.

"General- " she began, and then reverted to her northerner's customary lack of formality. "Loghain?"

He gazed down at her for a moment, and then abruptly rose to his feet. With a face set like stone, he descended the three steps that led to the chamber floor; turning to face Flora on an equal level.

"Aye, girl."

Flora took a deep breath, aware of the curious stares blazing between her shoulder-blades.

"I never thanked you for not telling Howe that I wasn't really Tranquil," she said eventually, lifting her soft grey eyes to meet his dark ones. "Thank you. And for – for keeping him away… that night. Thank you for that too."

Loghain said nothing, but inclined his head the slightest fraction, one fading braid brushing against his pauldron.

Flora, now satisfied that the score had been somewhat settled, turned on her heel and returned back to her slightly stunned companions. Alistair was grating his teeth together as though he were trying to grind flour; the conflict writ naked on his handsome features.

"You'll break your teeth if you keep doing that," Flora told him as the chamber dutifully stood for the queen's entrance.

"I can't stand the man!" Alistair retorted in a hissed undertone. "He's a snake."

"I know, but without him, I'd either be properly Tranquil - or dead," Flora whispered back, feeling her brother-warden flinch at the truth of her words.

Anora looked in no better condition than her father, clad in a pale-green dress with luxuriant fur trimmings. She stalked across the room, her jaw tight, and ascended the Royal platform without comment.

The proceedings began as they had done for the previous few days. The mayor of Lothering spoke hesitantly, clutching his cap between his fingers, on his town's destruction by the Darkspawn. He was followed by a travelling dwarven merchant, who swore on the Stone that he had seen a vast winged shape flying over the eastern reaches of the Brecilian Forest.

As he had done for the past sessions, Loghain listened in grim-faced silence, shaking his head slowly back and forth. On occasions he let out a snort, which almost always disconcerted the person giving evidence. They would then lose their train of thought and stumble, their hesitancy undermining their testimony.

After the recess, the stand was taken by two of the refugees that had been attacked by the Darkspawn near South Reach. An elderly woman, supported by her nervous daughter, spoke in trembling tones of the horrors they had fled in the south. Despite the woman's stumbling words and frequent pauses, her story was so chilling that even Loghain failed to interrupt. She spoke of entire fields blackened and corrupted; clouds of poisonous miasma leaving lethal trails of Blight across the land. There were rumours of an army of rotting monsters, numbering in the thousands, carving a tainted swathe through all that stood in their path.

" _Enough!"_ barked Loghain harshly, cutting the woman off as she cringed. "I have seen  _nothing_  to convince me – or the Landsmeet - of your argument, Arl Guerrin. You have presented nothing but baseless rumour and witnesses conveniently gathered by your own hand."

Flora felt Alistair tense beside her, his entire body stiffening in outrage at Loghain's accusation. Surreptitiously, she reached for his hand and let out a little gasp at the pressure with which he returned her grip.

Eamon rose to his feet, face carefully neutral but eyes cold and hard as chips of ice.

"Then how about we talk of tangible things such as _poison_ , Teyrn Mac Tir?" he called, voice echoing to the vaulted ceiling. "I understand that the maleficar Jowan was in  _your_ employ when he cast a blood curse on me."

There was a long, shocked silence. Teagan shifted on the edge of his seat, as though wanting to join his elder brother in the centre of the chamber.

"Again, Arl Guerrin," said Loghain at last, lip curling. "Only baseless  _words._ And – seeing as you are so close to Orlais in all senses of the word – I would not be so quick to trust your testimony."

Flora extracted her fingers from Alistair's hand, feeling her heartbeat thudding within the confines of her ribcage. Reaching into her shirt, she felt for the parchment folded against the skin.

"If words aren't good enough, would you rather something you can hold in your hand?" she interrupted, stepping forward alongside Eamon. "Here."

Flora pulled out the letter and let it unfold, turning it around so that both sides of the chamber could see the distinctive Mac Tir seal.

"If you're so worried about Orlais, why don't you ask your  _Tevinter_  friends for aid?" she continued, gazing up at Loghain as the old betrayal resurfaced in her eyes.

_You're a northerner. You're supposed to have a sound moral compass._

There was a flicker across the general's face at the word  _Tevinter;_ Flora spotted it, and pressed on determinedly.

"This might not be evidence of a Blight, but it's evidence that Loghain is not suitable to lead this country! Unless you  _want_  to be led by a man who permits the sale of Denerim's most vulnerable into slavery by a rival nation."

The atmosphere in the room could have been cut with a blade, it was so taut. Loghain said nothing, but a vein began to pulse at the base of his neck.

"This note – signed and sealed by General Mac Tir – gives permission for elves to be forcibly removed from the alienage and sold into slavery in Minrathous," Flora continued, outraged on the behalf of those that they had not been quick enough to save. "Men, women and children!"

To Flora's relief, her outrage was almost immediately reflected from every direction.

" _Slavery?!"_

"Creating a slave trade with Minrathous?"

"Loghain, is this _true?"_ demanded Bann Reginalda incredulously, rising from her seat with an appalled expression. "You condone the sale of those unfortunate creatures to  _Tevinter,_ of all places?"

Loghain did not reply but sat with a face like stone, while the colour rapidly drained from Anora's fine-boned cheeks.

"If anyone wants to come and check the note for authenticity, they're more than welcome to see it," Flora finished, brandishing the note once more in her fist. "And see how he does not deny it!"

"Outrageous! We are not  _Orlesians,_ we are Fereldan!"

"Did the profits go straight into your own coffers, Mac Tir?"

In the midst of the chaos that she herself had instigated, Flora returned to sit beside Alistair on the front row. He did not look at her, but his fingers crept over hers to claim them; hard and triumphant.

It took a sweating Bann Ceorlic several minutes to regain some semblance of order over the Landsmeet. Proceedings were ended prematurely when Loghain rose abruptly and strode out of the chamber, eyes fixed ahead. Anora followed in his wake, picking up her pale green skirts in her haste.

Immediately a swarm of nobles surged forward to gather around the front row; the note passed between incredulous hands. Leliana, pious in her Chantry robes, solemnly confirmed Flora's story; recanting their disruption of the Tevinter operation.

Although there were a few dissenting voices arguing feebly that the victims had only been  _elves,_ the overwhelming response appeared to be outrage. Fereldan nobility prided themselves on their steadfastness and honest bearing; especially when compared to their Orlesian or Tevinter neighbours. The notion that a Fereldan teyrn could be involved in the distasteful foreign practise of  _slavery_ was abhorrent to many.

More and more eyes turned to Alistair, who sat silent and disapproving, his handsome open face an unspoken reproach to Loghain's underhanded behaviour.

By the time that the nobles began to dissipate, murmuring urgently in small clusters, Flora's stomach was telling her that it was long past dinner time.

To her relief Eamon finally managed to extract their group from the unending barrage of questions; leading the way through the entrance hall and between the two stone Mabari. Flora reached out and dutifully touched the paw of the hound that she had neglected on the way in.

Stepping back out into the fog was like plunging into the depths of the Amaranthine Ocean. Flora almost expected to see fish flitting in and out of the silvered clouds, or eels wriggling around the shrouded tree trunks. She could feel her mass of hair grow heavier as it soaked up the moisture in the atmosphere, borrowing a leather tie from Leliana, she was about to wrestle it into a bun when Alistair emerged from the mist and gripped her by the shoulders.

His olive skin was damp and mottled with flecks of moisture; the mist had flattened his rumpled hair against his skull. Yet his face was as bright as though the sun itself were reflected upon it, and the green specks in his hazel eyes glimmered like fragments of jade.

"My love," he murmured down at her, each word suffused with pride. "You're so  _good_  at this. How do you do it?"

"Dunno."

Leliana snorted as Flora gave a little shrug, inwardly delighted. She had been so rarely lauded for anything other than her healing ability or her looks – neither of which she could take credit for – that this was high praise indeed.

"Aye," interjected Eamon, approaching her as the stable-boys led their horses through the gloom. "Florence, forget the speech that I penned for you for tomorrow. In my own arrogance, I assumed that you would be more comfortable reciting words that I had written. But you have proven yourself more than capable."

Flora bared her teeth in a rictus grin, thinking  _you could have decided this before I memorised an entire four page speech!_

However, any triumph that their party felt on leaving the Palace grounds quickly dissipated when they ventured out into the streets of Denerim. Although the noble district itself was quiet, the great Chantry soaring like a reproachful finger into the mist above their heads, it soon became apparent that several other districts were in turmoil. Shouts, angry cries, and the unique sound of agitated crowds echoed from both the market district and the docks. Several times, they had to withdraw to the side of the road as yet another battalion of guards trooped past; on their way to quell the frightened and restless inhabitants of Denerim.

"This is the third night there's been no watch on the walls," murmured Wynne, her brow creasing as she watched the formation of soldiers pass. "The horde itself could be at the city's doorstep and we wouldn't know it. Not that we could see them anyway, with this fog."

Alistair gritted his teeth, and Flora felt his arms tighten around her waist. She twisted her neck to gaze up at her brother-warden and was startled by the intensity in his face.

"We would know it," Flora offered in an attempt to assuage the senior enchanter's fears. "Alistair and I. We can sense the Darkspawn approaching."

_Or, I can. Alistair couldn't detect the Darkspawn that attacked us in the marshes on the way to Denerim, and they were right beside us._

_Riordan said that he couldn't sense Alistair the way that he sensed me._

_Have you cured him of the taint?! Answer me!_

Her spirit allies were frustratingly silent in response. Flora, scowling, settled back against her brother-warden's chest and tried to push this disconcerting thought from her mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Flora has definitely got a fisherman's sense of superstition, re the touching of the statue's paw.
> 
> Loghain is such an enigmatic character, I wanted to try and communicate that in my story. Flo is definitely very confused by him, haha.
> 
> The taint being weakened in Alistair's blood by his repeated exposure to Flora (lol in all senses of the word) is going to have some pretty significant implications for plot points in the future! Also, the mist is important, the fog is important! Not long now...


	263. The Grey Wardens' Cache

Once their company had arrived back at the Guerrin manor, Leonas and Fergus took their leave to discuss the upcoming arrangements for retaking Highever. The stable-lads took charge of their horses, pulling surreptitious cheeky faces at one another through the mist.

To Flora's visible delight, Eamon assured her that dinner would be on the verge of being served. Unfortunately, once they passed into the entrance hall, the smell of roasting meat assaulted her nostrils. She immediately felt her stomach curdle even as Alistair let out an appreciative groan of pleasure, nudging her in the ribcage.

"Smell that, Flo? That's fine Fereldan beef! Best quality in Thedas."

"Ah, Alistair, have you not tried Orlesian veal?" Leliana interjected eagerly, handing her damp travelling cloak to a servant. "It is so tender; it practically melts in your mouth!"

Meanwhile Flora was inhaling great gulps of air into her lungs, willing herself not to be sick.

_You weren't just content with hating chicken, were you?!_ she thought fiercely to the creature clinging to her insides. _Now you've decided that you don't like beef, either!_

_You had better leave me fish, or we're going to have a serious problem._

Fortunately, her attention was diverted by the small group waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. Riordan, dressed in the nondescript leathers he wore to avoid attention on the streets, was pacing back and forth impatiently. His greying hair was restrained in a ponytail, and good eating had restored much of the strength drained during his captivity.

Beside him, waiting patiently, were the three emissaries that the Wardens had gathered on their journeys; Pether, Fellhammer and the silent Dalish elf, Caron, who kept casting suspicious glances up at the lofty stone ceiling.

Leliana shot Flora a little glance from the tail of her eye. On seeing that their young healer looked distinctly queasy, the bard swept forward with a smile, ushering the three emissaries swiftly into a side-chamber and closing the door behind them.

"Young sister," said Riordan, covering the length of the hall in a handful of strides. "Alistair."

It was a greeting that Flora was still accustomed to hearing from Duncan and she flinched inwardly, feeling a tiny jolt of sadness.

"After you've eaten, could you both meet me in my quarters? I'm in the eastern passage," the senior Warden continued; and it was clearly an instruction rather than a request.

Alistair glanced at Flora, who sported an odd expression borne from both nausea and nostalgia.

"Of course, ser. Flo?"

He nudged her gently and Flora nodded like a marionette, still trying to quash the sinister roiling of her stomach.

"Yes, that's fine," she whispered, pressing the heel of her hand hard into her belly. "I don't have much of an appetite."

"You're not hungry?"

Alistair looked oddly at her; Flora saw the heads of Wynne, Teagan, Finian and Eamon turning in simultaneous warning. The senior enchanter's pale blue eyes flared at Flora, her message clear.

_**He must not suspect.** _

Flora took a deep breath and bared her teeth at Alistair, swallowing the nausea back down into her belly.

"I mean, I don't have an appetite for politics," she explained, smiling in a slightly manic fashion. "But it'll take more than a Landsmeet to put me off my dinner!"

Fortunately, Flora's stomach seemed to settle itself as they took their seats down the long table. She sat beside Alistair, who kept one hand on her knee as he absentmindedly forked up food with the other; wondering out loud what Riordan wanted to discuss with them.

On Flora's other side, Wynne conversed enthusiastically with Oghren, the unlikely pair having discovered a shared passion for dwarven ruby mead. Leliana's chair sat conspicuously empty for the majority of the meal; the bard finally joining them with a little moue of apology as the dessert platters were being brought out.

Teagan, who had saved her a plate of food, slid it across the wooden surface . Leliana flashed him a sweet smile of gratitude, nibbling delicately at a leg of chicken as her purposeful eyes sought out Flora's own. This proved to be rather difficult since Flora was trying to avoid looking directly at any nausea-inducing meat; instead gazing vacantly up at the ceiling beams.

Finally, the bard resorted to swinging the toe of her fuchsia silk slipper into Flora's calf. Flora yelped, the sound disguised by Oghren's well-timed chortle of laughter, and glowered across at the bard. Leliana caught her eye, and gave a slight nod. Flora blinked, feeling a little twist of apprehension deep in her abdomen.

Alistair had asked Eamon about the procedure of tomorrow's vote; the arl downed his tankard of ale and let the corner of his mouth twist upwards.

"The Landsmeet will open in the afternoon, and final addresses will be given by both Loghain and ourselves. I suggest that Florence gives our closing statement, since she has publicly challenged the general on several occasions now."

Flora, attention caught at the mention of her name, swallowed.

"Then," the arl continued, dabbing at his wiry beard with a square of linen. "The nobles will vote on whom they choose to support."

"What happens if we win?" Alistair asked, knowing already that he was too young to participate – one had to be at least twenty-one to cast a vote.

"Loghain will be arrested," his uncle replied, tucking the linen back into his tunic. "Anora will have to give up her crown and retire to the teyrn's apartments. And you'll be acknowledged as the heir-apparent."

Alistair inclined his head slightly, and Flora heard him swallow. His fingers moved from her knee across to her hand and she dutifully fish-roped him, giving his calloused palm a firm squeeze.

"Right," her brother-warden said at last, and Flora was proud of the steadiness in his voice. "And… what if we lose?"

A grim-faced Eamon glanced at Teagan; the younger Guerrin brother answered in his senior's stead.

"Loghain will probably call for all our arrests. Flora, your brothers might be able to avoid imprisonment – possibly – and if so, they should retire to Highever. Make an attempt to organise a defence against the Darkspawn without the aid of the Royal Army."

Flora scowled, glancing across the table at the rapidly paling Finian.

"There's not a prison cell that could hold me," she retorted, fingers tightening around Alistair's. "I can break Fort Drakon apart for a second time if needs be."

"I will suggest that Zevran not accompany us tomorrow," Leliana murmured softly, pouring herself a glass of wine. "He can assist with any… liberating that needs doing."

"Eamon," Finian asked, summoning up some semblance of a steady tone. "Do you think the vote will go in our favour? We'll need a convincing majority to usurp Loghain."

The Arl of Redcliffe gave a shrug, the corner of his mouth twisting ruefully.

"We've made a strong argument, but Mac Tir was right when he said that all we had to show for our case was words. Ultimately, he is a teyrn, and a war hero. They may choose to go with what they know, for Loghain is familiar; and it is often human nature to go with what is easy as opposed to what is right."

Flora leaned back in her seat and gave a classic Herring grunt that succinctly expressed her disgust.

"Well, I'll just have to be very persuasive tomorrow then, won't I?" she muttered, feeling Alistair's fingers clench around hers.

After dinner, both Flora and Alistair made their way up to the eastern corridor; Oghren accompanying them as far as his own quarters. The Wardens continued on, Alistair wondering out loud which of the identical wooden doors belonged to Riordan.

"This one," said Flora, sensing the prickling nearness of the senior Warden at the base of her skull. She rapped her fist against the door and it swung open, obediently.

The chamber was far narrower and plainer than the one that had been assigned to Alistair. A single bed rested along one wall, opposite a small hearth that was little more than a grate.

The space seemed even more cramped due to the large chests that had been shoved against the far wall, each one bearing signs of being hastily dropped in place. They were wooden and nondescript; their only distinguishing mark being a small silver griffon engraved on the lock.

"Are those- " started Alistair, and Riordan cut him off with a brief nod.

"Aye, lad, they're from the Wardens' cache. I've heard that our young sister was lacking in adequate protection and I found these in the battlemage supplies."

He strode over to one chest and raised the lid, revealing a tangle of blue and silver.

Flora nodded, remembering the motley collection of armour she had been hastily assigned at Ostagar; the majority of which had clearly once belonged to a male dwarf.

"Thank the Maker," Alistair breathed, delighted to see the familiar livery of the Wardens. "Flo needs some proper garb for the field. She's been going into battle dressed in shirt and breeches."

Riordan reached into the chest and began to unpack its contents onto the bed. A variety of breastplates, tunics and spaulders soon decorated the blanket, each piece severely in need of a polish.

"I'm assuming that some of these were designed for females," he murmured, placing a winged helmet atop the pillow. "The Wardens used to have more women, back in the day, although not many as youthful as you."

Flora picked up the winged helm and tried it on, grimacing as the cold metal band weighed heavily on her ears.

"Is this meant for protection or decoration?" she asked dubiously, reaching up to touch the vulnerable crown of her skull. "It looks like it's just supposed to put wings on your head. I don't understand the point. Heads don't fly."

Riordan snorted, leaving Flora to rummage through more of the armour as he went to open a second chest.

"Some of it is ceremonial," he replied, sliding a small silver key into the lock.

"Where's all the trousers?" Flora breathed in confusion as Alistair held up a heavy mail tunic against her chest. "I can see lots of chestplates, and gloves, and helmets… but no trousers. Am I supposed to go into battle with my thighs out?"

Flora shot her brother-warden a plaintive look, to which he responded with a helpless shrug.

"I'm not fighting the Archdemon with no trousers on," she said finally, sitting down on the bed with a metallic clatter.

"A-ha!"

Riordan's voice rumbled across the room as he finally uncovered what he had been searching for. Turning, he handed a large, flat object wrapped in cloth over to Alistair.

"Here."

"For me?" Alistair replied, brows rising as he felt the solid weight of it. "But it's not my birthday until the end of next month!"

His joviality drained away as he let the cloth fall, holding up a shield of navy blue steel. It was decorated with a silvered griffon in the centre, its paws raised in wilful defiance.

"It used to belong to Duncan, when we were both junior recruits," murmured Riordan, watching Alistair's face closely. "When he came to prefer wielding a sword in each hand, he left the shield in the cache here for safe-keeping. It's fitting that you should have it."

Flora, all thoughts of trousers vanished, gazed up at her brother-warden with her heart throbbing painfully against her ribs. Alistair was standing motionless; resembling one of the handsome Tevinter statues that guarded the ruins of their ancient structures.

Slowly, as though in a dream, he reached down and ran a thumb over the raised outline of the griffon. Swallowing hard, he looked up and met Riordan's knowing, dark stare.

"Thank you, ser," Alistair said very quietly, his voice distant. "I-I can't say how much this means to me."

Riordan nodded stiffly, and there was silence for a long moment.

"I don't suppose there were any trousers in that second chest?" Flora asked hopefully, her plaintive inquiry breaking the odd tension.

Alistair grinned down at her, making a wilful effort to blink back the dampness in the corners of his eyes.

To Flora's relief, the Orlesian bard soon swept in and took charge of the situation; assuring Riordan that she, Leliana, would be able to find something suitable for Flora far more efficiently than Flora herself would.

Delighted at being excused, Flora followed Alistair back out into the eastern corridor. Her brother-warden was silent as they traversed the passageways, clutching the shield to his chest with trembling fingers.

The servants had seen to their chamber already; the hearth had been built up and the shutters drawn against the foggy gloom. They had also arranged the furs and blankets on the bed, piling them high and inviting against the cushions.

Flora, who had intended to read another entry of Exotic Fish of Thedas, suddenly found herself so tired that she could barely keep her eyes open. Fingers clumsy with fatigue pulled at the strings of her bodice and fumbled with the buttons of the shirt underneath.

All in all, it took Flora twice as long as usual to get undressed and into her nightshirt. Eyes half-closed, she pulled back what seemed to be an excessive amount of furs and slumped face-down onto the mattress with a grunt.

"'listair?" she mumbled into a cushion, turning her head to peer through the shadows at her brother-warden.

Alistair was sitting in the armchair before the hearth, the shield propped on his lap. The firelight flickered over the silver griffon, until it seemed almost as though it were moving against the navy steel.

"I'll be there in a moment, sweetheart," he replied, voice low and distant as he gazed at Duncan's shield.

Flora tried to keep herself awake but the sedative qualities of the perfumed cedar-wood and warm furs soon proved too much. She fell asleep several minutes later, curled up like a lobster inside a nest of blankets.

She was woken by heated breath against her neck and pressure on her hips; her brother-warden whispering urgently into her ear.

"Flo? Are you awake?"

Alistair's hand slid to the hem of her nightshirt, pushing it several inches higher. Calloused fingers stole between her legs, stroking the inside of her thighs.

"Mmgh," Flora mumbled, feeling her dozing body slowly respond to his hopeful caresses. "Mm."

She arched her hips sleepily towards his fingers, unable to suppress a whimper as he began to stimulate her expertly with the rough ball of his thumb.

By the time that he entered her, she was more than ready for him; arms circling around his neck as he sunk himself inside her with a groan. They moved together with slow, sleepy purpose, rocking against each other in a rhythm refined through extensive practise. He murmured loving obscenities in Flora's ear while driving in deep, lingering thrusts between her thighs; using a crudeness of language that he would not dream of using outside the bedchamber. He made suggestions to her that made Flora blush, but also squirm with shy curiosity, wondering who had informed him of such unconventional practises.

"No one," he whispered when she asked him, increasing the speed and urgency of his thrusts. "I just want- I just want to do everything with you. To you."

When Flora finally climaxed he ground into her for the duration; still relentlessly seeking the peak of his own pleasure. Eventually he let out a shuddering groan, lips drawing back over bared teeth as his shoulder-blades trembled uncontrollably.

Almost immediately afterwards a limp-boned Alistair rolled off Flora and brought her against his sweaty chest.

"I love you," he said, the words coming out in a breathless gasp. "Maker's Breath, how I love you."

"I love you too," replied Flora sleepily, the words interspersed with a yawn. "More than… more than the Waking Sea."

Alistair's breath caught in his throat; from Flora, this was high praise indeed. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, proud and possessive.

"No matter what the outcome is at the Landsmeet tomorrow," he murmured, sliding his fingers between hers. "I'm not letting you go, sweetheart. Just let them try and part us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OOOH so it's the final day of the Landsmeet tomorrow! Voting time!
> 
> So this is how I've introduced the Wardens' cache, with Riordan having all the stuff hauled into the Guerrin manor and sorting through it. Flora complaining about the lack of trousers is meant to be a call out to all the highly unsuitable female fantasy armour, which thinks that it is somehow acceptable to go into battle with thighs out? You know how many arteries there are at the top of the thighs?! Anyway, never fear, she's not going into battle with her legs out, lol


	264. The Landsmeet Vote

The next morning dawned with tendrils of sunlight punctuating the sea-mist. After three days of fog cloaking both city and the surrounding Alamarri plains, the salt-tinged miasma was finally beginning to abate. The city guard had been occupied throughout the night with quelling the sporadic bursts of unrest that had broken out in the market and docks.

After waking, Alistair had been whisked off into Eamon's chamber to be sufficiently prepared for this last, vital day of the Landsmeet. Wynne and Leliana soon arrived to perform the same duties for Flora. The latter was carrying a heavy travel cloak, under which several bulky garments were obscured.

"Have you thought about what you're going to say for the final statement yet?" Wynne asked, reaching out to grip their young Cousland's damp arm as she clambered over the edge of the copper tub.

"No," replied Flora honestly, wringing out her hair. "I don't really plan what I'm going to say before anything."

Wynne raised an eyebrow and was about to make a chiding comment, before a rueful smile crept over her face.

"Well, child, it seems to have worked well enough in the past," she admitted begrudgingly.

The senior enchanter sunk into the armchair beside the hearth, watching the girl wrap up her hair in a square of linen. Once the red tangles been somewhat restrained, Flora turned to Leliana with a naked plea on her face.

"I need to look older," she said, bluntly. "And serious. Like I… mean business. Can you help me? Also, did you find  _trousers?"_

Leliana smiled at her, anxiety deepening the hue of her pale blue eyes.

"You're sure that you're not going to be sick again?"

Flora, who had already expelled the contents of her stomach twice that morning, swallowed and gave a small nod.

"I'm sure. Wait,  _almost_  sure."

The bard sighed but acquiesced, gesturing for Flora to join her by the bed where a number of items had been laid out on the furs.

"Alright,  _ma chérie._ Let's start strapping you up."

As it turned out, Leliana's sharp eyes had managed to deduce what would fit Flora's form almost perfectly. Together, bard and senior enchanter managed to manoeuvre Flora into the various pieces of Warden battlemage armour, tightening buckles and pulling straps until the slight swell of her abdomen was entirely obscured. Flora gritted her teeth and bore the discomfort in silence, only piping up occasionally to insist on  _trousers_.

Finally, Leliana stood back with a little beam of pride, clapping her hands as Flora turned to face the mirror.

" _C'est parfait, ma chérie."_

Flora stared at herself, eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. The Warden griffon was emblazoned on a slender silverite breastplate that crossed her chest. It fitted neatly over the top of a tunic that dropped in the distinctive silver and blue stripes below, and rose in unforgiving navy sternness around her neck in a high collar. Dark brown gloves reached up past her elbows, to match the boots that extended several inches over her knees. Leliana had found a pair of dark navy leather leggings that fit so tight to the skin that it took two of them to pull them on; yet Flora was inordinately grateful for their presence.

"I look like a  _real_  Warden," she said at last, voice quiet in disbelief as Leliana removed the linen square from her head.

" _Oui, ma crevette,"_ murmured Leliana, wrestling the comb through hair that had been dried before the fire. "Now, for the final touch. Kneel down."

Brushing Flora's hair until it gleamed like raw burgundy silk, Leliana gathered it up in a fist and gestured Wynne over. The two women spoke for some time over the merits of  _up_  versus  _down_ ; while Flora knelt patiently on the bearskin with her head suspended by Leliana's hand.

Finally, they came to a compromise. Flora's hair was tied in a high ponytail on top of her head, and left to fall between her shoulder-blades in a full, oxblood stream.

"Like a banner," Leliana said proudly, helping Flora scramble to her feet. "A pennant of victory."

"Do I look convincing?" Flora asked the bard, swallowing against the high navy collar of her tunic. "Like I could lead an army?"

" _Ma chérie,"_ Leliana murmured, adjusting the tunic a fraction. "You look like you could lead a  _country_."

Their healer wrinkled her nose, and Wynne clicked her tongue in warning.

"Just don't pull any expression like  _that_."

Flora nodded, letting her face settle into its usual customary solemnity.

"Right," she whispered, taking a deep breath and swallowing her nerves. "Let's go and see the others."

At the top of the main stairs, they ran into Teagan. He had been adjusting his sleeves and gazing up at the Guerrin family portrait; but when he swung his eyes towards Flora, he nearly fell over the balustrade.

"Flora!"

"I've got trousers on," Flora said hastily, and heard Leliana groan under her breath. "Well, I  _do_. I just want people to be aware of that."

Teagan abruptly closed his mouth, realising that he was gawping.

"Doesn't she look the part?" Leliana said proudly, nudging Flora forward.

The bann nodded wordlessly, a flush creeping up from the fur-edged collar of his tunic.

" _The others- "_

The words came out several pitches higher than usual. Teagan coughed, cleared his throat and started again in a strangled semblance of his normal tone.

"The others are waiting with the horses outside."

Flora reached out to pat the painted Connor gently on the head with her gloved fingers as she passed; she hoped that he had settled in adequately at the Circle.

Teagan coughed once more, falling into step beside her as they descended to the entrance hall. Flora, hearing the thickness in the bann's throat, eyed him with mild concern.

"Are you sick? Do you need me to heal you?" she offered, helpfully. "I can't cure colds, though."

"I don't need healing, pet," Teagan muttered under his breath, beads of sweat forming beneath the strands of russet hair on his forehead. "I'm just – more accustomed to you dressed in shirt and breeches."

"Mm," Flora acknowledged as the guard at the door stood aside hastily to let them pass. "I wish I  _were_  in my shirt and breeches. But I want the Landsmeet to see me like this."

The fog was dissipating by the hour, tendrils of stubborn mist clinging to gutters and lead-lined roofs. The air tasted crisp and salty, the tang of seaweed pervading the air as the incoming tide lapped gently at the dock.

The rest of their party had assembled, and to Flora's delight, all of her companions had answered Leliana's summons. Oghren was sneaking a surreptitious gulp from a hip-flask; Sten and Morrigan stood at opposite ends of the crowd and sported identical bored expressions. Wynne, bundled up in a cloak, was already mounted on a pale grey mare. Zevran was flirting idly with a curious adolescent stable-lad, his eyes drifting elsewhere even as his lips shaped witty retorts.

Flora's brothers stood alongside Eamon and Leonas, the former adjusting a stirrup with nervous fingers. The Arl of Redcliffe, most experienced in Fereldan politics, knew that he would pay dearly if the Landsmeet ruled against them.

Letting his horse's hoof drop from where he had been inspecting it, Flora's brother-warden stood alone in the centre of the crowd. He had been dressed in tawny fur-edged leather, in a deliberate effort to ape the style of the old King. In truth, Alistair and Maric were so alike in feature that Alistair could have been clad in one of Flora's nightgowns and still be mistaken for his father.

"Sorry for the delay," came Leliana's voice from behind, the bard's Chantry robes sweeping the flagstones as she stepped forward.

"We were just about to send Finn to look for you- " started Fergus, then cut himself off mid-sentence.

The others turned their heads, curious to see what had interrupted the teyrn's train of thought. As their eyes fell on Flora, they gaped; and she gazed back at them with her pale, solemn face impassive. Only Morrigan appeared unaffected, snorting quietly to herself as she stretched her arms above her head.

"What?" Flora said vaguely, when the silence became unbearable.

One horse shifted its hoof and trod on the booted toe of Leonas. The arl barely registered the sensation, his mouth working silently.

"Flo," breathed Alistair after a moment, his eyes wide as copper coins. "I haven't seen you dressed like that since… well. Since Cailan put you in his guard at Ostagar."

"Do I look silly?" Flora asked, suddenly anxious. "I'm not used to wearing all this."

"You look like a queen," replied Leonas bluntly, adjusting the length of his stirrup in an effort to distract herself. "But one who also leads armies."

Nobody spoke as they made their way through the noble district towards the palace grounds. The mist was slowly rolling itself out to sea, retreating like a shy bride drawing back her veil.

The older nobles were familiar with the naturally cautious nature of their Fereldan peers. They knew that - despite all the evidence presented and Flora's impassioned speeches - the Landsmeet tended to prefer the familiar to the unknown; and Loghain had made a persuasive argument. After all, no Archdemon had been spotted from Denerim's city walls, no Darkspawn horde had come surging forth from the estuary.

Both arls also understood well the cost that they would pay for supporting the Wardens' cause if they failed to gain the Landsmeet vote. To this end, several of Flora's companions would remain outside the Landsmeet chamber, in case a quick escape needed to be facilitated. Leonas, Fergus, and the Guerrin brothers had already discussed contingency plans in case the vote did not go in their favour.

Alistair was also pensive, clutching the reins in one expert hand as he stretched his other arm around his sister-warden's waist. A myriad of emotions had kept him awake for hours; Alistair knew full-well what victory in the Landsmeet would mean for him personally. Every so often, he pressed a kiss against the top of Flora's head, as though to reassure himself that she was still there.

Flora, however, was not thinking on the Landsmeet or on its possible outcomes. With a northerner's rationale instilled deep in her bones, she did not see the value in idle speculation, and so distracted herself by counting the fishing boats on the nearby estuary. Flora was well aware that their cause now rested solely on her shoulders; yet she was a Herring girl, and Herring girls were sturdy and not easily cowed. She leaned her cheek against her brother-warden's leather clad chest, letting the choppy green surface of the Amaranthine waters cleanse her thoughts.

Almost before she had realised it, they had arrived at the Royal Palace. Stable-lads, chattering to each other in excited undertones, took their mounts as they gathered before the ancient doors. The castle seemed larger and somehow more foreboding than usual, the towering crenelated battlements no longer softened by a crowning wreath of fog.

The senior nobles were quiet; faces set with grim determination as they removed their travel cloaks and handed them to subdued retainers.

Flora turned to her companions, who were gazing at her with expressions ranging from studied nonchalance to open anxiety. Oghren was gnawing the drooping ends of his moustache, the gingery braids thoroughly soggy.

"Don't worry," Flora whispered surreptitiously in an attempt to reassure the dwarf. "I can be very persuasive."

She glanced sideways at Leliana, who was smoothing both palms over her Chantry robes to flatten a persistent crease. The bard caught her eye and gave a slight nod.

"Aye, lass. I remember yeh speakin' in front of the  _deshyr,"_ Oghren replied, although his expression remained distinctly troubled. "I know yeh got a silvered tongue."

"If the pretender makes an attempt to arrest you, call out," instructed Sten, his face impassive as ever. "I will part his head from his shoulders."

"Get in line," murmured Alistair in response, his eyes already distant and focused on what was to come.

Flora smiled at Sten, turning her head to take in the motley collection who had accompanied them on their journeys across Thedas. Her gaze settled last on Zevran, who gave her a wink that did not quite disguise the concern embedded deep within his black Antivan eyes.

"Don't worry," she replied, shifting from foot to foot and adjusting the high collar of the tunic as it rose around her neck. "If they do try and arrest me, I won't go quietly."

"It's time."

Eamon's voice cut across them; the Arl of Redcliffe standing rigidly beside the doorway.

The entrance hall was filled with servants and various retainers, yet there was no sign of their masters and mistresses. The nobles had already gathered inside the Landsmeet chamber in preparation for what was to come, aware that the vote cast today would inextricably shape Ferelden for the foreseeable future.

Flora reached out and duly patted the Mabari's paw as they passed; their party dwarfed by the vastness of the hall as they strode towards the ancient Landsmeet doors.

Just before they entered Fergus gave a gesture of pause to Eamon, turning to Flora and placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Whatever happens in there today," he said, in a low and urgent tone. "You're my little sister, and I won't let anything happen to you. No one will put you back in a Circle – or worse – while I'm alive to stop it."

Flora smiled up at her eldest brother, oddly touched. She bowed her head to show her gratitude, and heard Fergus inhale unsteadily.

Then Alistair was stepping up to take his place at her side, so they could lead the way in together. Flora did not need to look at him to know that his face was set hard and uncompromising as granite; his chin high and his shoulders back. She straightened herself until her posture matched his, and felt his quick, urgent glance like a lick of flame across her skin.

_**They're all worried.** _

_Well, they shouldn't be._

There was a strange, almost electric atmosphere in the Landsmeet chamber; the nobles sitting straight-backed and rigid on the ascending tiers to either side. The iron rings suspended from the ceiling blazed above their heads, casting pools of shifting amber light on the flagstones. At the far end of the chamber, the vast shutters were still drawn tightly shut; obscuring the balcony and Alamarri plains beyond.

For the first time, Loghain and Anora were there to greet them. Mac Tir was in full armour, a greatsword propped at his side in defiance of Landsmeet custom. His eyes blazed like dark coals in a sallow, ashen complexion as he stood to greet them; although there was no respect in the gesture. Beside him, Anora sat as rigid as a day-dead corpse, clad from head to toe in scarlet-dyed lambswool.

"It's been a while since I've seen you dressed in such attire, Lady Cousland," Loghain called across the chamber, his northerner's flat vowels shaping each syllable. "I hope that you're not too  _uncomfortable_."

"The opposite, actually," retorted Flora, wondering at how familiar the general's voice sounded. "Does it not fit me well?"

She held out her arms to illustrate, and duly received murmurs of appreciation from the tiers to either side. Loghain narrowed his eyes at her and Flora shot him a deliberately bland smile in return.

Her party took their seat along the front row, and Flora was about to join them; when the general directed a command between her shoulder blades.

" _Wait."_

Flora paused, feeling the eyes of her noble companions fall on her. Inhaling, she turned around and returned to the centre of the chamber; feeling a little like a prisoner on trial.

_**Ready?** _

_I think so._

_**No room for doubt, child.** _

_Yes, I'm ready._

Loghain had descended from the raised platform, crossing the flagstones to face her on an even keel. Flora gazed at him, letting her face's natural solemnity create a mask of ambiguity over her features.

"I want to get this farce over with as quickly as possible," the general hissed, clenching a gloved fist as though about to strike her.

Flora almost wanted him to make a swing for her so that she could send him somersaulting through the air with her expanding shield. However, Loghain merely used his fist to gesticulate as he paced around her, like a tiger closing in on some hapless prey.

"This worthless diversion has already taken up far too much of my time," he snarled, voice curling low and dangerous. "I should be organising the defence of our borders, sending troops to scout the south. Making sure that the damage caused by our previous King's wanton recklessness has not made us vulnerable to Orlesian incursion."

_Still going on about Orlais?_ thought Flora slightly incredulously, hoping that her face had remained neutral.

"My lords and ladies of the Landsmeet," Loghain called, drawing upon the imperious command of his natural voice. "I ask you to go by the evidence of your eyes, which cannot be beguiled by elaborate tales. What do you see presented here before you, but some ragtag collection of motley individuals? A pair of Grey Wardens recruits – a notoriously traitorous order – with barely a year of experience between them? Travelling in the company of elves, witches and  _Qunari?"_

Despite the fact that Flora had just been thinking the same thing about her eclectic collection of companions; hearing Loghain enunciate it out loud in contemptuous tones was enough to make her bristle. She narrowed her eyes at him, lifting her chin in silent reproval.

"Yes, she is _persuasive_  with her tongue, so I'm not surprised that she has won so many noble peers to her cause- "

As Loghain continued, Flora felt her blood slowly begin to boil at his deliberate insinuation.

_**Don't react. Pretend to be Tranquil, blank face, blank mind. He's trying to disconcert you.** _

"Aye, even King Cailan was… much taken with you at Ostagar," Loghain continued, derision curdling each accusatory word. "I'm rather surprised that you did not – to my knowledge, anyway - defy your commander's sanction and visit the Royal tent, considering your predilection for members of that family."

_I'm a Tranquil, don't respond._

Flora thought on Cailan's unimpressed face when he had first sought her out at Ostagar. She had been unwashed, stuffing her face with a sandwich and dressed in clothing meant for a male dwarf.

"You have shown your full hand, Florence Cousland, and it is a  _poor_  one," Loghain finished, his dark eyes blazing. "The lords of Ferelden will not be beguiled by a pretty face and a silvered tongue."

Silence fell over the Landsmeet chamber and Loghain stepped back, breathing hard and triumphant. Flora did not look at her noble companions, who she knew would be sitting rigid and dread-filled in the front row.

Instead, she let her eyes drift across to Leliana, sitting on the row behind. The bard inclined her head almost imperceptibly, in a gesture unnoticed by anybody else in the chamber.

Feeling the heat of a hundred stares on her neck, Flora returned her gaze to Loghain. For a brief moment, she felt almost sorry for him; recalling that he had once been named hero of Ferelden and friend of Maric himself.

"For someone who doesn't believe in words, you just used quite a lot of them," she said, the mildness of her tone in stark contrast to Loghain's blistering invective. "I liked your reference to Wicked Grace, though. My brother Finian taught me how to play – and he told me to always keep a card up your sleeve."

She paused, feeling the atmosphere in the room heighten. The attention of Ferelden's oldest families was entirely fixed on her, a girl from a nondescript fishing village on the northern coastline.

"On the other hand, my dad – the man who raised me - was a fisherman, and would never have played card games," Flora said, thoughtfully, raising her eyes to the blazing iron ring overhead. "He was a poor man, and we had little at home. He never used to buy anything – he would scavenge what he could, and… craft whatever tools he needed. General Mac Tir should understand this very well, since his father was a poor man too."

Flora could feel the confusion of her party behind her, and felt a little sorry for them. Eamon had clearly been expecting some classic Cousland vitriol to be spat across the chamber; not a monologue extolling the lifestyle of a Herring peasant. She raised her voice slightly as she continued, returning her eyes to Loghain. He was gazing at her with naked confusion, and she almost wanted to laugh.

"Since we lived on the northern coast, my dad would build what tools he needed from the wreckage washed up on the beach. A fisherman doesn't wait for somebody to  _give_  him a rod after all; he crafts his own."

She paused, and the assembly waited for her to continue with baited breath. When she remained silent, startled murmurs broke out amongst the tiers, glances darting from side to side.  _Is that it?_ they whispered, incredulous.  _Is that her closing speech?_

Flora smiled up at Loghain and he blinked at her, the edges of his mouth curling with mingled suspicion and derision.

"Is that  _it?!"_ he demanded, hoarsely, reflecting the general consensus of the chamber.

"Well," she replied, giving a small shrug. "You said that you were fed up with hearing words."

There was a long, drawn-out silence and Flora could not bear to look around at her noble companions.

_**Wait for it.** _

The pause extended and she could feel beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead.

_**Wait.** _

Then, to Flora's immense relief, there came a desperate hammering at the great, sealed entrance. The nobles startled, looking reflexively amongst themselves.

"It is not protocol to open the doors during a session!" hissed Bann Ceorlic, pulling at the sweaty neck of his tunic.

The hall waited, with baited breath. The hammering continued.

"General! General Mac Tir!" came the cry from the other side of the doors, as the pounding increased in urgency.  _"Please!"_

Finally, Loghain gave an impatient nod and Bann Ceorlic went to the entrance, muttering darkly under his breath.

A messenger, red-faced and gasping, stumbled inside.

"An army- " he croaked, clearly having run all the way up from the city walls. "There's an  _army_ on the Alamarri Plains!"

There was absolute, utter silence; a span of several seconds where nobody breathed and hearts seized rigid in chests.

"Three armies, actually," corrected Flora, helpfully. She resisted the urge to add,  _surprise!_

Loghain shot her a single, incredulous look and then strode back up onto the Royal platform; a flush gradually creeping upwards from his plated collar. Shoving away the guards who attempted to help him, the general alone struggled to pull back the vast wooden shutters masking the view of the plains to the west of the city.

Finally, with a grunt and a strangled curse, he wrenched the shutters aside and the raw light of day spilled into the ancient Landsmeet chamber.

Beyond the city walls, the Alamarri plains were no longer obscured by sea-mist. Instead, their wide expanse appeared covered in shadow; a darkness which soon coalesced into a discernible mass.

Three separate armies – their numbers totalling in the thousands – were encamped on the low rise, with tents and horses and siege weaponry; all the associated detritus of war surrounding them. A rainbow array of pennants and banners fluttered above them; the flags of Orzammar stood at one end, surrounded by hulking ballistas, and the leaf-edged embroidered trellis of the Dalish at the other. Several tents of command had been set up at the centre of the milieu, but the highest flagpole of all stood empty and expectant.

_**It waits for the silver griffon.** _

Flora did not look back at her noble companions. She did not even spare an overlong glance at the armies that had responded to the summons sent by her and Leliana on their departure from South Reach.

Instead, she turned back to Loghain and let the damning Highever rage that Eamon had been counting on spill over into her words; raising her voice and letting her distinctive northern cadences echo to the vaulted ceiling.

"You left us with  _wreckage_  at Ostagar!" she howled at Loghain, letting her anger lash across the room like a sharpened blade. "But from that wreckage, I have built a weapon strong enough to defend this land from the Darkspawn.  _And I need no one's permission to wield it!"_

Flora wheeled around, suddenly very bored of politics, and council chambers, and inimitable discussion. Just before she reached the exit, she turned once more; hurling her words into the breathless chamber and specifically towards the white-faced Loghain.

"A fisherman crafts his  _own_  tools, General Mac Tir!"

And so the child of Herring and Highever took her leave of the Landsmeet, sailing from the chamber with her chin held high.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ahhh this was a fun chapter to write, haha! All the way back in chapter 189, Flora and Leliana went up to the South Reach rookery to send off her official summons to the far corners of Ferelden, lol. Flora – who has no experience or patience for politics – basically thought I don't give a shit what the Landsmeet decides, I've built this army and I'm going to use it. In a way, she's forcing the Landsmeet's hand, lol – a bit like Caesar crossing the Rubicon, haha. Leliana, naturally, was in on it the whole time and has been the one doing the majority of the communication/coordination.
> 
> Anyway, this is why the sea mist of the past few days was important – it disguised the armies emerging from the hills of the Bannorn to decamp on the Alamarri Plains.
> 
> I think this is one of my favourite speeches I've ever written for Flo, lol. I also like the fact that she's finally got dressed up in proper Warden gear for the first time since Ostagar – she usually just slobs around in a baggy shirt and breeches.
> 
> And there's a nice bit of synchrony with what Fergus says outside the Landsmeet chamber – that, no matter what happens, he won't allow his sister to be put in a Circle. Since he was the one that reacted with horror and dismay on the discovery that she was a mage, all those years ago!


	265. The Attainted General

The doors to the Landsmeet chamber swung shut behind Flora, muffling the immediate commotion that sprung up in her wake. The entrance hall was near-deserted, many of the retainers having gone to tend to horses or to wait in the servants' quarters. Royal Guards, their helm-covered faces impassive, lined the wall at regular intervals, still and silent as mannequins.

Flora took several steps forward, and then faltered. Despite her initial intention to see the armies in the flesh _,_  she had no idea how to actually get _down_  to the Alamarri plains; which extended for miles to the west of the city. She did not even know  _how_  to procure a horse – their mounts seemed to magically appear whenever Eamon was present, the stable boys summoned by some mysterious unspoken arrangement.

Unsure how to proceed, Flora wandered over to a bench that sat beneath a large tapestry of King Calenhad and a loyal Mabari. Letting out a little sigh, she sat down and began to fiddle with the stitching of her glove. Every so often, she glanced at the sealed entrance of the Landsmeet chamber and wondered what was happening on the far side. Flora was beginning to regret her impromptu exit; which may have been suitably dramatic but meant that she had no idea what was transpiring behind the ancient wooden doors.

Scowling to herself, she drummed her heels against the tiled floor and picked at the loose thread of her glove. A palace servant clad in apron and long skirts hesitantly approached to enquire whether Flora wanted anything brought to her.

At first Flora had been about to decline, and then remembered that she had not drunk anything since early that morning. Grimly aware that she was no longer merely responsible for her  _own_  health, Flora politely requested something to drink.

In mere moments, the servant reappeared with a bottle of ale and an empty tankard. After offering effusive thanks, Flora ignored the tankard and drank straight from the bottle; grimacing as the liquid distilled into yeast-tinged liquid beneath her tongue.

_I hope you like wheat-flavoured water, unwelcome passenger._

She had just placed the bottle on the bench beside her when the doors of the Landsmeet chamber swung open, their wooden edges scraping against the flagstones. Flora felt her heart skip several beats in succession, the blood flowing sluggish in her veins as she stared at the open doors, lifting her gaze as though in a dream.

Loghain Mac Tir appeared in the entrance, and for a moment she felt a cold jolt of fear, terrified that the Landsmeet had awarded him their favour in spite of it all.

_**Look closer.** _

Flora registered the handcuffs around Loghain's wrists and the quartet of guards at his back, with hands on the hilts of their blades.

_He's their prisoner,_ she realised with a start, unable to stop her jaw from dropping.  _He's been arrested._

Anora, jaw set tight, hurried in her father's wake. A single skein of pale golden hair hung loose from her elaborately plaited braids; it was the first time that Flora had ever seen the queen flushed and wrong-footed.

_She's not wearing the crown anymore._

_Is she even still the queen?_

Sensing her presence, Loghain lifted his chin to gaze directly at Flora as he was escorted past. His face was masterfully neutral, only a slight twisting at the corner of his mouth betrayed any hint of emotion.

Flora stared back at him, eyes wide and heart racing at twice its resting speed despite the fact that she had not moved a muscle.

_Does this mean –_

Then Loghain was gone, escorted from the hall by the quartet of impassive Royal Guardsmen. Flora stared at Anora's diminishing back; the reality of the situation only just beginning to dawn on her.

_Did they vote for us?_

Then a familiar tall and broad-shouldered form appeared in the doorway, head turning from left to right as though searching for something. Moments later, a pair of slightly stunned hazel eyes settled on her, and Flora gazed back numbly at her brother-warden.

More silhouettes materialised behind Alistair; excited chatter and murmurs of disbelief beginning to spill out into the entrance hall. Flora could distinctly hear Finian talking, his voice high and incredulous; yet their sounds and outlines were blurred, as though underwater. The only figure that she could see with perfect clarity was Alistair, striding towards her with an expression caught halfway between shock and triumph.

"Flora," he called across the chamber, voice carrying easily through the cedar-scented air _. "Flo."_

Flora rose to her feet and took a step forwards; then he was there, gripping her shoulders and staring down into her face with unmatched intensity.

"You summoned the armies?"

"The Landsmeet voted for us?"

They both spoke at the same time, words tangling together in a rush. For a moment, brother and sister-warden stared wild-eyed at one another, lost for what to say.

"I wrote to everyone when we left South Reach," Flora replied at last, her voice small. "Leliana has been coordinating their arrival with the emissaries. I-I didn't tell you, just in case… in case the Landsmeet didn't go in our favour. Then they could only blame me."

Flora spoke soft and hesitantly, a far cry from the scorching invective delivered before the Landsmeet. Alistair, momentarily lost for words, reached out and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Flora only half-registered that they were in the middle of a gathered crowd, who were standing dutiful and silent as she spoke.

"Have they voted?" she asked after a pause, as Alistair's finger and thumb lingered against her bare ear.

"They voted just after you left, sweetheart," her brother-warden replied, voice quiet and steady. "Only Bann Ceorlic voted for Loghain. The rest all voted in our favour."

Flora stared at him, eyes widening almost comically.

" _All_  of them?" she repeated on a half-drawn breath of surprise. "All but one?"

Alistair nodded slowly, his fingers sliding to cup the base of her skull beneath the high ponytail.

"They're going to gather their men to join our cause. And the Royal Army is going to aid us, and…"

The sentence trailed off, unspoken words burning like hot coals in the hearth.

"And…?" Flora prompted, the words coming out as little more than a whisper.

Alistair paused, a myriad of emotions passing across his face like a sea change.

"And I'm to be king," he said at last, in a low but even tone. "I've named Eamon as my regent until the Blight is over."

Flora stared up at her brother-warden, temporarily lost for words. She knew that she had inextricably brought about these circumstances through summoning the three armies to the Landsmeet's very doorstep.

"Should I kneel?" she breathed at last, only half-joking.

Alistair embraced her then, fierce and abrupt, gripping Flora to his chest with almost too much force. His fingers wove themselves in the thick strands of her ponytail, as though anchoring himself to his sister-warden.

"Don't you dare," he hissed back, through gritted teeth. "My love."

Flora gazed tentatively up at him, her heart skipping a beat as she realised that she was now carrying the  _king's_  child in her belly. Although she did not have a particularly strong grasp of Fereldan politics, Flora assumed that this was a reasonably significant issue.

With a slight start she saw that their noble companions were still gathered around, waiting for Alistair to finish speaking. There had been a definite  _shift_  in the dynamics within their party; an odd, indescribable change that had occurred after the morning's events. To Flora's surprise and slight alarm, she realised that the nobles were now waiting for either her or Alistair to dictate their next move.

To disguise her nerves, she smiled up at her brother-warden, swallowing the hard lump of anxiety that had risen in her throat. He did not smile back; merely gazed down at her with an intensity of emotion that was almost disconcerting.

"Florence?"

It was Arl Eamon who had spoken, his voice low and respectful. Flora looked at him, and the Arl of Redcliffe inclined his head, gently.

"We will have a proper meeting tomorrow morning, but it makes no sense to wait on giving the command; not when time is of the essence. Shall I instruct the nobles to start mobilising their men?"

Flora thought back to the last time that she had seen the Archdemon in her dreams. It had wheeled above the Brecilian Forest like some impossibly large bat, the horde a dark blot on the landscape below.

"Yes," she said, feeling a lurch of anticipation in her stomach. "They need to be here as soon as possible. We don't have much time left."

"The ravens will go out tonight," replied Eamon, with a small nod.

There was a long pause and Flora swallowed, feeling the heat of a dozen pairs of eyes resting on her.

"I'm sorry that I didn't tell you about the armies arriving," she said, hesitantly. "I didn't want anyone else to get blamed for it in case the Landsmeet didn't go in our favour."

Leonas let out a bark of laughter, the corner of his mouth curling upwards in a rare smile.

"Lass, the Landsmeet was won the moment that Loghain pulled back those shutters," he muttered, shifting from foot to foot. "Masterful timing."

" _And from this wreckage I have built a weapon strong enough to take on the Darkspawn,"_ interjected Finian, his grey eyes gleaming like silver coins as he strolled forward and slid an arm through his sister's. "Brilliant! And you didn't plan any of that in advance?"

"No," replied Flora, bemused. "It's just the truth. My dad makes all his tools from the wreckage that washes up on the beach. He once made a really good chair out of a broken hull! Oh, it  _did_ give me a splinter in my - "

"If Ferelden survives this Blight, then the events of this Landsmeet will be preserved forever for posterity," her like-featured brother continued hastily, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"And they  _did_  all vote for us apart from Bann Col- Cal - Bann  _Coracle?"_  Flora sought to confirm, still in slight disbelief.

"Aye, poppet," murmured Teagan, nodding. "Eamon stood and demanded the vote the moment that the doors closed behind you. A whole forest of arms sprang upwards."

"Fergus shot his arm up so quickly that he punched me in the ear," Finian murmured against the side of Flora's head, and she had to suppress a giggle.

"If I call horses, would you like to go down to the field now?" Eamon made the suggestion quietly, his grey-green Guerrin eyes fixed upon her. "I will stay here and oversee the moving of your possessions and companions into the Palace."

Flora's mouth fell open, and she gazed back at the arl somewhat stupidly.

"We're moving  _here?!"_

"Florence, Alistair is going to be  _King,"_ Wynne said, her tone patient. "He'll be living in the Royal chambers."

"Doesn't - doesn't Anora live there?" Alistair asked, hesitantly. "I want to give her time to leave."

"She moved into the Mac Tir quarters after Cailan died, to be closer to her father," Leliana interjected, displaying her usual preternatural knowledge of a situation that by rights she should know little about. "Now that her father has been attainted, she has no claim to reside there, but I suggest you allow her to resume her residence – under heavy guard – for the time being. Easier to keep an eye on her."

Alistair nodded, glancing across at Flora. She was staring dubiously around the lofty entrance hall, which itself was larger than the great halls of Redcliffe and South Reach combined.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, reaching out to clasp her gloved hand between both of his. "Are you ready to meet your army?"

"It's not  _my_ army," Flora replied immediately, solemn as ever. "It's Ferelden's army. They've not come to take orders from me, they've come to defend their country from that which would destroy it."

"How did an uneducated girl from a backwater village become so eloquent?" Wynne smiled to take the sting from her words, eyes creasing at the corners. Flora gave a little shrug, unsure how to respond.

"Dunno."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I like the contrast in this chapter compared to last chapter – Flora goes from bawling out Loghain in the Landsmeet chamber and making a dramatic exit, to sitting down unsure what to do next, lol.
> 
> The chapter title refers to the classic punishment meted out upon traitors by the Kings of England. Essentially, a noble would be stripped of their titles and property (and sometimes their lives), and the right to pass them on to their heirs – their blood is literally tainted.
> 
> So Loghain has been arrested …. Tbc!
> 
> A coracle is a tiny little boat mostly used in vintage Wales
> 
> If the Royal Palace in Denerim is anything like standard royal palaces, they would contain quarters for Ferelden's foremost peers – the teyrns. The Cousland quarters have been left to go mouldy and rotten over the past six months, obviously!


	266. Grey Wardens - Meet Your Army!

In the end Leonas, Leliana and Sten accompanied the Wardens down to the Alamarri Plains to see the collected forces. The Qunari had appeared just as they were mounting outside the Royal Palace, his expression entirely impassive as per usual. After berating both Flora and Alistair for their lassitude in summoning the army – he would have done it many weeks prior - Sten had expressed a wish to survey the troops for himself.

Leonas was accompanying them due to his extensive experience in the field; Alistair had already conferred with Eamon on the possibility of appointing him as Loghain's military successor. The Arl of South Reach had seen more active duty than both Eamon and Fergus combined, and was both a skilful soldier and an astute, cunning commander.

Flora was gracelessly heaved up before Alistair on the saddle, the horse snorting and nudging its hooves impatiently against the gravel below. The sun was just beginning to sink into the hills of the Bannorn, as though wearied by the day's tumultuous events.

"Do you know the way out of the city?" Flora asked Alistair and he gave a slight nod; sliding one arm across his sister-warden's belly to anchor her in place.

"I'm pretty sure I remember," he murmured, turning his horse's head towards the main gate. "It's this way."

Flora let her head tip backwards to take in the languid setting sun, hues of amber and coral creeping across a deepening sky. If she squinted, she could see the faint echoes of stars against the blushing twilight.

"Alistair?"

"Yes, my love?"

"Can we go  _quickly?"_

Alistair took Flora at her word; using all of his equine knowledge to coax the maximum speed from the more than willing mare. Clutching his sister-warden around the waist, he gripped the reins in a single hand and used his knees to guide the horse in a wild canter through the Palace grounds.

The trees whipped past in a blur, and Flora clutched grimly onto the pommel for dear life as they charged down the slope towards the noble district. Startled retainers ducked out of the way, but Alistair proceeded to steer the mare skilfully around any obstacles without sacrificing significant speed.

They tore down the wide boulevard in a clatter of iron horseshoes against cobbles, the horse surging forwards with fresh vigour as it felt the pressure of Alistair's guiding knee. Gritting her teeth, eyes watering, Flora could not – at that moment - think of a decision she regretted  _more_  in her life than her request to  _go quickly._

Behind her, she could feel Alistair breathing hard and yet controlled; his body leaning into the curves as they wheeled around corners. Her mind was so occupied with the arrival of their army that Flora had not yet devoted any spare thought to the notion of her brother-warden becoming king.

_I made this happen,_ she thought, wildly.  _I hope he's not too angry with me._

The city wall reared up before them just as the sun set itself upon the horizon, with a conspicuous lack of guards on either bridge or battlement. They clattered straight through the open gate, the portcullis suspended high above their heads.

"Trouble in the city for the past few nights," Alistair hissed breathlessly in her ear, turning the horse westwards towards the Alamarri Plains. "The gate guards were reassigned, remember?"

Flora nodded, grimacing as the horse accelerated into a full gallop; prompted by a swift nudge to its flanks by Alistair's boot. They emerged from the gate onto a half-mile slope of sea grass, which swept down towards the narrow continuation of the saltwater estuary. The river gleamed like a molten stream in the blacksmith's burnished light of sunset; like Flora's pale eyes, it reflected the colour of the sky above it. Beyond the plains bristled the dark fringe of the forest marking the edge of the Bannorn; the Darkspawn's attack would most likely come from the low hills that lay in this direction.

The sheer scale of the collective army was far more apparent now that they were on the plains themselves. From the balcony of the Landsmeet chamber, it had appeared little more than a shapeless, dark mass; but now that they were riding at full pelt towards the river estuary, distinctive forms and figures were rising out of the shadows. Clusters of tents, both regimented and random, were interspersed with the sprawling detritus that necessarily accompanied an army. Wagons were everywhere, their contents spilling before them; the red glow of hastily-constructed forges competed with the cooler flame of braziers. Banners and flags were rammed into the soft turf, lying limp in the windless evening.

Each of the three military camps also had their own distinct character, which became apparent as the Wardens passed through. The mages' camp smelled of refined lyrium with an acrid arcane edge; apothecaries and potion-sellers taking care to separate their valuable caravans from the chaos around them. A nominal guard of Templar were stationed at intervals about the camp, their tents marked with the recognisable flecked sword.

The dwarven camp was characterised by the machinery of battle; siege engines and ballistae were wedged with wooden blocks against the soft grass. Vast kegs that took up the entire bodies of wagons marked the boundary of the dwarven camp, and the sound of laughter and inebriated song echoed up from their sleeping quarters.

It was peculiar to see the Dalish away from the ancient boughs of the Brecilian Forest, but _their_  camp still retained a distinctly elven air. The  _aravels_ were clustered like a fleet of ships miraculously taken to the land. Based on the quantity of weapon stands and fletchers' tents, their primary forces appeared to be made up of archers.

Alistair had slowed the horse to a walk as they made their way through the milieu of their peculiar, hybrid army. There was the occasional call of greeting from either elf or dwarf; but for the most part, the men and women of Ferelden had retired to their tents for the evening.

Flora's head swivelled from side to side as they headed towards the central command area, which was marked by the loftiest flagpoles. She knew that Alistair, wedged solid on the saddle behind her, was thinking along the same lines.

_We did this. They're here because of us._

_**Well, of course they're here.** _

_They're here to defend their home. Ferelden belongs to them as much as it does any noble landowner._

"Flo, there must be  _thousands_ of soldiers," he murmured against her ear, as Leonas, Leliana and Sten caught them up.

"Mm," she murmured, slightly awe-struck. "More than I thought."

Beneath Flora's chest-plate and the silvered navy tunic, the Warden treaties were folded against her breast. She had taken them from her pack that morning for the first time in months, hoping that they would act as a good luck talisman for the upcoming vote.

" _Ma petite,"_ breathed Leliana as they came to a halt outside the largest tent; a sprawling construction of canvas and scaffolding with multiple chambers. "Look at it all. What a sight to see!"

"I  _know_ ," replied Flora, watching in bewilderment as men came forward to take their horses. They murmured greetings as if the Wardens had been expected – which, she supposed, they had been.

Alistair landed squarely on the turf, immediately turning around and reaching up for his sister-warden. She slithered into his arms, still unused to the additional weight loaned by the formal armour. For a moment he gazed down at Flora as she stood with her back pressed against the flank of the horse, too many emotions to name swirling across his handsome, clean-shaven face.

"Flo," he murmured finally, giving a quick back-forth shake of the head in disbelief. "I know it's what we've spent the past six months doing, but I- I still can't _believe_  it. I still remember standing in the middle of a Korcari swamp with you, when everything seemed so - so  _hopeless_."

Flora smiled up at him, and Alistair leaned forward to take her face between his hands, pressing a kiss squarely in the centre of her forehead.

"This is a disorganised  _rabble."_

Sten's begrudging voice came drifting from the nearby shadows. "However, I concede that it appears to possess some... raw power."

The guards outside the lofty command tent came to attention as Flora and Alistair approached. They had clearly recognised the griffon emblazoned across Flora's silverite breastplate, stepping to one side to allow the Wardens to pass through.

The interior of the tent was high enough to accommodate one man standing on the shoulders of another, candelabras in solid iron fixings dotted around the canvas walls. Passages branched off to either side, leading to adjacent chambers. In the centre of the canvas-ceilinged chamber stood a large, circular table, its surface covered with a vast parchment map. Around the table, several shadowed figures were gathered, murmuring softly to one another as an unobtrusive servant collected empty flagons.

Flora paused in the entrance, suddenly and inexplicably shy. The figures around the table were solid and far older than she; the weight of their experience resting heavily on their shoulders.

Then one figure turned and let out a half-incredulous bark of laughter, crossing the tented chamber in a handful of strides. It was Riordan, his lined face lit with pride; greying hair caught back in a haphazard ponytail. He clapped Alistair on the back before gripping Flora tightly by the elbows, head shaking in disbelief.

"I can't believe you actually managed it," he breathed, eyes blazing. "Against all odds. A lone pair of warden-recruits! How is it even possible?"

"We had a lot of help," Flora replied hastily, displaying a northerner's characteristic discomfort in the face of praise.

Alistair gestured towards his sister-warden, handsome face suffused with pride.

"And Flora's shield kept us safe wherever we went," he replied, flashing her a small, intimate smile. "Whether it was in the Brecilian Forest, or the depths of the Deep Roads.

"Aye, she always did have a talent for shielding," came a gruff, recognisable voice from the shadowed group around the table. "Despite being sorely _lacking_  in all other schools of magic."

Flora's mouth fell open as a familiar grey-bearded man in well-made olive and maroon robes stepped forward, a wry smile curving the corner of his mouth. Immediately she bowed deeply, the gesture reflexive after four years of subservience at the Circle.

"There's no need to bow, Flora Cove," replied First Enchanter Irving quietly, emerging from the shadows with an inflection of his own head. "Or – should I say,  _Lady Cousland?"_

"You don't have to," replied Flora hastily, pulling a small face. "Really. Flora suits me fine."

Irving let out a soft, incredulous laugh; shaking his head from side to side.

"If I'd known that you were a  _Cousland_ , your Circle experience would have been  _quite_  different," he continued, a tinge of regret colouring the words. "Wynne told me about your birthright in her letters. I am  _deeply_ regretful that you spent so much of your time at Kinloch assigned to menial chores."

Flora shook her own head, sensing Sten grunting impatiently beside her .The Qunari was clearly eager to get to the more  _relevant_ part of the discussion.

"I didn't mind the cleaning" she said, with a little shrug. "I preferred it to being in class, actually."

"To quote Wynne: _'The child left the Circle after four years of residency more proficient with a mop than with a staff',_ " Irving quoted, giving a mild, helpless shrug. "I can only apologise."

Flora shifted from foot to foot and gave another small shrug; attempting to divert the First Enchanter from such pointless ruminations.

"How is the rebuilding of Kinloch coming along?" she asked, suppressing a little shudder as she recalled the malignant residue of the maleficar crawling over the upper floors.

"Quicker than one would expect, bearing in mind the devastation," Irving replied, a sad smile curling the corner of his mouth. "The apprentices have been sent to the Circle on the coast for the duration. But we have already managed to cleanse two upper floors of the unnatural taint."

Pleased to hear that their efforts were bearing fruit, Flora smiled at the First Enchanter, sensing Alistair quiet and compliant at her right. Irving's gaze passed between the Wardens, settling on the tall, handsome young man whom he had met only twice before.

"Wynne's letters were enlightening in many ways," the old mage continued, clever eyes sweeping Alistair from head to toe. "I understand that I should now refer to you as  _Your Highness,_ Prince Alistair."

"Actually," interjected Leliana helpfully from somewhere beside the tent entrance. "It'll be  _Your Majesty_ soon. Alistair is to be King."

There was a noticeable shifting in the atmosphere of the tent, those contained within shooting lightning glances at one another. Alistair lifted a hand quickly, shaking his head.

"That won't come about until the Blight is ended," he said hastily, yet firmly. "Our first focus has to be on the defence of the city and the defeat of the Archdemon. Who leads the elves and the dwarves?"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: It's a bit of a cop-out in game that you spend a million years gathering all your forces and then you never get to meet them properly! Anyway, I'm far from a military historian but I still wanted to describe the actual force now that it's been gathered. Although of course this is just half the force, since they still need to wait for the Royal Army to assemble.
> 
> Anyway, I just wanted to have a chance to re-introduce some old characters – like Irving, and we will be meeting the original Amell, Surana and Brosca as well at some point.
> 
> Ahh lol, Alistair's ignorance re his sister-warden's state is actually pretty tragic – if he knew that she was fourteen weeks pregnant with his child, would he be galloping around on horseback at a billion miles an hour? Noooooo! He'd be carrying her around, wrapped in cotton wool, wrapped in ten layers of blankets, lol. Oh well hahah it is what it is. Incidentally, Zevran's nickname for Flora – mi limonita, my little lemon – is now unfortunately accurate; since the foetus is now the size of a lemon! Oops haha


	267. Moving Into The Royal Palace

A Dalish woman in her middle years stepped forward from the shadows, lean and corded with muscle despite her greying braided hair.

"Our scouts have sighted the horde moving up the western borders of the Forest," she interjected, the distinctive  _vallaslin_ ink fading into weathered tan skin. "They pause to wreak havoc upon whatever settlements they come across. Our best estimate is that they will be here in a month, no longer."

Flora felt Alistair tense beside her at the mention of this further desecration, the corners of his mouth pulling tight with anger.

"I am Lyna Mahariel," the Dalish elf continued, her liquidous black eyes still youthful despite the trellis of fine lines surrounding them. "Lanaya, our new Elder, has sent me to lead our troops. I have brought archers from every Dalish tribe that we were able to contact. I suspect more will arrive over the coming weeks."

"Well met, Lyna," replied Alistair, as both he and Flora inclined their heads politely. "We're grateful for the assistance of the elves."

Lyna paused for a moment, and when she continued, her voice was quiet and reflective.

"It is our home that is at stake, too," she murmured, something dark and unreadable in her stare. "The roots of the Forest run deep, but so does the Darkspawn taint. The Blight must be ended."

"Aye, and when they're finished running amok on the Surface, they will return with greater strength to the Deep Roads," rumbled the dwarven commander, a thick-set man who had unusual height for one of his race. "Orzammar will not be able to resist an army renewed in both vigour and number."

Flora recognised him as one of the  _deshyr_ that had been at the dwarven Assembly. However, he was no longer clad in fine velvet robes and fustian – instead, he wore a full set of gilt-edged battle armour; bright and brilliant as a flame.

"I am Lord Duran Aeducan, First General of Orzammar. Along with troops, King Harrowmont has sent siege machinery and engineers to construct defences."

The dwarven noble lifted his chin, appearing no less impressive for his shorter stature. "Let no one say that the people of the Stone did not play their part in the defeat of the Darkspawn. As you yourself once said, my lady –  _they feared us first."_

Flora beamed, recognising the words that she had bellowed out before the assembled  _deshyr;_ back when she had believed herself to be nothing more than a fisherman's daughter. Both she and Alistair had been surprised at the eloquence of her spontaneous, unprepared speech.

Beside her, she felt Alistair step forward, lifting his chin as he prepared to speak.

"We won the support of the Landsmeet," he said bluntly, eyes dropping to the map spread out across the table. "The Royal Army is going to assist in the battle, under the command of Leonas Bryland. More men should be arriving from the bannorns and arlings over the next few weeks."

Leonas, who had spent a few extra minutes outside casting his eye over the troops, entered the tent to the sound of his own name. The militaristic arl - with his extensive experience in the field – had been the logical choice to replace Loghain as Commander of the Royal troops.

Riordan, the newly appointed general, and the leaders of the three armies gathered around the vast map of Denerim; which also depicted the estuary and the surrounding plains. They began to discuss in low tones the possible formation of troops, nudging wooden counters across the parchment to illustrate. Sten, who decided that he had sufficient experience to contribute, also interjected himself into the proceedings.

As the commanders conversed in low, knowledgeable tones, Flora and Alistair withdrew to one shadowed corner of the tent. It was the first time since the outcome of the Landsmeet that they had  _not_  been the centre of attention. Even Leliana had vanished somewhere in the midst of the camp, most likely to scout the perimeter.

"Alistair?" Flora whispered as he stared down at her, a calloused finger catching a loose, oxblood strand of hair.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

She peered up at him for a moment, and then dropped her gaze to her feet.

"I'm sorry."

He frowned, letting the thick curl drop against her shoulder.

"For what?"

_A lot of things,_ Flora wanted to say; swallowing the urge to confess the terrible mistake that had taken root inside her belly.

"I know you never wanted to be king," she said instead, in a small and hesitant voice. "And I – I've made that happen, haven't I? I'm sorry."

Alistair's face turned pensive, as he gave her words their due consideration. A number of emotions passed through the green-flecked hazel irises. At last, a rueful smile broke out across his features, and he gave a slight shrug.

"Truthfully, I'd already come around to the idea some time ago," he replied, voice edged with wry humour. "I never thought I'd do a good job of it, but over the past few months, I've come to know myself better, and…"

Alistair trailed off for a moment, eyes searching his sister-warden's solemn, fine-hewn face.

"Well, I've seen a girl from a fishing village summon the largest army that Ferelden has seen in several ages," he continued at last, with a purposeful expression that countered the lightness of his tone. "And how she's grown to be somehow both Herring and Highever at once. It makes me think that… I  _could_ be a good king, despite also being… me?"

It was a question, his eyes returning to her face.

"Of  _cours_ e you could," Flora replied, with typical northern bluntness. "You're more than capable. And you won't be on your own, anyway. You'll have a Council to advise you, and you can put everyone you trust on it. Your uncles, Arl Bryland..."

"And I'll have  _you_  with me, Flo."

It was not a question, but an outright declaration of fact. His voice tightened on the words, tamping them down into truth.

Flora smiled up at him and Alistair ducked his face, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. The ponytail, which had been so smooth and polished when Leliana had first put it up that morning, was beginning to fray at the edges.

It was night proper by the time that they left the army encampment, steering the horses back up the gentle slope towards Denerim. Vast braziers placed at intervals on top of the city walls acted as beacons, spilling amber light over the limestone parapet. It was a clear and cloudless night, the moon a bright eye overhead; the flags and pennants lay limp against their poles for lack of the slightest breeze. The Royal Palace dominated the skyline, its towers and battlements visible even from their position on the low plains. The balcony leading into the Landsmeet chamber was just visible, the shutters still open from when Loghain had wrenched them apart earlier that day.

As they rode up to the city gate, Flora kept twisting her head around, peering around Alistair's torso to glance back at the sprawling encampment. Flecks of scarlet light dotted the Alamarri plains, where campfires had been lit to provide warmth and illumination to those sleeping under canvas.

"I'm scared that this is a dream," she whispered incredulously to Alistair as he guided the horse through the quiet cobbled streets of the city. "That I'll wake up tomorrow and there won't be an army there at all."

The corner of her brother-warden's mouth twisted upwards and he gave a low chuckle of agreement, clutching the reins loosely in one hand.

"I know," he replied, then glanced sideways towards the humming bard. "Leliana, did Eamon say that we would be…  _moving into_  the Royal Palace?"

Leliana, using her muscular thighs to guide the horse, flashed Alistair a little smile and nodded.

"The King's quarters have been empty since Cailan left for Ostagar. Anora has been residing in the ducal apartments reserved for the teyrn."

Alistair gave a nod in response, and if he had any reservations about moving into the quarters of his ill-fated half-brother, he kept them to himself. Leonas and Sten took their leave when they entered the noble district; the former to his own estate and the latter to an undisclosed locale.

Flora fell silent for several minutes, bringing her nails anxiously to her mouth as they reached the palace grounds. The guards at the gate, in stark contrast to prior visits, bowed very low on seeing Alistair; almost falling over one another in their haste to scatter out of his way.

"Your Highness – Prince Alistair!"

Returning upright from their bows the guards milled about, clearly at a loss about whether to formally escort the prince up to the palace. Alistair groaned under his breath and dismissed the anxious men, with the stern assurance that his present company was more than capable of protecting him.

The trees were a tangled mass of shadow to either side as they rode up towards the castle, the occasional silhouette of a deer or rabbit darting between the slender trunks. Before long, the forbidding silhouette of the Royal Palace fell over them; the stern stone edifice towering a hundred feet above their heads.

Almost immediately the stable lads came rushing forwards, with solemn reverence. Keeping their heads bowed, they reached up to take the reins of the horses with far less noisy chatter than they had previously displayed; grasping torches to cast light over the shadowed forecourt.

"You can still talk to each other," Alistair said to them, keeping the irritation from his voice with a conscious effort. "I'm not King yet."

"Yes, Lord Theirin!" piped up one boy who couldn't have been more than twelve, trying and failing to hide his excitement. "Your Highness!"

Rolling his eyes as he dismounted, Alistair landed squarely on the gravel with a solid crunch before turning to assist his sister-warden. Distracted, Flora let herself slither down from the saddle, knowing that he would catch her. Sure enough, Alistair's strong arms came up to arrest her controlled fall; he gave her a swift embrace and peck to the forehead before letting her go.

"Alistair," she hissed under her breath as they made their way inside the vast entrance hall, larger than the great halls of Redcliffe and South Reach combined. He did not appear to hear her, striding forward with face set determinedly. Reflexively patting the stone Mabari's paw for luck, Flora hurried in her brother-warden's wake.

Neither Warden had ever been inside the Royal Palace at night before. The hearths spaced periodically down each wall blazed away, casting shifting amber-hued light over the flagstones and royal blue carpeting. In addition, primitive iron candelabras hung from the ceiling like large, flat wheels, burning away two dozen yards above their heads. The Royal Guard, impassive in their closed-face helmets, stood in silent vigilance at the walls; immobile as suits of armour. A handful of servants were sweeping the rushes before the hearth, murmuring in low, feverish tones to one another.

"They're excited at the return of a Theirin to the family seat."

Teagan's voice drifted from the shadows; the younger Guerrin brother had been waiting near one of the smouldering hearths.

Alistair let out a noncommittal grunt, scratching the stubble on his jaw. Flora, who had not had the chance to ask Alistair the question that had been burning on her lips since they had left the army camp, pulled a little face and shifted from foot to foot. She was deeply uncomfortable in the formal armour, the bodice beneath the tunic was digging into her skin and the tight leather trousers felt as though they were cutting off the circulation to her calves.

"I'll show you to the Royal chamber," the bann offered, smiling as Leliana was unable to suppress a squeak of excitement. "Leliana, I hope you're not expecting Orlesian glamour. It's very  _Fereldan_  – Maric was not an ostentatious man."

"Ah,  _non,"_ assured Leliana, head swivelling to take in the décor as he led them down a wide side passage. The walls were decorated eclectically: archaic weaponry from Ferelden's tumultuous past displayed alongside painted landscapes that seemed to feature mostly animal imagery – horses and dogs. The Theirin emblem was embedded everywhere, from stone badges carved into pillars, to the coat-of-arms enamelled above archways.

"I would never think to compare this with the Empress' palace at Val Royeaux," she continued as the bann led them up a sweeping stone staircase. "Ferelden is a very different type of nation, with a very…  _different_  type of people."

The bard's eyebrow twitched slightly as she took in a life-sized depiction of a Mabari devouring the carcass of an unfortunate  _halla._

"How many work at the castle?" she enquired as another pair of servant girls emerged from a room before them, bowing their heads hastily in acknowledgement of Alistair's presence.

Teagan thought for a moment, leading the way down a long gallery that overlooked a vast great hall lined with long, wooden tables.

"Several hundred, not including the knights and their retainers," he said at last, as a pair of Royal Guards stood aside to let them pass. "There were more, once, but Cailan took many of his personal staff to Ostagar. Including his barber, Alistair, so you'll have to shave your own face in the morning."

Alistair snorted, thinking privately that he could be surrounded by dozens of the most skilled barbers in Thedas and he would  _still_  be tending to his own face.

Flora had fallen behind slightly on the gallery, feeling the first tell-tale twinges of protest from her knee. Ironically, despite the general discomfort of the form-fitting leather trousers, they had reinforced the strapping around the weak joint and prevented discomfort for the majority of the day.

As Leliana questioned Teagan further about the history of the Theirin family seat, Alistair noticed that his sister-warden was trailing in their wake. He paused to let Flora catch up, reaching to grasp her hand in his.

"Sorry, my dear," he apologised with a murmur, squeezing her fingers in their familiar fish-rope ritual. "Is it your knee?"

"Yes," said Flora, then dropped her voice as they turned into yet another wide, carpeted passageway. Before them, Leliana was loudly enthusing about a series of stained glass windows that depicted the exploits of King Calenhad Theirin.

" _Alis_ \- who's that?" Flora asked in an undertone, poking the glass figure unceremoniously in the crotch as they passed.

Alistair shrugged, letting out a little snort.

"One of my great-great-great ancestors, I'd imagine," he replied, rolling his eyes and shrugging. "Who knows? Anyway, what were you about to ask me?"

Flora grimaced, not quite sure how to phrase her question. Alistair shot her a look of mild alarm, hazel eyes sliding sideways in the torch-lit passageway.

"What  _is_  it, Flo?"

"I won't be offended if you think it's best we not share a bedchamber for a bit," she said, resorting to Herring forthrightness even as she shot him an apologetic look. "You know, to avoid… gossip. Because of- well."

Flora held up a guilty hand, nail beds gleaming with golden light.

Alistair, who had come to an incredulous halt in the middle of the passageway, caught her wrist and brought her fingertips to his mouth, kissing them feverishly. He could feel the soft fizzle of the energy against his lips as it dissipated, fragile as snowflakes.

"I don't give a shit what anyone thinks," he retorted, blunt and uncompromising. "You stay at my side. And if anyone has an issue with it, they can take it up with me."

Flora gazed up at her brother-warden anxiously as he reached out to caress her cheekbone with a strong thumb.

"I don't want to cause any trouble."

"My love," Alistair murmured, eyes moving over the solemn planes and angles of her face. "I won't be parted from you ever again. I pity the man who dares suggest it."

"Actually, the nobles are already quite aware that Flora is your mistress," interjected the sharp-eared Leliana, who had come to a halt before them. "Loghain already informed the Landsmeet that you two were lying together. It clearly did not affect the outcome of the vote."

Flora scowled, recalling how the general had also heavily implied that she had slept with Cailan at Ostagar.

"Where  _is_  Loghain?" said Alistair suddenly, eyes moving to his uncle's face.

"The dungeons below the castle," replied Teagan, steering them past another pair of silent guards. "Until the trial."

Alistair was silent for a moment, eyes moving unseeingly over a mural of barking Mabari.

"He's got sufficient food, though?" he said after a moment, reluctantly recalling the unexpected kindness that the general had shown to Flora during her captivity by Howe. "And bedding?"

"Aye, lad," Teagan replied quietly, knowing the thoughts running through Alistair's mind. "He's not been… mistreated."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So this is how I'm bringing in some of the other origins – as commanders of the armies!
> 
> I hope the character growth of Alistair is visible here – the acceptance of his position as King, and his unwilling DEEPLY reluctant consideration towards Loghain. Alistair is fundamentally compassionate rather than vengeful (as least in my canon) and he can't forget how Loghain kept Flora's non-Tranquil status a secret, told Howe to take the collar off and then kept Howe away on a night where the nasty little arl otherwise would have bedded her.
> 
> also lol at Flora poking Calenhad in the dick as she passes him - where is your respect, woman?!


	268. In The Bedchamber Of The King

 

There was silence for several moments as the bann led them down a stately, double-width corridor lined with stone busts and suits of armour. Flora recognised the livery painted over the next arched doorway.

"There's the Cousland quarters!" she breathed, eyeing the pale olive wreath of Highever. "Are my brothers inside?"

"No," replied Teagan, as they passed the large double doors. The sounds of muffled activity drifted out from within, accompanied by voices chattering excitedly to one another. "Fergus and Finian are still with Eamon tonight. The Cousland quarters have stood empty for over six months; they're undergoing cleaning and repairs."

Flora pressed a finger to the dust coating the wooden door panel, and then was hastened up the corridor by Leliana. They passed two more Royal Guards standing motionless against the wall, with vicious-looking halberds held to attention.

"I suppose that's the end of me sneaking down to the kitchens for a snack," Flora breathed to her brother-warden, as Teagan lifted a hand to a slight man waiting patiently further along the corridor. "They're about three miles away."

The man approached, revealing himself to be a well-appointed gentleman in his fifties, with a neatly trimmed silver beard. Coming to a halt before them, he bowed low in a smooth and long-practised gesture. When he spoke, his voice carried the distinctive cadence of Nevarra.

"Your Highness," the white-haired man murmured in greeting to Alistair, who was eyeing him dubiously. "Lady Florence, Bann Teagan. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Guillaume van Pylus, Royal Steward to the Theirin dynasty for the past three decades."

Guillaume surveyed Alistair for a moment, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"And I must say, my lord, I was not expecting you to resemble King Maric  _quite_  so strongly. It reminds me of when I was but a young man, helping to smuggle your father into Gwaren during the Orlesian occupation."

"You took part in the rebellion?" Alistair asked, gazing at the man with slightly more admiration.

Bann Teagan snorted quietly, grey-green eyes darting in amusement at the Steward's humble expression.

"Don't let his refined appearance fool you, Alistair," he murmured, with a wry shake of the head. "This was the man who near-singlehandedly defended Castle Rookbane from a battalion of six hundred Orlesian  _chevaliers._ There's not much that he doesn't know about siege warfare, and he knows this palace inside out."

Guillaume ducked his head in acknowledgement as Alistair eyed him with new respect.

"Bann Teagan, you flatter me," he murmured, shooting a discreet, curious look at Flora from beneath his eyelashes. "Prince Alistair, would you allow me to show you your quarters?"

Alistair nodded, glancing down to ensure that Flora was still at his side. She was yawning and surreptitiously resting her weight on her sound knee.

"Go ahead," he replied, reaching to claim her hand in his. "But make it a  _quick_ tour."

The steward nodded, leading them a short distance further down the corridor. A vast pair of double doors, each one carved with the quartered Theirin lion, was guarded by a pair of silent sentries. The only sign that they were men and not decorative suits of armour was a decorous inclination of the head as Alistair approached.

"Your Highness."

"The servants have been cleaning frenziedly since the Landsmeet vote," Guillaume explained, nudging one door open with a wry smile. "Before that, the place stood empty for months. Lady Anora moved into her father's quarters soon after the defeat at Ostagar."

The steward opened the door to a vast, sprawling chamber with a double-height hearth the size of a bonfire blazing in one corner. It was surprisingly austere for a royal residence; the vaulted ceiling supported by flying buttresses. Murals of Mabari and Ferelden warhorses decorated the plastered wall, their once-vibrant colours having faded over the years. The ceiling was also decorated with a mural, featuring a navy blue sky scattered with tiny flecks of gold, each pattern representing a stylised constellation.

Yet, despite its plainness, the signs of wealth and craftsmanship were everywhere. The furniture – tall dressers, several iron-studded chests, stands for swords and armour – had been hewn from expensive oak. Every inch of the flagstones was covered by an eclectic collection of rugs and carpet, varying from dyed lambs-wool to animal skins. Long curtains cut from crimson velvet had been drawn to keep in the heat from the hearth, and in a far corner, a round map table was surrounded by eight chairs.

A spiked iron wheel that appeared more torture device than light source hung flat from the ceiling, although the holders meant for candles stood empty. At the far wall stood a great four poster bed, its crimson curtains restrained with silken cords. It was piled high with a variety of stuffed cushions, embroidered blankets and animal furs.

"That's not my brother's bedding, is it?" asked Alistair abruptly as the doors swung shut behind them. "I'm not sleeping amongst blankets where Cailan laid with a Mac Tir."

The steward shook his head, hiding a smile as he glanced upwards at the shadowed candelabra.

"It's fresh bedding, my lord. Would you prefer the candles lit, or were you planning to retire? I took the liberty of leaving some bread, cheese and olive oil on the table, but I can fetch a more substantial meal if you desire. The oil is from Antiva, and comes  _highly_ recommended."

Alistair glanced across at Flora, who was staring at the painted Mabari and warhorses with a slight frown, her mouth hanging open. The high ponytail, which had bounced so triumphantly at the Landsmeet, was now on the drooping side, with loose strands hanging beside both ears.

"Retire, I think," he replied, removing his leather riding gloves one slow finger at a time. "We ate at the army encampment."

There was a pause, and then the steward continued diplomatically.

"King Cailan took his servants of the bedchamber to Ostagar with him, and they – did not return. I can send a man in tonight, if you wish."

Guillaume gestured to a hitherto unnoticed pallet mattress tucked in a discreet corner. Alistair gaped, and then shook his head vehemently.

"No! No, thank you. I don't – we don't… we don't need anyone in here. Definitely not.  _No_. Thanks."

Teagan snorted softly, preparing to take his leave.

"We'll meet on the morrow," the bann said, voice low as he reached out to clap Alistair on the shoulder. "Well done, lad."

_You'll be fine,_ the unspoken assurance continued.

The younger Guerrin brother then turned to Flora, who was yawning and standing on one leg like a heron. He reached forward and chucked her under the chin, smiling.

"And well done to you too, poppet. I almost forgot to breathe when you were speaking to the Landsmeet earlier. They breed eloquent young women in Herring, clearly."

Flora shot him a slightly vacant smile; aware that nearly half of Herring vocabulary consisted of various intonations of grunt.

" _Ma chérie,"_ offered Leliana, drifting over from where she had been standing before the hearth. "Shall I stay and assist your disrobing? That armour may prove a little more complex to remove than shirt and breeches."

"Yes, please."

"Your Highness, if you require anything at all, please give a shout," murmured the steward, with the long-practised discreetness that accompanied his position. "I will ensure that a servant is within earshot at all times."

Alistair nodded, receiving a final reassuring smile from his uncle before both men took their leave. The moment that the door closed, he let out a groan of relief and collapsed onto the bed amidst the furs and embroidered blankets.

"' _Your Highness'!"_ he complained, sitting back up and beginning to unfasten the buttons of his fur-edged tunic. "It's a good thing that I'm tall. What if I was five foot? It'd seem a joke."

"Your shortness," said Flora, giggling in juvenile manner as she wandered over to the hearth. "Your  _average-heightness._  Ouch, these trousers are cutting off my circulation. This whole outfit is too tight!"

Agitated, she started to pluck at the straps and buckles of the tunic, succeeding only in tightening the chest-plate further.

"One moment," Leliana instructed firmly, rummaging through one of the fine oak dressers. A moment later she had produced a plain linen nightshirt, embroidered with the Theirin crest.

"Ah, this will do. Alright,  _patience."_

Folding the nightshirt over her arm, Leliana advanced towards the fire and Flora, who was red faced and shifting from foot to foot.

"Keep still,  _ma crevette."_

Putting the nightshirt to one side, Leliana began to painstakingly remove the pieces of Warden battlemage armour; which was more intricate than it appeared from a distance. Deft fingers loosened and removed the chest-plate, placing it on a nearby chair. The firelight flickered over the silvered griffon, reflecting a blurred simulacrum of both redheads as they stood before the hearth.

Alistair removed his own tunic with far greater ease, sitting bare-chested on the end of the bed. Once this was complete, he paused his undressing out of consideration to Leliana, leaning back on his elbows amidst the furs and yawning.

The bard finished unlacing the Warden-striped tunic at the back, and Flora raised her arms to ease off the heavy silver and navy weave. Leliana's nimble fingers made quick work of the bodice strings, and for the first time that day, Flora was able to breathe free and fully.

"Aaaah!  _Finally."_

The bard's sharp eyes noticed Alistair sitting up a little straighter as his sister-warden continued to disrobe. Hastily, Leliana sought to obscure his view by casually swivelling Flora's back towards him, before pulling the linen nightshirt swiftly over her head.

"Don't go without helping me take off the legs," Flora implored, misinterpreting the bard's glance sideways as a desire to pursue Teagan down the corridor. "They feel like they're stuck to my skin. I think they might have actually become  _part of my skin."_

Leliana snorted, reaching down to grip the waistband of the tight navy leather trousers. Flora had not been exaggerating – they were, quite literally, skin tight and the seams had left a pink impression on her skin.

"I look like I'm wearing invisible trousers," Flora commented, peering down at herself after the pair had eventually managed to peel off the clinging leather.

Leliana leaned in close on the pretence of kissing Flora on the cheek; whilst simultaneously hissing a caution into the girl's ear.

"Judging by the expression on your brother-warden's face," she murmured, planting diversionary lips against Flora's other cheekbone. "He's going to pounce on you the moment I leave. Remember:  _you must hide it._ He cannot find out!"

Flora nodded like a marionette, darting a quick glance towards Alistair. From the slightly glazed expression and the flush heating his cheeks, it was clear that he had rather enjoyed watching his sister-warden disrobe.

Leliana took her leave with a significant look over her shoulder, letting herself quietly out of the King's bedchamber. As soon as the heavy wooden door swung shut, Alistair cleared his throat and patted his thigh.

"Flo," he said, thickly. "Come here, sweetheart."

She went to Alistair obediently and he pulled her onto his knee, pressing his face against the soft hollow of her collarbone. His other hand went immediately to her thigh, fingers edging above the linen hem.

"You're wearing my brother's nightshirt," Alistair murmured, feeling the loose strands of her ponytail brushing against his stubbled jaw.

"Oh," replied Flora breathlessly, feeling her focus subside with the intoxicating proximity of her brother-warden. "Am I?"

Alistair let out a ragged breath against her neck as his fingers began to stroke with practised motions. Flora squirmed, and would have fallen off his knee if he had not restrained her.

"Do you know what else I've realised, darling?" he murmured, never failing to take delight in how quickly her body yielded to him.

"Wha – what?" croaked Flora, as he eased her down on the edge of the bed.

"This is the bed where Cailan would have taken you, if your father's plan had come to fruition," Alistair continued, a hoarse edge to his voice. "You would have been  _Cailan's_ bride."

This alarming prospect had not occurred to Flora, who had almost forgotten about Teyrn Bryce's aborted plan to betroth her to Maric's eldest son. When she turned to stare at Alistair, a mask of strange possessiveness had fallen over her kind brother-warden's handsome features. The hearth belched sweet cedar smoke into the room and Flora was aware of the prickling heat of his eyes on her skin.

"But you're  _not_  his lover," he mumbled, determination settling on his face. "You're  _mine_."

There was a long, electric silence; an unspoken tension crackling in the air between them. Alistair gripped Flora's chin gently with a calloused thumb and tilted her face from side to side in the firelight.

"You made me King today, you know," he murmured quiet and low in her ear. "With your actions at the Landsmeet."

Flora inhaled unsteadily, feeling a sudden surge of guilt to accompany the steady pulse between her legs.

"I know," she whispered back, tremulously. "Forgive me."

In place of a response, Alistair ducked his head and bit softly at her earlobe; teeth working the flesh with gentle insistence. Flora shivered, squirming on his knee as she felt her body respond to his familiar touch. Together, they settled down on the furs, his body moulding to the curve of her back.

"I would have you in the Royal bed," he whispered hoarsely, the sentence broken by a low groan as she pressed her rear against his crotch. Leaning back slightly, Alistair ran a finger down the line of her spine, paused for a heartbeat, and then dropped it further. She turned her face to him, wide-eyed and solemn.

"And, Flora... I would make you mine in  _all_ ways."

His hazel gaze met hers, asking a tentative question. Flora thought for a moment, then gave a slight nod; feeling her heart flutter against her ribs in nervous anticipation.

Alistair's irises darkened with a sudden and almost feral desire.

"Turn over," he instructed in a thick, guttural voice that barely sounded like his usual lightly clipped drawl. "Lie on your stomach."

Flora rolled over onto her belly, hearing the thud of her brother-warden's boots against the flagstones. She took a deep, apprehensive breath, trying to calm her now-racing heart. Then came the unmistakable noise of a cork pulling free from the flask of Antivan oil; shortly afterwards, she felt the nightgown being drawn up around her hips.

The night patterns of the Royal Palace moved in slow concentric circles around the king's bedchamber; the beating heart of Denerim never at rest even in the small hours of the morning. Carpenters and embroiders worked by candlelight to erase the evidence of long neglect from the Cousland quarters. Water damaged fabric was hastily replaced and dusty surfaces polished to a sheen, all in preparation for the impending arrival of the new teyrn.

Down in the Guerrin manor Oghren snored in a dark corner of the buttery, passed out with a bottle of ale in each hand. Two floors above, Wynne was about to pen a letter to Irving before realising with a start that there was no need; the First Enchanter was less than an hour's ride away on the plains to the west of the city.

Sten had returned to the encampment to make a more thorough assessment of numbers and position; assisted in this endeavour by a raven-winged Morrigan. He moved like a shadow between the tents, with surprising fleetness for one of his size.

A mile away in the noble district, Leonas, Eamon and Fergus sat together; a half-drunk bottle of wine between them as they discussed plans for the morrow. Occasionally, Fergus would trail off and turn his head to the window, gazing up at the vast silhouette of the Royal Palace perched on the highest rise of the city. He thought on his sister, somewhere within its labyrinthine depths, and hoped that she was alright.

The moon edged its slowly way across the sky, wreathed by a glowing firmament of stars. The constellations made slow rotations in the heavens, their movements too infinitesimal to be noticed by those on the earth below. Tentative fingers of moonlight extended through a gap in the curtains, throwing silvered beams across the Royal bedchamber.

Flora, cheek pressed against a cushion, clutched the blankets in sweaty fists as the weight of her brother-warden rested on top of her. The strangled noises escaping his lips each time he moved barely sounded human; primitive grunts from the very depths of his throat. She could feel his breath hot and urgent on the back of her neck while his hands gripped the bedding to either side of her shoulders.

In a brief moment of clarity, Alistair managed to ask if he was hurting her. She replied in the affirmative, but then urged him not to stop. There was something almost cathartic about the sharp edge of pain that accompanied the pleasure; and Flora felt the guilt that she had carried since the Landsmeet slowly melt from her shoulders.

Not too far away, Teagan and Leliana used a discreet side-chamber to relieve the afternoon's tension. Fifty feet below their perfunctory exertions, Loghain sat on a narrow bunk in a prison cell, the palace dungeons around him hewn from solid Alamarri bedrock. He stared unblinking at the stone wall opposite, expressionless as a Tranquil.

Afterwards, Alistair lay sprawled boneless across the furs, staring wide-eyed and stunned up at the crimson canopy. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, the corded tendon and muscle of the neck standing out as he breathed unsteadily.

Flora rested on her stomach beside him, propped up on an elbow and biting absentmindedly at her thumbnail. Feeling her skin prickling with the heat of his stare, she glanced sideways to meet Alistair's dazed hazel irises.

"My love," he murmured, flailing a limp arm in her direction. "Come here."

She rolled over to settle against his side, immediately feeling his limbs encircling her body like some tentacled creature from  _Exotic Fish of Thedas._ Alistair pressed his mouth fiercely to the top of her head, fingers clutching at the rumpled fabric of Cailan's nightshirt.

"I love you  _so_  much," he breathed, face inches from hers on the pillow. "Being  _here_ \- ", he made a vague gesture around at the Royal bedchamber – "isn't as bad as I thought it would be. Because you're beside me."

"Well, I promised I would be," Flora replied, feeling his fingers tangle themselves lovingly in her hair.

Alistair nodded, and then went so quiet and still that she thought he might have fallen asleep. Then, just as Flora was about to slip through the Veil herself, she felt him whisper in her ear, the breath tickling over her skin.

"No one will be able to take you from me now," he murmured, drawing her hips back to settle against his. "Worth becoming king for that alone."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: 
> 
> I never thought Maric to be the type to want a fancy, elaborate bedchamber – so my version is more stark and austere, with lots of Ferelden woodwork and Mabari detailing.
> 
> Also yes, they just did what you think they did XD 


	269. The Council Of The Bedchamber

The Archdemon stalked the edge of Flora's dreams that first night in the King's bedchamber; it's vast, draconic form silhouetted against the green miasma of the Fade. She had a variety of odd, half-shaped vision – too fleeting and inconsistent to be recalled – each one connected by a malevolent presence lurking in the background.

_She was a fish-seller in the Denerim market; the Archdemon's wicked eye winked up at her from the bottom of an empty barrel. Then she was trying on a selection of Habren's dresses, each too small to encompass her swollen stomach; but when she opened the wardrobe doors, she was met with a fanged and gaping maw._

_She was defending Lothering unsuccessfully from the encroaching horde while the Archdemon whirled and shrieked overhead like some huge, particularly vicious bat. The Chantry bell rung frantically in the desperate hope of some last-minute salvation._

Flora woke with the Chantry bells outside chiming the third hour, and Cailan's bloodied ghost standing at the foot of the bed. The King hovered mournfully above the flagstones, insubstantial as a whisper, his eyes pearlescent and unseeing. He was wearing the armour that he had worn on that fateful night at Ostagar, the silverite chest-plate crumpled as though it were made of foil. He reached out scarlet stained fingers towards her, and Flora let a shriek of terror –

_**Enough, child.** _

Flora's spirits propelled her forcibly back through the Veil and she awoke, thrashing and tangled in the blankets. Then there were shouts, the sound of doors crashing open and the dizzying light of torches glancing about the room.

"Flora – Flo, it's alright. It was just a nightmare."

Flora sat up and stared around blindly, eyes still clouded by the Fade. She felt Alistair's arm gripping her shoulders and his fingers entwined with hers. Eventually, as she blinked, the Royal bedchamber came into focus around her. The two guards from the corridor had burst in on hearing her gasp, wielding swords and raised torches, directing their light into the far corners of the room. The night steward followed them, wide-eyed with alarm.

"She's fine," Alistair hastened to reassure them, his fingers giving Flora's a tight, comforting squeeze. "It was just a bad dream. Return to your posts."

By the time that the guards and steward departed, Flora had composed herself. The moment that the door closed in their wake, she scrambled out of bed and pulled Cailan's nightrobe over her head. As she let it drop to the flagstones, she turned hastily to obstruct the convex curve of her stomach.

"Was it the Archdemon?" Alistair asked, watching her retrieve one of his shirts from his discarded pack.

"No! Your ghost brother," Flora replied, giving a little shiver as she pulled the plain linen over her head. "I dreamed that he was glaring at me from the end of the bed."

"That's  _grim,_  Flo."

Stifling a yawn, Alistair pushed himself up against the embroidered cushions and watched his best friend retrieve a pair of short silk bloomers to accompany the shirt.

Thus satisfied that she was sufficiently covered, Flora plucked up Cailan's nightshirt. She folded it carefully over her arm before returning it to the solid oak dresser. Alistair pushed back the furs, gesturing for his sister-warden to join him. Flora crossed the flagstones and clambered underneath the blankets; dutifully curling herself against his side. His fingers slid between hers, and Flora pressed her warm palm to his calloused one.

"Are you alright, sweetheart?"

"Mm, thank you."

"Wake me if Cailan returns," Alistair mumbled sleepily into her hair, one arm encircling her waist. "I'll exorcise him back to the Fade."

The sun eased its way with a sigh from the depths of the Amaranthine Ocean; luring the people of Denerim from their beds with the promise of fine weather and blue skies. However, the crimson curtains cloaking the royal bedchamber were of such good quality that even the dawning sun could not penetrate them. While ochre light spilled into the many great halls and myriad chambers of the Royal Palace, the king's bedchamber remained cloaked in darkness and silence.

Alistair woke eventually to the sound of a gentle tapping on the door.

"Your Highness?"

The half-formal, half-amused voice of the Royal Steward drifted through the wood.

"The Arl of Redcliffe is here to see you."

The next moment, a far more impatient knock sounded against the door.

"You've been in there for nearly  _twelve hours_ ," hissed Leliana, who clearly was not about to stand on ceremony. "Make yourselves decent; we're coming in."

Alistair checked that he was wearing breeches – he was – then hastily fastened the top two buttons of Flora's shirt.

"Wake up, my dear," he murmured, nudging her gently in the ribs. "Time for the Council of the Bedchamber again."

Flora yawned, grinding fists into her eyes as she sat up in the midst of a tangle of blankets. Her pale gaze gradually focused on the ornate wooden carvings on the headboard, the luxuriant scarlet bed-curtains and the massive, bonfire-sized hearth.

"Where are we?" she asked in momentary confusion, grateful that her stomach seemed to be behaving itself.

"In the palace," Alistair replied, pushing back the blankets and swinging himself upright just as the double doors eased open. "You made me king, remember?"

Flora glanced sideways at him, but there was no rancour in his tone. Alistair shot her a rueful smile, reaching back to clasp her fingers and press them to his mouth.

A veritable troupe of people made their way into the King's bedchamber. Eamon was accompanied by his younger brother, as was Fergus. Leliana was next, pale blue eyes sparkling with excitement. Zevran sauntered in her wake as though he owned the place, amused dark eyes sweeping across the carved Mabari and painted horses. Finally, a discreet Guillaume ushered in a pair of servants, each clutching a silver platter.

"This is  _quite_  the change in circumstance from a mouldering bedroll, Alistair," Zevran purred, wandering over to inspect the gilt handles on a nearby chest. "I feel an irresistable compulsion to prostrate myself on the royal bed before you. I've always been attracted to  _powerful men."_

Alistair almost choked on his ale as Zevran strolled across the chamber. The elf then proceeded to do as he'd threatened, sprawling triumphantly back on the furs.

"Good morning,  _mi sirenita,"_ he purred sideways at Flora, who smiled distractedly back at him while tucking a strand of hair back into her collapsing braid.

Leliana went to the curtains and drew them back, revealing Denerim's best view of the green saltwater estuary, flat and still as glass beneath a windless sky. Sunlight spilled into the bedchamber and Flora grimaced, turning her face away from its merciless brilliance.

"Ravens were sent out yesterday to every arling and bannorn in Ferelden," Eamon began, taking a glass of weak ale from a servant's platter. "Issuing instructions to gather troops and march immediately to the capital."

Alistair nodded, peering down to where Eamon was gesturing on the map table.

"How long will it take them to arrive?" he asked, eyes moving across the familiar names inked on the parchment. "We have to be ready when the Darkspawn horde arrives."

"A handful of weeks," replied Teagan, after a few moments of calculation. "If they march hard. Fair weather will favour speed, as well as the ability to use the western highway without fear of Loghain's reprisal."

Alistair nodded, also reaching out to take a flagon of watered ale.

"Speaking of Loghain- " he began, a slight shadow falling over his handsome features as he stared out over the saltwater estuary. "When will his sentencing be?"

"Whenever you wish it, Alistair," replied Eamon softly, watching his old ward's face closely. "But I suggest you wait a few days. The nobles need some time to organise themselves and send instruction to their seconds and sons in the country."

Flora, meanwhile, was avoiding a barrage of whispered questions from a gleeful Zevran; who had spotted the flagon of olive oil set innocuously beside the bed. In response she stuck out her tongue at him, eyes settling properly on her brothers. To her mild alarm, she realised they were both clad in travelling leathers.

Heedless of decorum, she shoved back the bedcovers and padded across the flagstones; ignoring the twitching faces of both Guerrins as they tried not to look at her slender, bare legs.

Flora came to a halt before Fergus, staring up at him in puzzlement. He gazed back down at his younger sister; whose unusual upbringing had clearly resulted in a lack of the propriety expected from a teyrn's daughter.

"Are you  _going_ somewhere?" she asked, an accusatory note ringing in her tone.

"Aye," the new teyrn replied, quietly. He reached out to smooth her bed-rumpled hair while deliberately not sparing too much thought as to the  _cause_  of such dishevelment. "It's been too long since the laurel flew over Highever. Now that Howe is dead, we're going to reclaim the Cousland seat."

Flora's face contorted, the conflict writ naked on her face. It was clear that she did not know what to do; torn between wanting to accompany them and her promise to stay at Alistair's side in his new position.

"No, pet," Fergus replied gently, seeing the corners of Flora's mouth turning down. "Your place is here, with Alistair and your army."

"It's not  _my…_ but… "

"You've done your bit, Floss," murmured Finian placatingly, linking her elbow with his. "Howe is dead. We can't let our baby sister do  _all_ the work now, can we? Besides, we won't be alone: Leonas is going to accompany us with his men, and so is your drunken dwarven friend, who I think is just hoping that there'll be a fight."

"As well as I," interjected Zevran, who had risen catlike from the bed and crossed the chamber towards them. "I have a lingering curiosity to see the northern coast, after months of hearing  _nena_ extolling its virtues."

Flora shot him a startled little glance, and the elf quirked a white-blond eyebrow back at her.

_No need to worry, mi sirenita. I will keep my eye on your slender, fine-hewn academic-brother, who prefers gripping quill to sword._

Elf and mage had always understood one another well. Flora beamed at Zevran, her face alight with gratitude, and he pretended to stagger backwards, clutching his heart.

"My Rialto lily, you honour me," he drawled, flashing Flora a wicked grin as he returned upright. "Your face is always so solemn; a  _smile_  is like a gift from the Maker."

Leliana, who found this mildly blasphemous, narrowed her eyes at the elf.

Flora then went impulsively to hug Finian, who peered down at her with an anxious little smile, clutching her fingers in his ink-splattered palm.

When she went to embrace Fergus, she was taken aback by the force of his responding arms, her older brother's chin pressing fiercely into the top of her head.

"Please look after my sister in our absence," Fergus entreated both Alistair and the Guerrins, reluctant to let his youngest sibling go. "I would… I would not have anything happen to her while we were away."

Considering that she was more than capable of looking after herself, Flora was about to respond with some indignity.

_**The man lost parents, wife and child in rapid succession. His worry is not unwarranted.** _

Alistair had come to the same realisation, crossing the chamber to put an arm around his sister-warden's shoulders.

"I swear to the Maker, Fergus, no harm will come to her," he replied bluntly, his graveness incongruous with the bright sunlight streaming through the leaded windows. "I'll defend her with my life."

Flora bit back her smart retort and nodded solemnly, knowing that her compliance was reassuring.

_There's no way that you'll ever put your own life before mine, brother-warden,_ she thought to herself, feeling Alistair press a kiss against her forehead.  _Not in a thousand years._

_No, a_ million  _years. Wait, which one is higher?_

A short time later, Zevran and the Couslands took their leave. Flora, suddenly filled with irrational anxiety, embraced each once more; not even berating the elf when he slid a sly hand downwards to pat her rear. As the door closed in their wake Flora sent a slightly abashed request up to the Maker; aware that she was not the Chantry's most diligent devotee.

_Sorry, I don't pray very often. But please, keep them safe._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flora feels very guilty about letting Fergus and Finian go to reclaim Highever, but really they have to do something, right? Their little sister has already claimed the kill for Howe.
> 
> Why did I choose such a fancy name for the Royal Steward? Every time I try and type it, it's like Gwilliame? Guielame? Guilame? Guillame?


	270. The Council Of The Bedchamber, Continued

Eamon drew Alistair to one side, murmuring his recommendations for the day. As the king's appointed regent, the elder Guerrin would take charge of the daily administrative minutiae of the throne; although now that a state of emergency had been officially declared, all non-essential business had been suspended.

On learning that Alistair had no interest in a guided tour of the Royal Palace, Eamon suggested that he and Flora spend the day with the armies encamped on the Alamarri Plains. A token unit of Templars had accompanied the mages; in times of crisis, the usual Chantry guidelines for their supervision had been lifted. However, these Templars would need firm reassurance that they had the support of both King and Chantry; their anxiety would be somewhat alleviated by a visit from Alistair or Leliana.

The Dalish would keep themselves to themselves, Eamon surmised; he doubted that they would welcome any assurance from human quarters. The dwarves were planning on digging out rudimentary defence trenches at the city walls, ready for the instalment of various siege weaponry. Although they did not bear any allegiance to the King of Ferelden, Eamon believed that Alistair's presence would bolster morale and inspire confidence regardless.

"And Florence will accompany you, naturally," the Arl of Redcliffe continued, nodding over at Flora. "It was her summons that these armies responded to, after all. She must be seen at your side – Warden and King together."

Flora was bent double, tightening the leather strap more securely around her knee. The silver locket dangled from around her neck as she bent forward, knocking against her collarbone; Eamon recognised it almost immediately. He had mended the broken pieces after a teary-eyed young Alistair had hurled it against the wall, on first learning the truth about his parentage.

"So we're going out?" she sought to clarify, returning upright.

Teagan gave a small nod.

"Aye, child. These men and women need to see who they're fighting for."

Flora scowled, but understood his meaning.

"I need to get dressed," she said, eyes flitting about the room anxiously. "I don't have anything."

"Ah," interjected Leliana, making a small gesture to a servant waiting unobtrusively in the background. "Leonas sent up more of young Habren's clothes for you."

On cue, two retainers clad in Bryland green entered carrying a chest between them, depositing it beside the wall before bowing respectfully towards Alistair.

"I'm meeting with the arls and banns this afternoon," Eamon continued, as Alistair ran a hand over his stubbled chin and wondered whether to shave it off. "I'll let you know at dinner tonight their estimates as to when their men will be mobilised."

"The sooner they raise their troops the better," replied Alistair, the memory of the Blight-touched field in the south rising starkly in his mind's eye. "The horde could arrive any week now, and we  _have_  to be ready."

"Well, I hope they get lost on their way here," Flora chirped, turning her back on them and pulling Alistair's shirt over her head; standing in the pink Orlesian bloomers on the flagstones.

Oblivious to Eamon's rapid aversion of eyes and Teagan's slightly strangulated cough; she was about to wander bare-legged over to the chest when Leliana grabbed her by the elbow and thrust her forcibly behind the dressing screen.

"Apologies, my lords," the bard murmured with practised grace as she shot a daggered look over her shoulder. "Florence doesn't have much concept of  _privacy."_

Alistair, laughing openly, strode over to the dresser and noted with some surprise that his clothing had already been placed inside.

"There was no  _privacy_ at the Circle," came the indignant response from behind the screen. "The Templars watched us do  _everything._  And before that, I lived in a  _one room hut._ I need clothes!"

"Don't you  _dare_ ," hissed Leliana, darting across to the chest as Flora stuck one menacing foot out from behind the screen. "I'll bring something over."

"Don't bring me any  _dresses!"_

The Guerrins diplomatically took their leave as the bard began to rummage through the chest. Before the arl departed, he left a flat, polished wooden case on the dresser, shooting Leliana a pointed look.

When Flora eventually emerged from behind the dressing screen, her burgeoning stomach had been compressed by the bodice and disguised by a green woollen tunic that fell partway down her thighs. Paired with black leggings and the customary boots; her rounded belly was far less obvious.

Alistair, who had dressed in another interchangeable leather and fur ensemble, flashed his sister-warden an appreciative grin as Flora raked her fingers through her hair.

"It's lucky that you and Habren Bryland are the same size," he murmured, stroking fingers over his chin and staring at his reflection in the mirror. "Do you think I should grow out my beard? I felt like I was the only man at the Landsmeet without facial hair."

Flora eyed her brother-warden's handsome, stubbled reflection, and then gave a little shrug.

"If you want. I wish  _I_  could grow a beard and look older," she replied, gloomily. "Everyone assumes that I'm Habren's  _age_  as well as her size."

As Alistair agonised over his chin with shaving blade in hand, Leliana retrieved the flat wooden case and presented it silently for his consideration. He eyed it for a moment, slightly warily.

"Is there a heretic's severed hand in here?" he asked, replacing the blade on the dresser and staring at the case.

Flora, giving up halfway through an attempt to restrain the torrent of hair pouring forth from her head, beamed and chipped in, eagerly

"Is it the preserved manhood of Arl Howe? Actually, based what I saw during his bath, you wouldn't need such a large box. You'd be better off with a  _small envelope._ "

Both Alistair and Leliana shot Flora a look of such mingled horror and revulsion that she immediately fell silent, chastised.

Shooting the bard a quick glance, Alistair opened the case and gazed down at the gold band nestled within.

It was thicker than those customarily worn by the nobility and based on the richness of its colour, it was hewn from the finest of ores. Around the top, the metal had been shaped into small, evenly spaced points.

It was not quite a crown; but it was not far from one.

Alistair gazed down at the band wordlessly for a moment, while Flora and Leliana shot each other quick little glances behind his back.

"It looks a bit big for me," he said at last, an odd strain to his voice as he lifted it from the padded case. "Knowing my luck, it'll fall off and everyone will have a good chuckle at my expense."

The moment stretched out until the noises of the palace seemed almost inappropriately loud around them. Seagulls called to each other as they wheeled above the estuary outside; the servants in the Cousland quarters chattered as they continued the arduous task of cleaning six months of wilful neglect. There was a quiet cough from a Royal Guard outside the door.

Flora stepped forward and took the band gently from Alistair's hands, running her thumbs unconsciously over the mirror-smooth gold.

"I thought that about the Cousland wreath at first," she replied, with a mild shrug. "But then it got tangled in my hair and I couldn't get it off even if I wanted to."

Alistair gazed at her for a heartbeat, then gave a small nod and ducked his head.

"Go on, then."

Flora reached up and placed the band gently on the crown of his head, nestling it against his hair. Alistair put a hand to swivel it around slightly, gazing at his reflection in the mirror.

"You don't have to wear it today if you don't want to," she whispered, gazing at her brother-warden's grave, reflected face. "But I don't think it's too big at all."

After a pause Alistair gave a rueful smile; his eyes meeting hers in the silvered glass.

"You're right, Flo, it fits well. I  _will_  wear it today, I think."

Flora stood on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek, clutching his elbow to steady herself.

The next moment Alistair had gripped her by the arms, pressing Flora back against the dresser as his hungry mouth sought out her own. The kiss was fierce and stole the air from her lungs; lips and tongue snaking around her own with breathless, urgent desire. She could feel his arousal pressed against her hip as he bent to close the difference in height between them, his fingers gripping her forearms hard enough to leave red impressions.

Leliana coughed pointedly and Alistair let his sister-warden go with visible reluctance.

"Do you need me to depart for a minute?" the bard enquired acerbically, voice sharp as the _flechettes_  she carried about her person.

"No," replied Flora obediently as she used both hands to smooth down her rumpled hair.

"A  _minute?"_ said Alistair simultaneously, expression indignant.

Somehow, Leliana had already taught herself the layout of the Royal Palace despite having resided there for only a single night. She led them confidently back down the corridors, past various chambers and buttressed halls; down two circular staircases and across a minstrel's balcony. The servants – used to a royal presence – drew against the walls with heads respectfully bowed as their future king passed by.

After the twelfth servant had skilfully bobbed their knees whilst clutching a mop, Alistair found that he was almost growing accustomed to the deference. Truthfully, it was not too different from the way that Arl Bryland's household had acted during their month's residence at South Reach.

Eventually they reached the blue-carpeted entrance hall, with the Landsmeet chamber branching off to one side and the two great Mabari statues at the doorway. The Royal Steward, Guillaume, immediately shot up in Flora's estimation by providing them with wrapped packages of food. Leliana departed with a murmur that she had some  _business_  to see to; and would join them on the field later.

"I would usually have arranged guards for you, Prince Alistair," the Nevarran steward said, watching Flora shove the packages into her leather pack. "But it seems that you have your own escorts for the time being."

_Until you are king proper, at least,_ the sentence finished, unspoken.

Guillaume made a gesture towards the vast Mabari statues; between which two familiar silhouettes were waiting.

Flora let out a squawk, striding forward with a beam that was not returned by either Sten or Morrigan. The Witch of the Wilds was leaning against the door frame, eyeing an impassive Royal Guard with a provocative stare.

"You're going to spend the day with us!" Flora announced, excitedly. "Alistair,  _Alistair,_  this is just like when we started our journey to Redcliffe. Remember? From- from Lothering."

_**Poor, lost Lothering.** _

Alistair smiled down at her, squinting against the brilliant sunshine as they emerged into the courtyard. It was a mild and bright day, with a stiff breeze that tousled the banners suspended from the palace walls. The green estuary gleamed like a sheath of tourmaline; reflecting the wisps of cloud scudding across the sky overhead.

"I know, sweetheart," he replied as the stable boys swarmed around them like eager, deferential puppies; each desperately wanting to be the one to bring the handsome young Theirin lord his horse.

"Well, 'tis about time you stopped  _debauching_  yourselves in whorehouses and started to focus on the matter at hand," retorted Morrigan, her voice lashing like a whip. "Which is stopping the Blight before it takes _north_  as well as south."

The stable boys brought out a variety of steeds for Alistair to peruse; having learnt that he had a secret fondness for horses. Alistair, unable to resist, stepped forward to run a practised hand over their glossy, muscular hides.

"We've got our armies now," replied Flora, her smile persisting in the face of Sten's scowl. "I wrote to them before we left South Reach – Leliana helped – and they actually  _came."_

"Why is that remarkable?" Sten interjected, bluntly. "They were obligated under oath to respond to your summons."

"Yes, but…" Flora trailed off, watching Alistair feel the fetlock of a nut-brown mare. "I thought they might just ignore it. Since I'm only a warden-recruit."

"They'd be fools if they did," the witch commented lightly, rejecting the offer of a horse with a scornful flick of her fingers. "Denerim's walls might be high enough to block out reality; but the rest of Ferelden sees well enough the massing numbers of the horde."

Flora nodded, and then beamed at Morrigan. The cat-eyed woman snorted, turning her face away quickly to hide the flicker of indecision passing across her features.

"Has your greying Warden spoken privately with you yet?" she murmured, her gaze resettling on Alistair as he slid one foot into the stirrup and hoisted himself easily into the saddle.

"Who, Riordan? No," replied Flora, manhandling a stray lock of hair back into her low ponytail. "He's been down at the encampment all night with the commanders."

"Hm," said Morrigan, her expression unreadable. "Well then, I shall see you on the field."

Flora watched with no small measure of envy as the witch's shape blurred and shrank; folding into a dark, winged form that wheeled its way towards the horizon.

"I wish  _I_  could do that," she said out loud to Sten, who gave a single, disinterested grunt.

The next moment Alistair had steered the horse over to Flora's side, reaching down with a strong arm to help haul her into the saddle. She settled herself across the horse's flanks, leaning back against her brother-warden's chest.

"Holding on?"

Flora, fingers dropping to grip the pommel, gave a slight nod. Sten, who had been guided to a sturdy shire horse by a mildly terrified stable boy, cast her a disparaging look.

"Still entirely _incompetent_  in the saddle?"

Flora grimaced, giving a rueful shrug of affirmation. Alistair's arm tightened around her waist and she felt his breath warm on the back of her neck.

"And I wouldn't have it any other way, my dear," he murmured, uncovering a patch of skin and pressing his lips against it. "If I have my way, you'll ride with me forever."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: 
> 
> Lol Morrigan knows that she's going to have to shag Alistair if they go the ritual route, uh oh
> 
> This chapter also featuring: Alistair getting outraged at Leliana accusing him of being a minute man, lol.


	271. The Last Bastion Against Darkness

Wardens and companions made good time down to the army encampment, navigating through the noble and market districts before leaving the city via the north-western gate. This was in spite of the crowds that thronged the streets, drawn from their dwellings by good weather and sunshine.

Under Eamon's regency, Alistair had not yet been formally announced as King – but gossip travelled nearly as quickly in Denerim as it would in Val Royeaux. Rumours had already been spreading for weeks about the presence of a new Theirin prince in the city; now that Alistair rode amongst them clad in kingly leathers and with the coronet of royalty gleaming around his forehead, the rumours seemed to manifest in reality.

The crowds parted before them like the retreating tide, their eyes darting first to Alistair's Maric-inherited features, and then to the golden band on his head. The raw hope on their faces – Denerim had always been loyal to Ferelden's oldest dynasty – was so transparent that Alistair forgot to grit his teeth at being the centre of attention.

The citizens' eyes went next to Flora, recognising the distinctive, rich-red hair and characteristic solemnity of Highever's ruling family. Isolated cries of  _Theirin!_ and  _Cousland!_ followed in their wake; excited murmurs traveling like wildfire through the crowds.

"I wish I'd brushed my hair properly," Flora whispered, feeling yet another errant strand drooping against her shoulders. "I didn't know that everyone was going to be staring at  _me,_ too. I wish I was wearing a  _big hat."_

They arrived in the army encampment by mid-morning, leaving the horses in a makeshift stables that had been constructed against the city walls. More dwarven troops had arrived that morning; the Wardens' army now sprawled along the entire length of the Alamarri estuary. Sunlight glinted off sword racks and polished armour stands, and the air was filled with the sound of clashing weapons and working tools. The camp had grown a sense of permanence overnight; with distinct areas set up for drilling, crafting and domestic needs. Flora and Alistair were still hailed as they walked through the rows of tents, but now the calls were those of  _Wardens! Grey Wardens!_

_What does this remind me of?_ Flora thought to herself as they headed towards the command tent.  _It feels familiar._

_**Ostagar.** _

Flora grimaced, not liking the comparison. Thrusting the unwelcome thought to the back of her mind, her attention was drawn above the central tent. The Grey Warden griffon fluttered from the highest flagpole, caught by the summery breeze.

"Riordan must have brought it from the cache," breathed Alistair, as both he and Flora came to a mutual halt. "I wish Duncan could be here to see it. I hope what you said about the  _Peraquialus_ is true. You know, about Ferelden's greatest heroes riding on it through the heavens, for all eternity?"

"It's  _definitely_  true," replied Flora firmly, catching sight of Morrigan unfolding into her usual buxom shape from the corner of her eye. "My dad told me about it."

Riordan was inside the command tent, leaning over the map table and conversing with the Dalish commander, Mahariel. As they entered, the senior warden returned upright and went to meet them, tentative hope writ bare on his grizzled features.

"We might have a chance," he said bluntly in place of a greeting, eyes flicking briefly to the golden coronet on Alistair's head. "There are weighty numbers here, and more arrive by the day. With the troops of the Royal Army bolstering them, it  _might_  be enough."

"One Darkspawn can take out five men," added Mahariel, her dark cat-eyes flashing in the shadowed gloom. "We need all the bodies we can get."

"Summons were sent out by raven last night," replied Alistair, eyes dropping to the inked replica of the Alamarri plains. "The troops of South Reach, Redcliffe and Rainesfere have been ready for weeks; so they should be able to depart almost immediately."

Sten joined him at the map table, experienced eyes dropping to the counters denoting different types of troops.

"What is the planned formation?" he enquired bluntly, a deep crease folded across his forehead.

"The Royal Army will engage the horde directly here, within this basin."

Riordan used a pointer to nudge the wooden counters into place on the map. "They will funnel the horde down this rise, where the mages and the elves will flank them and attack at range. The dwarves will construct trenches and other defences to shape the path of engagement further."

The Qunari nodded, and could seemingly find no flaw in the plan.

"Where will we be?" Flora asked, and felt Alistair flinch as though struck beside her. She was not the only one to notice; Riordan had also caught sight of the brief flicker of despair across Alistair's face.

"Up on the city walls," the senior warden replied, tracing the outline on the map. "We need to be able to move quickly, in order to reposition ourselves to meet the Archdemon."

"And am I correct in assuming that once the Archdemon is dead, the battle is won?" Morrigan enquired lightly, her rich, golden gaze settling on the older man.

Riordan gave a slight nod, eyes moving curiously to the Chasind apostate.

"Aye. Without their commander, they will temporarily lose momentum and direction. For several brief minutes, they will wander aimlessly and try to flee – it is during that window of confusion that they must be entirely eradicated."

Flora nodded, lifting a hand to bite absentmindedly at her nail. She peered down at the map, upon which the various counters rested.

"There's going to be a lot of people killed," she said after a moment, an odd expression passing across her face.

"Aye," replied Riordan, bluntly. "Many will die. It's inevitable."

Flora swivelled her head, as though she could see through the canvas to the men and women from the most disparate races of Ferelden; diligently digging trenches, sharpening weapons and practising drill on the grassy plains.

"It'll be my fault," she said, brow creasing. "I brought them here."

"Casualties are expected during a battle," retorted Sten, shooting her a mildly incredulous look. "Don't be so unworldly."

"The Qunari speaks the truth," added Morrigan, pursing her lips superciliously. "What would fate have in store for them if they remained within their Circles or their forests? Certain death at the hands of the Darkspawn."

"Morrigan is right," agreed Alistair, shooting a reluctant glance across at the dark-haired witch. "At least this way they have a chance to defend themselves. To die with a sword in their hands, rather than… trapped in their homes, or fleeing across the fields."

Eyebrows drawing together, Flora bit anxiously at her thumbnail. Alistair glanced over at his sister-warden as she shifted from foot to foot on the woven rush matting.

"Don't fret over it, my dear," he instructed, watching her quiver like a fearful marionette.

"But- "

Alistair reached out to grip her wrist gently, lifting her hand to his mouth. Startled, Flora gazed up at him and he stared back down at her, eyes gleaming like heated coals as his lips pressed gently against her curling fingers.

" _Flora."_ His tone brokered no dissension.

Flora peered at her brother-warden and then blushed suddenly; peering at her boots as she recalled what they had done together the previous night. Alistair continued to stare at her, his gaze moving meticulously over her features as though he were a sculptor tasked with replicating them.

"My, my," murmured Morrigan acerbically, her burnished stare moving from one Warden to the other. "'Tis quite a change from when we were in Lothering."

The Wardens spent the morning walking the perimeter of the camp, inspecting the earthworks created by the dwarves. They had hewn crudely into the soft, muddy soil of the Alamarri plains, peeling back the sea-grass to reveal harder clay beneath. Used to quarrying through stone and ore; they had made remarkably rapid progress in constructing a series of ridges and gullies that would force the Darkspawn horde to split as they approached the city. Further earthworks had been created at the base of Denerim's walls, reinforcing the stone and providing a barrier for the defenders.

One enthusiastic dwarven engineer showed Flora and Alistair the various siege engines that were being constructed at strategic points on the field. Partially built trebuchets and ballistae squatted like half-form beasts, oddly shaped and strangely malevolent.

"One o' these bad boys can hurl a rock the size of a horse," yelled the engineer over the sound of hammering as Flora gawped, wide-eyed. "It'll take out a dozen Darkspawn at once."

Alistair was fascinated by the odd machines, clambering up onto the base of one half-completed structure to inspect the firing mechanism. The dwarven engineer eagerly joined him, pointing out the cunningly designed counterweight.

Flora, who elected to remain on the grass, jumped as Morrigan manifested quite unexpectedly at her elbow.

"Aah!"

"I cannot see the purpose of these contraptions," the witch said abruptly, derisive golden eyes moving over the skeletal trebuchet. "What does it accomplish? 'Tis a most  _unwieldy_  thing."

"You put giant rocks in it and then it flings them through the air," Flora replied vaguely, waving back at Alistair as he perched halfway up the wooden structure.

Morrigan immediately looked a fraction more interested.

"Could I put that blasted Antivan elf in it?"

Flora giggled, and shot her a mildly appalled look.

"No-o!"

Morrigan snorted to herself, crossing her arms over her chest. The witch watched Alistair lean out precariously to inspect the hinge, face lit with boyish excitement.

Flora shifted from foot to foot as she absentmindedly pressed a hand to the curve of her stomach, then startled as Morrigan hissed at her.

"Stop it! You have done such at least a half-dozen times this morning. I thought your purpose was to  _prevent_  detection."

Flora snatched her fingers away as though they had been burnt, grimacing to herself.

Alistair eventually descended from the trebuchet platform, landing with a thud on the damp mud. Cheeks flushed with excitement, he immediately hastened to Flora's side.

"Aren't these things clever? You can see  _right_  across the battlefield. After all this is over – if we get through it – I want to look into getting some built for Denerim."

"Morrigan suggested putting people you don't like in them," Flora offered, and Alistair let out a startled bark of laughter.

"Ha! I could fling unwelcome visitors towards Val Royeaux," he offered and his sister-warden beamed up at him.

Alistair gazed back down at her, expression softening.

"You know what else I noticed up there?"

"Eh?"

He reached out and touched the fine-hewn arc of Flora's cheek, tracing the scattered freckles across her nose.

"How lovely you are," he replied, frankly. "My beautiful girl.  _Maker's Breath,_  but I'm the luckiest man in Thedas."

Morrigan rolled her eyes, muttering something dark and unappreciative under her breath. Flora went bright red, dropping her gaze as Alistair planted a chivalrous kiss to the back of her hand.

They ate lunch in the mess area, shoulder to shoulder on the long tables with elves and dwarves. Although the armies seemed to mostly keep to themselves; there were a handful of communal cooking areas where the more curious members of Ferelden's native races could mingle.

Despite their disparate physical appearances, elves and dwarves were quickly learning that they had more in common than first impressions might suggest; for one, they were both proud and ancient races with a tendency towards traditionalist isolationism. At first Alistair's golden band caused a prickling of attention as he arrived, but when he sat down at a table without ceremony, they swiftly resumed their conversations.

Alistair perched on the wooden bench alongside his sister-warden, one hand resting on her thigh as he forked beef stew into his mouth. Flora, who had hastily declined the meat-based dish, was content with a handful of raw carrots accompanied by a large hunk of grainy bread.

"You're sure you don't want any, sweetheart?" Alistair asked, raising his voice over the general babble of conversation. "You can finish mine."

Flora felt her stomach turning over at the prospect; the smell of boiled beef was sufficient in itself to induce nausea.

"No, thank you," she whispered, smiling at him to disguise her queasiness.

Alistair grinned back at her, fingers caressing a slow and desirous pattern over her thigh. Ducking his head, he murmured something in Flora's ear that brought a sudden rush of colour to her cheeks. When he winked at her, she dropped her spoon with a clatter, flustered.

"Wardens?"

A woman stood before them, her hawklike features keenly focused. Dark hair was pulled up in an unforgiving bun, and the fine lines of maturity were just beginning to encroach at the corners of her eyes. From the distinctive Circle robes to the staff she wore on her back, it was obvious that she was a mage.

Alistair withdrew his hand and nodded up at the woman, eyebrows rising.

"Yes?"

"My name is Arnette Amell. I've been sent to show you around the mage's camp."

The name sounded vaguely familiar to Flora, but she could not quite recall where she had heard it before. Shoving one of the carrots from the plate into her pocket, she rose dutifully and followed in Alistair's wake.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Arnette Amell was the mage who Flora was supposed to share a room with, had she actually moved into the upper quarters within the Circle after passing her Harrowing.


	272. Arnette Amell and Telathin Surana

The two Circles of Ferelden had positioned themselves slightly apart from both dwarves and Dalish; their tents cut from a distinctive violet cloth. Devoid of siege weaponry or target ranges, the camp contained instead a veritable wealth of arcane paraphernalia. As they passed between the tents, Flora caught tantalising half-glimpses of piled mouldering books; shelves stacked with vials of refined lyrium and various potions.

"Maker preserve us, is that who I think it is?"

"It is! It's the  _Vase!_ Who is she with?"

Flora's head swivelled to one side as she overhead the unflattering nickname that had been ascribed to her at the Tower.

A group of mages in their mid-twenties, both elven and human, were seated at a round table; rather incongruously gathered around a china teapot. Flora could sense Alistair's incredulity beside her, her brother-warden stiffening both at the uncomplimentary hail and at the sight of a tea party in the midst of the battlefield. Arnette Amell gave a little huff, gesturing for the Wardens to follow her between the tents.

"What did they call you? The  _Vase?"_  Alistair asked Flora in confusion, as they headed towards a tall, dome-shaped tent draped with the banner of Kinloch Hold.

Flora nodded, catching sight of the dark, winged form of Morrigan circling overhead.

"Because I had a nice outside, but nothing of value inside," she replied, ambivalently. "I always got sent away from class for being incompetent."

" _Nothing of value?!"_

Alistair's jaw dropped in outrage and he came to a halt, part-turning around towards the jesting mages.

"I've half a mind to go back there," he declared, indignantly. "Put them right!"

Flora reached out to touch his elbow, shaking her head.

"I didn't care what they said then," she replied, honestly. "I still don't, now. Oh!"

She had just remembered when she had heard the name  _Arnette Amell_ before.

"I was going to be your roommate," Flora said abruptly, as the brunette woman was about to duck inside the largest tent. "The morning after I passed my Harrowing."

Arnette paused, her dark eyes sparking with recognition as they slid back over her shoulder.

"Of  _course_ ," she said, clearly frustrated with herself for not making the connection earlier. "They told me they you'd been recruited into the Grey Wardens. I should have remembered, but we've… we've been through a lot at our Circle over the past six months."

For a moment the fierce expression on Arnette's face flickered, recalling the horrific descent into madness and death triggered by the maleficar.

"Come in or go," came a sharp, familiar female voice from within the tent. "But don't hover on the threshold!"

Arnette cleared her throat, pulling aside the canvas to reveal a remarkable replica of Irving's office within the Circle Tower. Stuffed armchairs and a chaise were gathered around a small table; a bookshelf crammed with arcane texts sat to one side. Temporary shelving had been constructed to house a variety of potions. The interior was not lit by flame, but by a series of bluish-white orbs that hovered near the tented ceiling like diminutive stars.

Wynne was seated in one armchair, sipping delicately at a teacup while riffling through a sheaf of parchment. From the chair opposite, Irving rose to his feet, long, navy robes sweeping the rush matting.

Flora bowed reflexively on seeing the First Enchanter, while he ducked simultaneously in response to Alistair's presence.

"Your Highness," the old mage murmured, a faint smile creasing the corner of his eyes. "And young Flora. Or do you go by Lady Cousland now, child?"

"Flora is fine," replied Flora hastily, absurdly pleased at seeing the old man hale and hearty. She could not help but recall how he had looked caught up in the abomination's putrefying tendrils at the top of the Circle Tower. From the rueful expression on Irving's face, it was clear that he shared the unwelcome memory.

"Please, both of you – sit," he entreated, gesturing them towards the empty armchairs. "Would you like some tea?"

Flora, who had grown accustomed to the drink during her four years at the Circle, gave a grateful nod. Alistair, who could not bring himself to drink foliage steeped in water, returned instead a polite denial.

Irving began to dutifully relay information about the gathering of the mages, informing the Wardens that another contingent of senior enchanters would be arriving from Jainen Circle within the week. Alistair listened closely, leaning forwards with hands on knees and his eyes fixed on the First Enchanter's face.

The tea was boiling and Flora inadvertently scalded her tongue, lowering her cup with a grimace. Immediately, she felt the prickling sensation of her magic rising in her throat, smoothing out the blistered skin.

Irving shot her a curious glance, breaking off partway through his sentence.

"Wynne tells me that you still cannot cast from the other schools of magic," he said, watching Flora place the cup carefully back on the table. "Frankly, it bewilders me. I've never known a case like it. Even powerful healers whom I've known in the past have been readily able to call upon flame or lightning."

What with the  _Vase_ comment and the First Enchanter's astonishment at her continuing lack of ability; Flora was feeling rather gloomy. She felt as though she were back in the Circle Tower, mocked by her peers and despaired of by her instructors.

"Have you ever fought a Darkspawn?" Alistair interrupted, politeness barely disguising the steeliness of the words. "Or a ghoul?"

When the old mage shook his head, Alistair continued, light and deliberate.

"Well,  _we_  have. Despite being woefully unprepared and ill-equipped, we've overcome ogres, demons, werewolves and even  _dragons_  – all because of Flo's 'limited' magic. The only reason we've been able to do  _this_ \- " here, he swung his arm to encompass the rest of the army encampment – "is because she's healed our wounds and kept our enemies at bay."

There was silence for a long moment; Flora went pink and gazed down at her lap. Finally, Irving smiled ruefully and took another sip from his tea.

"I apologise, young one. The spirits that aid you are clearly very powerful and I would not have them seek vengeance on me in the Fade tonight."

"They wouldn't," replied Flora automatically, glancing sideways at Alistair. He was still stiff-jawed and indignant on her behalf, and she felt a sudden rush of affection towards her overly defensive brother-warden.

"Anyway, I'm grateful to have Wynne at my side once again. She'll be invaluable in training our mages to use their spells offensively," continued Irving, sending the teapot floating back towards a side-table with a fleeting gesture. "We lost many of our more experienced battle-mages at Ostagar."

"Will you be commanding them in the field?" asked Alistair tentatively, noting how the First Enchanter had aged since the Wardens' first visit to the Circle Tower.

Irving laughed wryly, shaking his head.

"Prince Alistair, I am well past the age of combating my foes on the battleground, I will be present, but in the rearguard. No, Telathin Surana will lead our mages in the field."

The First Enchanter rose, with a bow of the head.

"Excuse me, but it is nearly time for my session with our resident Templar captain; a nervy fellow who seems convinced that we are all on the verge of spontaneously erupting into abominations. I must go and offer soothing reassurance to calm his jangling nerves. Enchanter Amell, would you fetch Surana? I imagine that he is on the training ground."

The dark-haired woman nodded, retreating from the tent in a brisk whirl of maroon robes.

Alistair leaned back in his chair, absentmindedly stroking the unshaven growth on his chin. Wynne placed her own teacup back on the table, smiling wryly to herself as she turned lined eyes on the young prince.

"What was it like to wake in the King's bedchamber, Alistair?"

Memories of being pressed into the mattress with hot breath on the back of her neck filled Flora's mind; willing herself not to blush, she gazed down at her lap determinedly. Hearing Alistair cough, shifting in his seat beside her, she realised that he was recalling the same thing.

"It was… fine," her brother-warden replied, with a mild shrug. "Not much different from waking up at South Reach, or at the Guerrin manor in the city. Guards at the door, people bobbing up and down like puppets, and breakfast on a tray in the morning."

Wynne hid a smile, having long suspected that one aim of their extended sojourn at Arl Bryland's fortress was to acclimatise their stable boy to the lifestyle of a prince.

"And I woke up with Flo next to me," Alistair continued; her name like a devotion on his tongue. "What could I  _not_  face with her at my side?"

The elderly mage smiled at them both, her eyes tinged with a sudden sadness.

"Alistair, you always had the capability to face whatever the world had to throw at you," Wynne murmured, her voice low and firm. "Your father's blood runs strong in your veins. It just took some time for you to acknowledge it."

Alistair reached for his sister-warden's hand, in the fish-rope ritual that had become second nature over the past seven months. Flora slid her palm against his, feeling his fingers envelope her own possessively.

"Still," continued the senior enchanter, her voice softening as she gazed at them both. "I am glad that you have found strength in each other. You will need it for what is to come, I fear."

Wynne pushed herself to her feet, reaching for the hawthorn staff resting against the arm of her chair.

"Right, then. I shall see you at dinner tonight up at the Palace," she said, bestowing a smile upon them both. "I'm going to make sure our new battle-mages don't accidentally set each other alight."

The door-flap dropped closed in her wake and the Wardens were alone, with the hovering blue lights casting strange patterns over the tent walls. The noises from the camp outside were oddly subdued; as though the canvas had been enchanted with a muffling spell.

Alistair prodded experimentally at one of the floating teacups, and then swore under his breath as it tipped stagnant liquid over the table. Flora had wandered over to the bookshelf, running her finger across the dusty spines of various ancient tomes. Picking one at random, she let the pages fall open and gazed down at the scribed contents. To her mild irritation, it was entirely indecipherable – the vocabulary was archaic and was interspersed with runic text.

"It's in Ancient Tevene," came an amused voice from the tent doorway. "And if you had the capability of reading it, combined with that face, you'd be my dream woman."

Alistair's head swivelled towards the source of the noise, eyes narrowing.

A dark-haired elf stood at the entrance to the tent, amused and with arms crossed over his chest. Unusually for his race, he stood nearly at the height of a human man, and was clad in finely carved silverite armour. A long steel sword hung at his waist; indeed, the elf sported no sign that he was a mage.

"Telathin Surana, Your Highness," he murmured with practised deference, bowing towards a scowling Alistair. "I will be leading the mages in battle against the Darkspawn."

The elf turned towards Flora, who was just retrieving the book that had been startled from her hands at his entrance.

"I can't read it," she said bluntly in place of a greeting. "It looks like nonsense to me."

"And you must be the charming Dora," Telathin Surana declared, swiftly crossing the tent and bringing her hand to his mouth. "Where were  _you_ hiding at Kinloch Hold? In the dark crevices of the library? Under the blankets of your bunk? I'm  _devastated_  that you escaped my attentions."

Alistair's face was now almost comical in its outrage, nostrils flaring like a provoked Mabari. Flora, bemused, returned the book to its shelf.

"My name is Flora," she corrected. "Not  _Dora._ And I spent most of my time in the kitchen, or on my knees in the corridor."

The elf raised one perfectly shaped dark eyebrow towards her.

"Washing the tiles," Flora clarified hastily. "Are you the commander of the mages?"

Surana nodded, evaporating the spilt tea with a flick of his finger.

"Yes,  _da'len._ I've spent the past year escorting Chantry missionaries in Rivain; my combat skills are second to none."

"Are you even a mage?" asked Alistair rudely, eyes moving up and down the armoured and sword-sporting elf.

Telathin bowed his head in exaggerated reverence.

"I am an arcane warrior, my lord. I cull my foes with an _enchanted_  blade at close range."

Alistair grunted, gesturing towards a carefully inked map of the Alamarri Plains that hung against one wall.

"Hmph. Show us your strategy, then."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Two Origin mages for the price of one! I'm glad I got to incorporate them later on in my story, despite completely forgetting about them at appropriate points earlier on (i.e. in the Circle chapters).
> 
> I like this chapter because it reflects how Flora was treated in the Circle – you have the mages reviving the old insult of the Vase, Irving's incredulity at the narrow scope of her ability… and Flora herself is very meek and mild in the presence of both senior mages; she hangs her head and spends most of her time gazing into her lap.
> 
> Lol, Alistair has become so accustomed to Zevran's constant – but harmless - innuendos and over-familiarity, that he is genuinely taken aback when someone else genuinely flirts with Flora. His face is like the WTF emoji, while Flora is still bemused at being called Dora. Flashbacks to Wynne and the Fiona debacle!


	273. No Honour In A Traitor's Death

By the time that the Wardens left Irving's tent, the sun was beginning to edge itself towards the horizon. Gilded light crept across the plain, transmuting steel and silverite to gold; the tangle of tents and trebuchets casting strange shadows across the sea-grass. The gulls cried to one another as they wheeled above the estuary, darting through the waning light.

Sten emerged wordlessly as Alistair and Flora headed towards the stables,  _Asala_  a ribbon of bright silver on his back.

"The last thing we need is  _more_  perverted elves," Alistair complained as he hauled Flora up before him on the saddle. "I thought we might have some reprieve in Zev's absence."

Flora cackled quietly, leaning back against her brother-warden's chest as he gripped the reins in a capable hand. A light drizzle began to fall as they made their way back up to the city walls and through the western gate. Scattered hails and greetings followed in their wake; the majority of them directed towards Alistair.

Alistair had almost become accustomed to the attention and inclined his head to acknowledge the cries; still, he was grateful when they passed into the noble district. Here, the wide cobbled boulevards were almost deserted, their worthy residents having withdrawn to their manors to escape the inclement weather.

The rain fell soft but incessant, pattering insistently against the cobbles. Alistair's horse pricked its nostrils, turning instinctively towards the grounds surrounding the Royal Palace. It was fortunate that the beast knew the correct route to take; since Alistair had grown distracted by the proximity of his sister-warden's body. Flora was trying not to laugh as he nuzzled his stubbled face against her neck, fingers edging over the damp velvet of her tunic. He whispered soft intimacies into her ear to make her blush, teeth teasing at the lobe with just enough pressure to leave a mark. The Qunari averted his eyes and made a sound of disgust, leaving them on the edge of the royal hunting grounds.

Once they had returned to the palace, neither paid much attention to the journey back to the King's chamber. Fingers tangled together like netting, they stumbled down the endless passages; servants bobbing dutifully in their wake. Alistair kept ducking his head down to press his lips against his sister-warden's neck, grunting under his breath as he circled Flora's waist with his arms.

"I can't wait to be alone with you," he mumbled, clumsily kissing her ear and getting a mouthful of hair. "I've wanted you since lunchtime. Wait, are we going the right way?"

Flora giggled, vaguely recognising the portrait of the  _halla_ being torn apart by Mabari from their arrival the previous night.

"I think so?"

Alistair groaned, stealing another hard kiss from her lips before glancing impatiently up and down the corridor.

"We must be nearly there now – ha!"

He had just spotted the distinctive laurel carved above the wooden double doors marking the Cousland chambers. Triumphantly, he gripped Flora's hand tightly and led her down towards the King's bedchamber.

The guards gave a salute of respect, shifting their halberds from one hand to another deftly. Alistair kissed his sister-warden fully on the mouth, before giving her an eager nudge towards the doors. One guard hastened to push them open, and Alistair squeezed Flora's fingers in desirous anticipation. She smiled up at him, nearly tripping over her own feet as they crossed the threshold.

" _Ahem,"_  said Eamon, clearing his throat. "I trust you've had an enlightening day?"

A round table and several chairs had been brought into the king's bedchamber. The furniture was positioned to take advantage of the last rays of light from the receding sun; which trailed alluring honeyed fingers across its polished surface. Two attendant servants waited unobtrusively beside the hearth, heads bowed and ears pricked for the slightest instruction.

Eamon, Wynne and Teagan were all waiting patiently at the table, untouched dishes and platters of food before them. The arl tactfully averted his eyes, allowing Flora to hastily pull the laces of her tunic tight while trying to avoid the senior enchanter's disapproving glower.

"Hello, uncles, Wynne," Alistair replied, making a manful effort to overcome his disappointment. "I hope you've had a good day."

Both Flora and Alistair came to sit down at the wooden table, the former already bracing herself in case there was meat.

Naturally – this being Ferelden - there was a selection of boiled and roasted flesh available for consumption. Flora missed most of the conversation for the first part of the meal; so focused was she on maintaining the neutrality of her stomach. She nibbled miserably at carrots and cooked vegetables, knowing that this alone would not be sufficient to sate the demands of her hearty appetite.

Eamon spent the first course updating Alistair on the summoning of the Royal Army. Although Orlais was wealthy enough to maintain a permanent force; Ferelden could only fund a relatively small core of full-time troops. The bulk of the Royal Army came from the nobles' own lands, their retainers putting down pitchfork and picking up sword when the order came.

"The men from Dragon's Peak should start arriving the day after tomorrow," Eamon was saying though a mouthful of chicken. "And as for Amaranthine- "

Flora grimaced into her bowl of roasted turnip at the mention of Howe's arling; beside her, she felt Alistair go rigid with displeasure.

"Thomas Howe was his father's named heir, and he has issued instructions to rally the men," continued Eamon, with a nod.

"Wasn't there an older son?" Wynne interrupted, dropping a bone for one of the ubiquitous palace Mabari. "Ned? Neil?"

"Aye, Nathaniel," the arl confirmed. "He fell out with his father some time ago, I believe he's away squiring in Starkhaven. Anyway, by week's end – or the beginning of next – the forces from South Reach should have arrived too."

The servants arrived to clear away the empty platters. To Flora's transparent delight, strips of smoked salmon were brought out alongside wedges of cheese and red apples harvested from the Royal orchards. Fresh wine was brought out, the glass bottles dusty from their long residence in some forgotten cellar.

"This was Teagan's idea," Eamon informed both Wardens, smiling at Flora's visible excitement. "The salmon. Fish isn't customarily served in the Palace, but he made a special request."

Alistair grinned across at his younger uncle, appreciative of the bann's consideration. Flora – who was still accustomed to showing gratitude like a fisherman's daughter as opposed to a  _teyrnina –_ reached out and put her fingers over the back of Teagan's hand.

"Thank you," she breathed earnestly, patting his knuckles. "I am  _very_  grateful."

The Bann of Rainesfere gave her a rather rictus smile in return. As the heat of Flora's fingers seeped through his skin, Teagan could feel his efforts to mentally recast her as strictly platonic niece crashing about his ears.

"It was my pleasure, poppet," he muttered through gritted teeth, willing his voice to remain even.

Evening had fallen properly by the time that the final platters of dessert fruits had been taken away. A glimmering swathe of stars had settled haphazardly across the navy sky, a globular moon hung suspended like a lantern above the estuary. It was the type of quiet, still night that made everything outside the window seem like a tableaux, or a stage set in a Val Royeaux play.

The table and chairs were carried out by more unobtrusive servants, their eyes cast determinedly downwards. Alistair leaned against the side of the window, peering through the leaded glass at the estuary below. Flora was seated on the window seat below him, combing her fingers through her hair to work loose the knots.

As the Guerrins and Wynne prepared to take their leave, Eamon paused before the doorway.

"The trial should take place by the end of the week," he said in a low voice that nevertheless carried easily across the chamber. "Once everyone has written their letters and issued instructions to their servants."

Alistair visibly stiffened, fingers tightening on the stone window frame.

"I'm to be the judge?" he asked, hazel eyes shadowed. "And decide Mac Tir's fate?"

Eamon gave a slight nod, turning in the archway as the guards held the heavy doors open.

"Aye, son. The Landsmeet have found in your favour, and they will support you and Florence. Whatever method of dealing with the general you recommend, they will countenance."

As the doors closed in their wake, the hearth hissed and spat sparks across the flagstones. Alistair bowed his head, a grimace temporarily contorting the handsome features.

"I thought this would be easy," he murmured, and Flora was unsure whether he was talking to her or to his own conscience. "I've spend so many hours imagining the  _worst_  traitor's punishments being inflicted on the man. I've pictured him being torn apart by Mabari; hung, drawn and quartered; put in one of those spiked contraptions they use on traitors in Orlais…"

He trailed off and Flora gazed anxiously up at her brother-warden; this manner of talk so contrary to his usual compassionate demeanour.

"But there's no… no  _honour_  in any of that," Alistair continued, shoulders slumping. "I don't know – I don't think I could even watch a man being tortured. I know that he's a traitor, and responsible for the deaths of the Wardens and the King, but…"

Flora reached up and drew him down onto the window seat beside her. Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead against his own, grey irises meeting his anguished hazel stare.

"Then don't give him a traitor's death," she whispered, tracing the line of his stubbled jaw with her fingers. "Give him a clean one. Alistair, you can do what you want. Duncan doesn't need you to claim  _vengeance_ for him; he needs you to defeat the Blight. Let that be your tribute to our commander, rather than an old man's dying screams."

Alistair stared down at his sister-warden and her calm, grey gaze was like seawater washing away the last remnants of doubt.

"You're right, Flo," he said, wonderingly. "Of course, you're right."

He slid his fingers into her hair and kissed her, soft and desirous; one calloused palm spreading over the small of her back.

"Is everyone in Herring so silver-tongued, my love?" he murmured as their mouths parted, fingers stroking her hip through the thin tunic. "Is it a village full of Ferelden's most eloquent fishermen?"

"No," she whispered, instinctively arching closer in response to his caresses. "We just grunt at each other most of the time."

Alistair leaned forward and pressed his lips to the hollow of Flora's throat, teasing forth a flush from her skin with his tongue. When he at last drew back and smiled at her, the green flecks in his eyes stood out stark in the firelight.

"You're the _best_  girl in Thedas."

Flora craned her neck upwards to close the difference in height between them, sliding her fingers along the fur collar edging his neck. Reaching up, she lifted the golden coronet gently from her brother-warden's brow and placed it on the window seat beside them. Alistair raised his eyebrows, startled.

"Maker, I almost forgot I was wearing that thing," he admitted, reaching up to run a hand through his flattened hair. "It's not as heavy as I thought it would be."

Flora gazed at him with her usual solemn countenance, and then smiled; the sudden brightening of expression like the sun breaking out from behind a veil of cloud. Alistair smiled reflexively back at her, then patted his thighs.

"Come and sit on my lap, sweetheart."

Obediently, she slithered up onto his thighs, curling arms around his neck and resting her chin on his shoulder.

For several minutes he held her quietly, one hand moving rhythmically up and down the line of her back. Flora gazed out through the leaded glass, down at the silent, shadowed expanse of the estuary below. The lights of the city blazed on the shore, lamps, torches and braziers combining to create a soft miasma above the buildings. The tall ships had their own lanterns, tiny pinpricks of light punctuating the dark swathe of saltwater.

She remembered standing on the prow of the  _Siren's Call_ with Alistair some weeks prior, gazing up at the silhouetted behemoth of the Royal Palace as it perched like a crouching dragon on the highest rise of the city.

_And now we're in the palace, looking down at the ships below,_ Flora thought to herself with a small start.  _How strange._

She turned her face sideways and nuzzled her nose against Alistair's neck, clutching at his shoulder. He let out a soft grunt of pleasure, hands descending to rest on her hips as she bit gently at his earlobe.

"My love," he murmured as Flora pressed her mouth to his jaw, feeling the day's growth of stubble beneath her lips.  _"My queen."_

Flora was grateful that Alistair could not see her face contort in alarm; she had believed him to have abandoned this dangerous term of endearment.

To distract him, she sat back on his knees and reached for the laces of her tunic. Pulling the knotted strands loose, she let the front of the garment go slack, the folds draping open to reveal her bare breasts. As she had hoped Alistair was sufficiently diverted, a low growl of desire escaping his throat as he dropped his mouth to her nipple.

In contrast to the previous night's percussive, desperate rutting; this coupling was languid and infinitely more tender. Alistair let his sister-warden set the pace as she rode his lap, straddling him with her knees pressed into the velvet bench. Flora's palms were flat against the window, and the tiny coherent part of her mind noticed that the glass had steamed up from the heat of their shifting bodies.

The bell rang for the half-hour, then for the change of watch. Flora lost track of time, only aware of her brother-warden moving his pelvis up to meet hers; hands guiding the rhythmic motion of her hips. Alistair was red-faced and dishevelled beneath her, the sheen of sweat gleaming on his bare chest as he gritted his teeth with the effort of maintaining his composure.

Finally, the urge to lose control became too overwhelming and he let out a strangled cry, clenching his fingers hard into her hips as he shuddered. Flora felt the hard muscles of his thighs quiver beneath her and she let herself be carried by the building wave of his pleasure; muffling her own gasps against his shoulder.

Exhausted and sated, Alistair leaned his sweaty head to the glass and closed his eyes. Flora rested her face against the hollow of his throat, her nerves still shivering in the aftermath of their lovemaking. His fingers came up to clutch the back of her head, cradling her skull as tenderly as a new-born babe.

"I love you," he breathed, the words emerging only partially coherent. "Maker's Breath."

"Mm," replied Flora, reaching out with a finger to touch the misted glass. "Look!"

With some effort, Alistair opened his eyes and turned his head to gaze at the letters that his sister-warden had traced in the condensation. The rounded, childish hand read ' _flora Laves alistare',_ with the  _S_  somehow managing to be both upside-down and back to front.

"Is it right?" Flora asked, clamping her legs around Alistair's waist as he rose to his feet. "Did I spell it properly?"

Alistair nodded, throat tightening with a sudden swell of affection.

"It's perfect," he said thickly, carrying her across to the myriad of furs and blankets spread over the king's bed. "Absolutely  _perfect_."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Actually, Alistair, it's FAR FROM perfect and she is not going to learn properly if you don't correct her mistakes, lol. And she still can't spell Alistair's name! Flo actually has a mild case of dyslexia - it's why she never learnt to read anything in the Circle, despite being surrounded by writing on every surface. Dyslexia wasn't recognised formally until the 19th century, and at first it was called 'word blindness'.
> 
> So the Cousland quarters are alongside the king's, while the Mac Tir quarters are in another part of the palace. The Cousland family are far older and more prestigious than the Mac Tirs, so it makes sense that their chamber is built alongside the king. Whereas Loghain was only elevated to a teyrn by Maric, so the Mac Tir quarters were built later on in a newer section of the palace. Lol I don't know why I'm justifying this when it's literally the most minor thing ever! Haha I just don't like unsubstantiated information, lol. It's the historian in me!
> 
> Also, Wynne-terruption on a new scale (now with additional Guerrin brothers!)


	274. Loghain's Crafty Lure

In the deepest part of that same night, Flora was busy enjoying a dream where she had been transformed by Morrigan into a salmon; when her spirits forcibly propelled her back through the Veil and into the corporeal world.

_**Wake up.** _

Blinking into the darkness, a rather perturbed Flora lay nestled in a snoring Alistair's arms, wondering why she had been roused so abruptly. Just then, she heard a faint but purposeful rapping at the door.

"Lady Cousland?"

Frowning, Flora looked around for something that she could don quickly. Finding a short linen nightshirt with blue and white striping wedged under a cushion, she pulled it over her head and swung her legs down from the bed. Her knee gave a small whine of protest as she crossed the chamber, shivering at the coldness of the flagstones against her bare feet.

When she opened the door, the chief steward gave an apologetic bow from where he was hovering in the passageway.

"I'm deeply sorry to disturb you, Lady Cousland," murmured Guillaume, in deferent tones.

"It's fine," replied Flora, stifling a yawn and squinting down the shadowed corridor. The Royal Guards stood posted at intervals, impassive and immobile as suits of armour. "Does someone need healing?"

Guillaume nodded his head, with a small grimace.

"The general –  _former_ general - wants to see you. At first, he was flatly denied, since he is no position to make demands – but he has done something rather foolish to try and bring about this meeting."

Flora gazed at the steward in alarm, eyebrows rising.

"What has he done?"

"Used the sharp edge of his bunk to cut a bleed into his arm," Guillaume replied, with a small, disapproving shake of the head. "My lady, you can always ignore his clumsy and  _presumptive_ attempt to summon you. He will be a dead man soon regardless."

Flora was already retrieving her boots from beside the hearth, pulling them on beneath her nightshirt. She cast a fretful glance over her shoulder at Alistair, who was snoring away amidst the rumpled blankets and furs, then swallowed.

"Alright, let's go."

She followed Guillaume down the corridor; a shadowed length illuminated in sporadic intervals by bracketed torches and silvered shafts of moonlight. The Royal Guards stood silently along the walls, stiff as the halberds they clutched in their right hands.

"What time is it?" Flora whispered as they passed the now familiar depiction of the Mabari and the  _halla._

"Just past the third bell," Guillaume replied, gesturing her towards a small doorway that she had previously passed in ignorance. "Here; this is one route to the dungeons."

The doorway led to a narrow, winding staircase that Flora had to navigate more slowly due to her aching knee. The steward held a torch aloft, the flame casting flickering amber patterns against the stone walls.

The steps wound downwards for a long time, and Flora felt the air grow damp as they descended into the bowels of the palace. Eventually, the grey Alamarri stone walls became solid limestone; the Palace dungeons were clearly hewn from the bedrock of Denerim itself.

Just as Flora thought that her knee was about to buckle beneath her, the stairs opened out into a long corridor, one wing of what appeared to be an extensive prison complex. The majority of the cells were empty, save for the occasional snoring occupant.

"Attacked a guard with a candlestick," murmured Guillaume in a low voice as they passed each one, guiding her down the passageway. "Attempted to steal from the Treasury."

The steady drip of water accompanied his words, and when Flora reached out to touch the dungeon wall, the stone was damp beneath her palm. She shivered, wishing that she had worn something more substantial than the nightshirt.

Finally, they came to a cell located at the end of a passageway. It was attended by no less than six Royal Guards, three to each side of the thick wood and bound iron door.

"He's still alive?" Guillaume asked abruptly, and one guard gave a slight nod.

The steward glanced at Flora, who was shifting anxiously from one booted foot to another.

"My lady, I suggest that you ask him to bring the wound up to the bars and converse with him through the door."

"It's too small," replied Flora, eyeing the eight by eight inches of iron bars set high into the solid oak. "I need to go in."

Guillaume grimaced, clearly unhappy.

"Prince Alistair will have my head if anything untoward happens to you, Lady Cousland" he replied, through gritted teeth.

"Nothing unforward –  _untoward_ will happen," said Flora, in an attempt to reassure him. "He won't be able to hurt me."

Guillaume sighed under his breath, and then nodded towards the guards. Two stepped forward, each producing a key from the depths of their armour. Simultaneously, they inserted them into twin locks and turned in unison. There came the clicking sound of a complicated mechanism, and the door shifted loose in its frame.

Flora advanced forward cautiously, unsure what scene she was about to be confronted with. Despite the heavy-duty door at its entrance, the cell itself appeared rather nondescript. It contained a bed against one wall, which had been piled high with embroidered blankets. Behind her, she heard the guards and Guillaume enter the cell in her wake; the steward producing a wicked-looking dagger from the depths of his fine velvet tunic.

Loghain was propped against the opposite wall, still managing to look stern in spite of the pallid sheen of his face. The sight of the Royal Commander sitting on the floor, clad in plain linen garments instead of his customary armour, was so incongruous that for a moment, Flora paused.

"Are you going to stand there gawping like a fish, girl?" the northerner said faintly and irritably, producing an arm slick with scarlet. "You may as well have stayed in bed with the Theirin bastard, and left me to bleed out."

"Being compared to a fish is a  _compliment,"_  Flora retorted, used to their verbal sparring from various exchanges in the Landsmeet chamber. "I'm coming."

She could feel the guards tense as she stepped forward, crossing the length of the chamber in a handful of strides. Kneeling down in the straw beside Loghain, she felt him give a wheezing laugh of derision. This time, his scorn was not directed at Flora; but at the guards who stood at her back with weapons drawn.

"You think I have malign designs on her? I assure you, I have no desire to be launched across the cell, or to have my skull broken into pieces like Howe," Loghain muttered, lip curling.

Meanwhile Flora had located the cut – a tactical incision made to the slowest-flowing part of the vein. Wiping away some of the blood with the sleeve of her nightshirt, she bowed her head and pressed her mouth against the general's torn skin. His forearm felt lean and sinewy beneath her lips; there was still strength in the limb despite his advancing years. It took her only moments to seal the wound, since it had been cut deliberately shallow.

After a minute Flora sat upright on the rushes, wiping her bloody mouth with the back of her hand. She could feel the dark heat of Loghain's faintly amused stare, prickling across her skin like the trailing end of a lash.

"What did you want to say?" she asked bluntly, aware that he had engineered this meeting through guile.

"The armies in the field," Loghain said after a brief pause, leaning his head back against the wall. "They did not rally thousands solely in response to a letter from a slip of a girl. What have they seen?"

"The dwarves have seen the Darkspawn emptying from the Deep Roads," Flora replied, pulling the nightshirt up over her knee to tighten the strapping. "The elves have seen the horde moving on the outskirts of the Brecilian Forest. And the mages have other ways of seeing across the miles."

There was a long pause; Flora tugged on the leather strap and gave a little involuntary grimace of pain. The guards shifted from foot to foot, gloved fingers still resting on the hilts of their blades.

"So, there _is_  a Blight," the former general said eventually, a raw note sounding in the words. "By Andraste, I-I truly believed the threat to be Orlais."

Flora shot him a little side-glance, thinking  _if only you had believed that at Ostagar._

"It's not too late for Ferelden," she replied, swallowing the anger and grief with some difficulty. "We're going to do our best to save it."

Loghain inclined his head wordlessly, the bluish grey shadow of stubble beginning to form on his sunken cheeks. One of his braids was unravelling, loose strands of fading hair hanging beside his jaw.

"But it is too late for me," he said, with a note of resignation in his tone. "Your brother-warden will have my head, one way or the other."

Flora gazed across at her fellow northerner, who had made such an incalculable and devastating error in judgement; dooming not only his son-in-law, but the majority of the Fereldan Wardens.

"Yes," she replied simply, pale eyes rising to meet his.

There was silence for a long moment, broken only by the scuttling of a rat across the far wall of the cell.

"Tell me, girl." Loghain's voice was soft but steely, no less powerful for its quietness. "I recall dimly that Alistair was a decent enough fighter in the field. Is he still?"

"He's the best," replied Flora, without pause. "He once took down an ogre near-enough on his own."

The general nodded, impassivity settling over his face. Flora paused, and then pressed forward with a question that had been hovering persistently at the edge of her mind for days.

"Why didn't you tell Howe that I wasn't really Tranquil?" she asked, shivering slightly as she felt the ghostly presence of the Tevinter collar settling around her neck. "You knew that I still had my magic. But you kept him away that night, and you – you told him to  _take the collar off."_

Loghain glanced sideways at her, dark pupils unreadable. Flora met his gaze with a northerner's blunt stare, her heart thudding irrationally against her ribcage.

"I have a daughter, too," the general replied after a moment, his voice distant. "Anora may be approaching three decades, but she'll always be a little girl with fraying braids and grubby hands to me."

_The same daughter that approached us to betray you,_ Flora thought, feeling a sudden swell of frustrated sadness in her gut.

_**Will you tell him?** _

_No. I'm not that cruel._

"Anyway," contained Loghain, somewhat abruptly. "I would not see any man's daughter… mistreated."

Flora swallowed, not trusting herself to speak.  _Why couldn't you have just trusted Duncan,_ she thought furiously to herself.  _We could have been so much stronger if we'd worked together._

"Flora?"

The guards stood to attention as Alistair strode into the cell, hastily dressed and with hair still rumpled from the pillow. His anxious hazel eyes settled on Flora as she knelt in the straw beside Loghain, relief and anger mingling on his features.

Flora rose to her feet, smiling at her brother-warden to assuage his fears. Alistair reached out a hand wordlessly towards his companion, clamping his fingers around her palm and drawing her against his side.

His gaze swept quickly over her body, and Loghain let out a soft, derisive snort.

"Calm yourself; I've not laid a finger on her."

Alistair was silent for a moment, and Flora could see the struggle to suppress his anger writ stark on his face. When he spoke again, steadiness had been artificially forged into the words.

"You've been provisioned adequately?" the prince asked, voice trembling with the strain of being civil. "I can have more blankets sent down if it's damp."

Loghain inclined his head a fraction, with the slightest shrug.

"Adequately enough."

Alistair nodded tightly, before turning on his heel with abrupt haste. Steering Flora before him as though she were a bridled pony, he manoeuvred them both out of the cell with the guards following dutifully in their wake.

He didn't speak a word; fingers clamped around her palm as he ascended the steps and strode determinedly down the corridors. Flora clutched her brother-warden's hand with mild apprehension, wondering if he was saving his ire for the privacy of the bedchamber.

At one point, on the landing with the unfortunate  _halla_ getting torn apart by the Mabari, her knee gave a debilitating twinge of pain. It was so sharp and so sudden that she recoiled, letting out a little gasp.

" _Ow!"_

It felt as though some sly assassin had driven their dagger into the vulnerable joint. Flora reached out to put a hand on the bannister, inhaling unsteadily.

"Let me help you, my dear."

It was the first that Alistair had spoken since seeing her in the cell. Like he had first done at Ostagar - when she had expensed all her energy in defending his reckless half-brother - he hoisted her up onto his back, clutching the undersides of her thighs with strong hands. If the Royal Guard were surprised at the sight of their future king carting his mistress along the corridor like a packhorse, it was well-hidden beneath their faceless helmets.

With Alistair's pace unimpeded by his extra burden, they were soon alone in the King's bedchamber once more. The servants had clearly been in during the Wardens' absence; the hearth had been built up and fresh ale left on a side table. Flora grimaced, inwardly preparing herself for her brother-warden's anger.

Instead, Alistair carried her over to the hearth and lowered her into one of the worn velvet armchairs placed before the flames. Without uttering a word, he knelt before Flora and removed her boots; taking infinite care not to put pressure on her injured knee. Unwinding the leather strapping and letting it drop to the flagstones, he placed his fingers on the swollen joint and began to massage it.

Eventually, the combination of Alistair's expert touch and the heat from the flames went some way towards soothing the pain in Flora's knee. The prince bound the limb back up with experienced deftness, winding the leather strapping around the sore joint.

Flora reached out tentatively and put a hand on his head, spreading her palm over the burnished bronze hair. To her relief, Alistair took her hand and guided it to his mouth, kissing the inside of her wrist.

"I'm sorry that I went down on my own," Flora said, with a little grimace. "I didn't want to wake you. And I thought you might disapprove. I don't know why – I don't know why I even  _healed_ him. Duncan would be angry with me, I think."

She scowled, clearly frustrated with her own actions.

Alistair nodded slowly, still holding her wrist gently between his fingers.

"You don't need to apologise to me, sweetheart," he murmured, pressing her palm against his stubbled jaw. "I understand why you felt obliged to help him, after… after what happened with Howe."

A shadow passed across his face and he glanced down, the three days of Flora's imprisonment still a raw and painful memory.

"I know that you can protect yourself, and there were guards there, but… I'm your  _brother-warden_ ," he said, forcing his mind from the subject. "We look after each other, don't we? We always have."

Flora nodded, and Alistair smiled up at her from between her knees.

"I love you, Flora of Herring."

"I love you too, Alistair Theirin."

Once, the name would have made her fellow Warden flinch; but now he only grinned and pressed his lips to her bare calf.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So I'm deviating a lot from canon here, but I figure that no-one minds a diversion from canon this far out from the game's publication, right? Anyway, it's much more fun to try and be a little surprising with the game's plot!
> 
> Basically, Loghain wants to confirm in this chapter that there really is a Blight. I read Stolen Throne as research for the Denerim part of my story, and I wanted to incorporate more of Loghain's character from the book (i.e. someone who isn't a total irrational twatface).
> 
> Ironically enough, a gloating Howe's invitation to Loghain to come and see his 'Tranquilised' Cousland trophy, actually seals his own fate. If Flora had not been kidnapped by Howe, Loghain would have very little pity for her as a political opponent; but seeing her made weak and vulnerable by the suffocation collar, forced him to view her simply as a nineteen year old girl. We already have evidence that he is a protective father to his own daughter (my pigtails quote is inspired from his own quote in game about daughters always remaining little girls in pigtails), so I envisioned him feeling compassion for the imprisoned and defenceless Flora, against his own will.


	275. Loghain Throws Down The Gauntlet

The next day passed in similar fashion to its predecessor; the Wardens spending the majority of the sunlit hours on the Alamarri Plains. They had quickly become a familiar sight within the encampment; he straight-backed and noble-browed in the saddle, and she perched before him with her Cousland-scarlet hair flowing like a banner down her back. Leliana, who had an eye for the aesthetic, coaxed the mass of unruly locks up into a high ponytail each morning.

They rode around the perimeter of the camp, spoke with the respective commanders and inspected the growing earthworks at the base of the city walls. The dwarven engineers were carving the soft Alamarri earth into carefully planned trenches and gulleys; determined to control the movement of the enemy as they arrived on the field. High above them, the tower of Fort Drakon cast a long shadow over the huddled tents below, and for a moment Flora was unpleasantly reminded of Ostagar. The memory left a bitter taste in her mouth, and she quickly suppressed it.

Riordan joined them for lunch in the makeshift mess area. The senior Warden had spent hours with each commander, instructing them on the different types of Darkspawn, and suggesting a variety of tactics that had proven effective in the past. When Alistair had offered the aid of himself and his sister-warden; Riordan had offered a distracted smile, assuring them that he required no assistance.  _You're going to be King,_ the man had countered with a wry smile.  _You need to show your face amongst the troops and inspire confidence in your cause. You too, young sister. You brought this army together; go and toss that Highever-red hair around._

The implication that he and Flora were now little more than figureheads was enough to plunge Alistair into a sulk, and he finished the rest of his stew in silence. Flora gazed across the table at the greying senior Warden, and a memory rose unprompted in the back of her mind.

_**There's something he's not telling you.** _

_What?_

But her spirits were silent, offering no further suggestion.

Later that afternoon, the men from Dragon's Peak began to arrive. Rather than sending a message, Bann Sighard had travelled to his nearby lands to raise troops; managing to gather several hundred in the space of a day. They arrived from the southern edge of the plains, tramping in two long columns along a muddied track. The standard bearers bore the scarlet and black banners high above their heads, while two dozen carts rolled in their wake.

Flora and Alistair rode out to greet them; slithering down one at a time from the saddle as Bann Sighard dismounted from his own grey mare.

"Prince Alistair," the elderly man murmured, sweeping his sprightly frame into a practised bow. "My lady Cousland. I have brought three hundred men to aid your cause."

Alistair nodded, as Flora bestowed one of her rare public smiles on Sighard. The grey-haired man coughed, a flush rising from the collar of his tunic.

"We appreciate your personal involvement," Alistair replied formally as he swept his eyes across the columns of marching men. "We need every man and woman able to swing a sword."

The men from Dragon's Peak joined the temporary barracks set up by the Royal Army alongside the saltwater estuary. Within hours, they were well entrenched on the river bank; conversation and the smell of roasting meat drifting up from a dozen scattered campfires.

As the sun started to edge its way towards the western horizon, Flora and Alistair began the journey back towards the Royal Palace. They were both quiet, with their thoughts running along similar lines.

_Would Duncan be pleased with us if he were here? Have we done him proud?_

The lamp-boys were just beginning their rounds as the Wardens arrived up at the castle; darting around like fireflies with long-handled lanterns in the encroaching darkness. The trees cast long shadows over the courtyard, their branches tangled together like the gnarled fingers of crones.

Alistair planted an absent-minded kiss on the back of his sister-warden's head, jumping down onto the cobbles as a stable-hand ran eagerly to take his reins.

"One moment, Flo," he murmured, kneeling down to lift the horse's fetlock in a practised hand. "I think she's got a stone caught in her hoof."

Flora waited patiently on the saddle, humming under her breath as she fiddled with a loose thread on her sleeve. When she looked up, she saw both Guerrin brothers framed in the doorway to the entrance hall; their faces pale and grim. Eamon was particularly wan, his brows drawn together with bristling anxiety.

Her heart beat faster against her ribs, a hard lump of fear wedging itself in the back of her throat. Heedless of the drop, Flora swung a leg hastily over the saddle and made to drop to the cobbles.

"Careful, poppet."

Teagan was there in the span of a breath, reaching up to ease her descent. Flora slid down into his arms and gaped at him while Alistair rose to his feet, worry clouding her face like a gathering storm.

"Is it my brothers?" she whispered, almost too afraid to ask. "Have they been hurt trying to retake Highever?"

"No, no," Teagan hastened to reassure her, glancing over his shoulder at his elder brother. "Nothing to do with them."

"Then what  _is_  it?" Alistair demanded, gaze moving between both Guerrins. "What's happened?"

Eamon grimaced, tugging on the end of his beard in the way he always did when he was worried.

"Let's retire to the chamber," he murmured, squinting around at the encroaching shadows. "We can talk there."

They made the journey up to the King's bedchamber in silence, Alistair and Flora sharing the occasional anxious glance as they followed in Eamon's wake. The guards inclined their heads and the servants bobbed into bows as they passed; yet Alistair was so preoccupied that he forgot to feel discomfited by their deference. The route to the royal bedchamber was now familiar: up the big staircase, across the minstrel's gallery by the stained-glass Calenhad, up another winding staircase past the unfortunate  _halla,_ then beyond the Cousland quarters.

The two Royal Guards on duty stood to attention as the party approached, halberds readied. Alistair, whose jaw had tautened with every step taken, did not wait for them to attend to the door. Instead, he strode ahead and shoved it open himself.

Once they were inside the King's bedchamber, the prince turned on his uncles, eyes blazing.

"What is it? Why the secrecy?" he demanded, gaze moving from elder to younger Guerrin. Flora stood at his side, heart thudding within her ribcage and fingers twisting anxiously in the frayed sleeve of her sleeve.

"Is it something to do with Loghain?" she asked, realisation dawning as she recalled the events of the previous night.

"Has he  _escaped?"_ demanded Alistair, voice rising. "Uncle, just tell me!"

"No, he's not escaped," muttered Eamon, crossing to the side table and pouring himself a flagon of ale with an unsteady hand. "He has invoked the ancient tradition of  _trial-by-the-sword."_

"What? What's that?" Alistair glanced across at Flora, who rolled her eyes unhappily and gave a small shrug.

"Instead of a court hearing, he wants a duel. Staged before the Landsmeet, fought until one party requests a yielding," Eamon said, the words coming out in a rush. "But, Alistair, you do not have to do this. The Landsmeet found in our favour. Loghain has no right to invoke this."

There was a long, drawn-out silence.

"But, he does," replied Alistair, in an odd, strained voice. "It might be archaic, but it's still a Fereldan tradition."

"Alistair, you're surely not going to  _accede_  to his request- " started Eamon, his voice rising in incredulity. "If you are _killed_  - "

"If it goes to trial, it could drag on for days," retorted Alistair, shaking his head like a Mabari worrying at meat. "We can't be distracted from the assembly of our armies, not at this crucial time."

Eamon threw up his hands, glancing sideways at his younger brother in desperation.

"Teagan, you try and reason with the boy!"

Duly the auburn-haired Guerrin stepped forward, reaching out to put a hand on Alistair's elbow.

"You don't need to get revenge for what happened at Ostagar," Teagan murmured, as Alistair visibly flinched. "You don't need to avenge your old Commander in this way. This is an entirely unnecessary risk."

"It'll end it, once and for all," replied Alistair, abruptly. "When will it happen?"

"Tomorrow evening," replied Eamon, his voice strained. "As many of the Landsmeet that are still in the city will attend. But,  _Alistair_ \- "

The argument continued in circles for another two hours, with Alistair finally losing his temper with both uncles and bellowing that he would take Loghain's head with his own hand, or die trying.

Flora was sitting rigid and unhappy in the armchair beside the hearth; legs crossed beneath her and thoughts racing frantically behind an impassive face. Her mind kept returning over and over to the question that Loghain had asked her in the cells the previous night.

_I recall that Alistair was a decent fighter in the field. Is he still?_

_**You replied: he's the best. He once took down an ogre.** _

_Why would Loghain then request a duel? Does he not believe me? Or -_

Flora wished desperately that her brothers were present to offer their advice. The sound of a door closing jolted her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see that she and Alistair were alone in the chamber. Her brother-warden strode over to the side table and gulped down several mouthfuls of ale straight from the bottle, slightly red-faced.

Flora gazed at him wordlessly, and he stared back at her with a maelstorm of conflicting emotion burning in his eyes. The next moment, a brief flicker of guilt contorted his features and he looked away, grimacing.

Downing the last liquid from the bottle, Alistair crossed the chamber and retrieved his discarded pack from beneath the bed. Without a word, he drew forth Duncan's sword; flat, wide and heavy, the silverite gleamed even after weeks of little use.

Taking a whetstone, Alistair headed to the chair opposite Flora and sat down, resting the blade across his lap with an odd sort of reverence. His face was purposeful and uncharacteristically solemn; entirely focused on his task as he began to hone the edge of the blade with methodical strokes.

Flora watched him, her heart drumming so loudly that she was surprised it was not audible. Eventually, when her brother-warden kept his head bowed determinedly over the blade; she unfolded her legs and rose to her feet.

Swallowing a hard lump of apprehension, she crossed to the bed and clambered fully dressed beneath the covers, not even pausing to remove her boots. Pulling the blankets up over her head, she exhaled unsteadily, feeling the heat of her own trapped breath against her cheeks.

Eventually, Flora fell asleep to the muffled, repetitive scrape of the whetstone down the blade. She dreamed fitfully; the Fade taunting her with a variety of half-formed possibilities. In one blurred vision, Alistair stood victorious as Loghain lay twitching at his feet. In another, it was the general's turn to gloat as he held his blade to Alistair's unshaven throat. Finally, each man managed to inflict grievous wounds on the other; bloodied and kneeling while still trying in vain to inflict a fatal blow.

Flora awoke in terror with the blood running cold in her veins. The hearth had long since diminished and the curtains had been drawn, plunging the bedchamber into ominous shadow. The blankets beside her were smooth and unrumpled; her brother-warden had clearly not yet retired to bed.

With mild incredulity, Flora's ears detected the soft, scraping sound of the whetstone. If she had been in better spirits, she would have made a light-hearted comment along the lines of  _you'll have no sword left once you're finished sharpening it._

Yet there was no lightness in Flora's heart; she was caught in a tangled web of fear and sadness. Rolling over, she pressed her face into the pillow to muffle a pathetic little sob as it sought valiantly to escape.

Almost immediately, the sound of the whetstone stopped. Swift footsteps crossed the flagstones; and then Flora's brother-warden was in bed beside her, arms reaching out to encompass her body. A sharp exhalation of dismay caught in Alistair's throat as he caught sight of the tears, his face twisting.

"Maker's Breath," he murmured softly, bowing his head to kiss each of her damp cheeks in turn. "I'm going to remember this night forever."

Flora blinked up at him, the tears momentarily arrested by her confusion. He reached out to cradle her cheek in a palm, brushing his thumb beneath her damp eyelashes. "Because of L-Loghain?"

Alistair shook his head, the regret writ naked on his handsome features.

"No," he replied, contrite. "Because I've made you cry. I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

Flora's face crumpled once more; the collapse of composure in stark contrast to her usual grave solemnity. Alistair groaned between his teeth and clamped her almost painfully hard to his chest, fingers clutching the back of her skull.

"Tell me not to do it," he hissed against her hair, voice taut as a bowstring. "Please, Flora. Tell me not to do it, and I won't."

_**Tell him what to do now and he'll be taking instructions forever.** _

Flora took a deep, shuddering breath; the warning voices of her spirits echoing in the back of her skull. She could just make out the separate features of her brother-warden's face, the light hazel eyes staring and the jaw rigid as limestone.

"Alistair," she said, forcing the words through her throat. "It's your choice. Your decision."

Alistair was silent for a long moment, sinking back onto the cushions and gazing at the ceiling eaves.

"The man needs to be dealt with," he said, eventually. "And he was never going to go quietly, was he?"

Flora swallowed, feeling the solid warmth of his body alongside her own. His hand came groping down to entwine itself in hers, their fingers twisting together in their practised ritual.

"Please don't leave me," she said suddenly, aware how plaintive the words sounded. "I don't want to face the Archdemon alone."

Alistair rolled over and embraced her once again, fierce and protective.

"I would never let that happen, sweetheart. You know that, don't you? Maker, I would _never_  leave you alone."

"I know," Flora whispered as he pressed his lips to her neck, nuzzling his face against her skin. "I believe you."

Alistair traced his fingers down the line of her throat, a hand moving to cup her breast. He was somewhat perturbed to find it covered by both shirt and bodice; then equally startled to realise that she was still entirely dressed.

"Flo, you still have all your  _clothes_ on!" he announced, brows shooting into his hairline. "How did you manage to sleep in your boots? There's a  _sandwich_ in this tunic."

Flora gave a little sulky shrug, peering up at him from beneath damp eyelashes. Alistair smiled down at her, voice thickening as he reached for the laces of her bodice.

"At least this means I get to do one of my favourite things in the world."

"Eh?"

"Undress you," he murmured, working the bodice-strings loose with practised fingers. "My love."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: As much as I love a good summary execution (execution without trial - happens a lot in my line of work), it's a little too abrupt of an ending for my story. Let's face it lol, we are now nearly at 300 chapters so clearly conciseness is not a great skill of mine haha.
> 
> I'm of course referring to Loghain getting his head chopped off at the culmination of the Landsmeet in game. I want to go in a slightly different direction because I think he's a fascinating, complex character – and I hope that he comes across as oblique in my story too, because I want readers to make up their own mind as to his motivation. Does he want to try and kill Alistair as a last shot at retaking control? Does he just want to end it quickly and go out like a warrior? Does he want a chance to show his combat skills and prove he can still be useful? Is he trying to force someone's hand, like he did to get Flora into his cell. He definitely has an agenda!
> 
> Oops I just reread that sentence where I said summary executions happen a lot in my line of work. I mean they crop up a lot in my work as a medievalist, not that my colleagues frequently get their heads chopped off without trial, lol.
> 
> The Loghain plotline is def not over yet though! Ho ho ho! 
> 
> Hmmm maybe Loghain could challenge Alistair to a dance-off instead? Like that crap Heath Ledger film about knights and jousting? Or the beginning of West Side Story where the rival street gangs shimmy down the street snapping at each other? Then I could call this chapter Loghain Throws Down (Some Sick Moves). OK I'm going to stop now I feel like I may have imbibed too much Bailey's Irish Cream while editing this


	276. A Future King Or Queen Of Ferelden

The next morning dawned bright and optimistic, sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains to illuminate the polished flagstones. A pair of discreet servants sidled in unobtrusively to bring fresh water and small ale; changing the logs in the hearth with such practised subtlety that neither Warden stirred from their slumber.

Flora woke, aroused at last by the sound of muffled voices in the corridor. Lying warm and secure in her brother-warden's arms; for several moments, she could not remember why her pulse was throbbing so rapidly. Then, in an unwelcome flood, the memory of Eamon's grim, grey face rose to the forefront of her mind.

_Tomorrow evening. The duel. Trial-by-the-sword._

_**No: tonight.** _

She rolled over and pressed her face to Alistair's chest, feeling the solid, reassuring thud of his heartbeat against his ribcage. He let out a soft grunt, tightening his grip around her shoulders and Flora looked up to see him gazing down at her. She stared back at him for several moments, a variety of emotions waging war in her eyes.

Alistair reached down and, very gently, moved a strand of hair away from her eyes; his face alight with affection.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart," he murmured, tracing the anxious tilt of her eyebrow with a roughened thumb. "I already feel guilty enough."

The glum Flora said nothing in response, feeling a distinct lack of eloquence. Alistair kissed her on the forehead, nose and cheeks in rapid succession, and this did prompt a smile from his sullen sister-warden.

"You said that was an old Warden trick to get the Archdemon's whispers out of my head," she said, recalling a frosty dawn spent perched on the high balcony at Redcliffe Castle. Lake Calenhad had been a vast, opaque mirror reflecting the twilight vestiges of the night sky; as though moon and stars lay drowned beneath its unruffled surface.

"Was it  _really_ an old Warden trick?"

Alistair grinned at her naivety, running a hand over his sleep-rumpled head.

"No, it was a flimsy excuse for me to kiss you. Back when we were still just friends."

"There's no 'were' about it," retorted Flora, automatically. "You're still my friend. My  _best_ friend."

"And you mine, my dear," he replied immediately, giving her a chaste kiss on the lips.

Teagan arrived in the royal bedchamber shortly afterwards in a final attempt to dissuade Alistair from his chosen course. Alistair was less aggressive in his response than he had been the previous night, but still adamant that he would take up Loghain's thrown gauntlet. When Teagan entreated Flora's assistance in getting their prince to change his mind; Flora replied – heart in mouth – that she had absolute faith in her brother-warden's ability.

With a sigh, Teagan relented, offering instead to spend some time drilling with Alistair in the practise yard in preparation. Alistair gratefully accepted, wandering across to the armour stands on the far wall of the chamber.

While Alistair was inspecting the various suits on display, Teagan leaned down to where Flora was sitting in her nightshirt on the end of the bed. He put his mouth to her ear, speaking in an undertone that she had to strain to hear.

"If anything happens to Alistair, you must think of the consequences."

"Eh?"

Teagan flickered his eyes meaningfully towards her abdomen, watching Alistair lift a filigreed helm from the stand and hold it to his own head.

"You're carrying the Theirin heir. There's a future king or queen of Ferelden in that belly," he murmured, watching Flora spill watered wine all over the aforementioned stomach.

" _Gah!"_

After Alistair and Teagan descended to the practise yard, Flora spent a fitful few hours on her own in the King's chamber. She had no idea where her companions were – most likely down at the encampment with their growing army – and she was surprised at how much she missed the presence of her brothers. Finian was a consummate entertainer who always had a pack of cards or a witty tale on hand; while Fergus had an air of calm steadiness that helped to quell some of Flora's more irrational anxieties.

She would have welcomed the presence of either – Finian's distractions or Fergus' reassurance – except that they were both far away on the road to Highever.

_They've probably arrived by now,_ she thought to herself, with a little twist of worry.  _I hope there's not too much resistance from Howe's men at the castle._

_**They aren't alone.** _

Flora nodded to herself, remembering that Leonas, Zevran and Oghren had all accompanied her brothers on their journey to reclaim Highever. Leaning back against the window seat with feet tucked beneath her, she peered down at the sea-green estuary. It was flecked with white, dotted with small fishing boats and the occasional Marcher ship sailing eastwards.

Absentmindedly, Flora rested a hand on the small curve of her stomach, hidden beneath the loose folds of the nightshirt. It felt warm, and firm to the touch; she was half-tempted to let her gaze slip beneath the surface of the skin, but then recalled the midwife's description of a  _half-formed creature,_ and decided against it.

_Future king or queen of Ferelden,_ she thought to herself, her first instinct being to laugh.  _What a joke._

_**If Alistair dies, they won't allow you to fight in the final battle.** _

_What? Why not?_ thought back Flora, rather stupidly.

_**They'll never let you confront Urthemiel while carrying the only remaining heir to the throne.** _

_Urf- wha? Who?_

_**We know the Archdemon by another name.** _

Flora felt dread rise in her throat as the reality of her situation dawned on her. Despite her defiant declaration to the Landsmeet that she would fight regardless of their decision; she now found herself inextricably tangled by political intricacy.

_So if Alistair was …and I wasn't allowed to fight, Riordan would be fighting the Archdemon alone?_

A sudden surge of anger rushed through Flora's brain like the incoming tide flooding a rock-pool, her fury directed at the man who had – once again – managed to endanger their entire cause. Dressing without care, she crashed her way through the doors with such vehemence that even the impassive guards were startled.

"Lady Cousland!" bleated the guard on the left, nearly dropping his halberd. "Are you alright?"

"NO," roared Flora, spinning wildly for a moment as she attempted to gain her orientation. "I'm going to  _kill him!"_

"Who?!"

"Mac Tir!"

Finally recalling the direction of the main stairs, she charged off down the corridor, nearly colliding with a pair of manservants carrying a chaise into the Cousland quarters. Ignoring the frantic calls of the guards – they had clearly been under instruction to keep an eye on her – she turned into a side passage carpeted in rich, scarlet wool. Hoping to see the painting of the unfortunate  _halla,_ she pressed onwards determinedly.

Passing a series of dusty stained glass windows depicting the exploits of the Rebel Queen, Flora soon found herself in a wing of the castle that she had never visited before. Although both Wardens had acquired a passing familiarity with the Royal Palace over the past few days; this section of the castle was entirely new to her. A long corridor, windows covered by heavy curtains, stretched off indeterminately into the shadowed distance. There were several doors on either side, each shut tight, apart from one.

Momentarily startled from her anger, Flora gazed around in confusion. The unmistakeable scent of damp and mildew hung in the air; when she touched a finger to a velvet curtain, it came away grubby.

Summoning the golden glow to her fingers, she ventured down the corridor. Small plumes of dust rose with each footstep, from a rug that had not been swept for at least half of Flora's lifetime.

Approaching the part-open doorway cautiously, she heard a soft sigh in the back of her mind.

_What?_

Her spirits were silent, and Flora hesitated. Carefully, she nudged the door and raised her hand, casting beams of gilded light into the dark chamber. The amber glow filled the room like a ship's lantern, dissolving the shadow and illuminating furniture that had not been used for many decades.

A wooden crib stood at the centre of the room, ornately carved and decorated; the mattress long since desiccated by moths. A rocking chair rested nearby, covered by fragments of a woollen blanket. One wall was covered with shelves, containing a variety of wooden toys that had not thrived in the dank, stale air. Enough of the room's décor remained to suggest that it had once been a regally appointed chamber; but long abandonment had resulted in atrophy and dilapidation.

_It's a nursery,_ Flora realised suddenly, eyes widening.  _Why has it been left to rot?_

_**The last infant born in the castle was Cailan himself.** _

Flora put a hand on her stomach once more, feeling the firm, warm mound of flesh beneath her palm. The outrage from earlier began to surge once again, indignation running hot in her veins as she pictured her child's father facing Loghain alone in the centre of the Landsmeet chamber.

_I promised your brother I'd protect you; I swore on the Waking Sea._

She turned on her heel and stormed out of the abandoned royal nursery, half-running down the corridor and nearly colliding with a pair of breathless guards.

"Lady Cousland," begged one, voice muffled behind the faceless helm. "Please stop moving so quickly. Prince Alistair has requested that we escort- "

But Flora was already haring off down the eastern passageway, having recognised a large bust of an Alamarri tribal king.

"Andraste's beard," cursed the other guard under his breath, shifting his halberd onto his shoulder. "I thought this was the one with the duff knee?"

By the time that Flora had descended the twisting stone staircase into the dungeons, her knee was indeed beginning to throb. Ignoring the pain, she strode past the dungeon guards and down the stone corridor; trying not to think of the cells in Fort Drakon.

"Unlock the door!" she hissed towards the soldiers standing guard outside the far cell, knowing that her hair was dishevelled and her face red.

The guards scrambled to obey, casting nervous glances at one another.

"Aye, milady, but there's already someone in- "

Flora stopped short on entering the cell, her indignation abruptly curtailed by the presence of Anora Mac Tir.

The woman was sitting on the narrow bunk beside her father, straight-backed and regal as ever. Although the gold band of royalty was conspicuously absent, she wore a fur-edged gown worthy of any Fereldan queen. Loghain was sitting beside her, a helm cradled in his hands and one dark braid fraying.

Both Mac Tirs looked up as Flora entered, the shadowed cell momentarily filled with light from the torch-lit passageway.

"Oh," she said, nonplussed. "I'll… wait outside."

It was the first time that Flora had set eyes on Anora Mac Tir since she had effectively deposed her at the Landsmeet. A flicker passed over the blonde woman's face, but to her credit Anora made no harsh comment.

"It is fine, Lady Cousland," she murmured, her tone edged with faint derision. "I was just leaving. We will see each other this evening, so no need for us to exchange  _polite conversation_."

Flora just about restrained herself from rolling her eyes, stepping to one side to allow Anora to sweep regally past. The guards immediately began to converse amongst themselves as to who would escort the former teyrn's daughter back to the Mac Tir quarters; and in the midst of their discussions, they failed to notice the weighted wooden door slowly swinging shut.

As the door settled into its frame, there came the distinctive metallic click of an iron catch falling into place. Immediately sounds of consternation rose from the other side – apparently, the key was with their captain, who had been summoned by Guillaume. The remaining guards peered frantically through the iron bars, to where Flora was now locked in with Ferelden's most notorious traitor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: This is a little bit anticlimactic, since Flora could just break apart the door in a heartbeat with her shield if she needed to, lol.
> 
> Theoretically, Flora could use her 'healer's gaze' – where she can literally 'see' beneath the surface of the skin to tend to a wound – to view the fourteen week old foetus inside her own womb… but she's not actually going to do that, because I think she'd find it quite traumatic (although not far from the principle of getting an ultrasound today!). Also aaahhh that would be p difficult to write, lol.
> 
> We do see Flo acting a fraction more maternally in this chapter – she's putting a hand on her stomach to acknowledge it, and on one occasion she mentally refers to Alistair as the father of her child. But she's still deeply unenthusiastic about the entire situation, lol. It's hard for her to feel affection towards it, considering the hideous timing – and, actually, the manner in which it was conceived. Since they've worked out that it must have been conceived at Ostagar (as in, when they returned there to find Cailan's correspondence) – well, that was in the least romantic and loving circumstances ever. They literally did it on a mouldering bedroll, with absolutely zero foreplay; surrounded by the rotting possessions of their fellow Wardens and with the ashes of Alistair's dead half-brother still caught in their hair.


	277. Preparing For The Duel

"My lady!" bleated one of the guards through the cell door, gloved fingers wrapped around the bars. "We'll go and get the keys – Regus has 'em, he's on his break but we'll find 'im- "

"It's fine," mumbled Flora, glancing over her shoulder towards Loghain. "He can't hurt me."

The former general leaned his head back against the stone wall and gave a contemptuous snort.

"Aye, we established that on our first meeting, did we not?"

_He had charged at her with a sword in the confines of his tent; wanting to test the durability of her shield before assigning her to the king's guard. She had duly brought it up, terrified, the elven servant cringing behind her despite being in on the charade._

Flora narrowed her eyes at the traitorous general, annoyed that she had lost some of the angry momentum that had carried her down to the dungeons. Summoning back her vehemence, she pointed an accusatory finger towards Loghain.

"What's the meaning of challenging Alistair to a  _duel?!"_ she demanded, eyes wide and outraged. "We won the support of the Landsmeet. Why can't you accept that you've  _lost?"_

Flora's indignation was so potent that it seemed to be flooding her brain, the edges of her vision narrowing until only Loghain's lined, resigned face was in focus. She blamed the accompanying lightness of her head on her growing anger.

Loghain raised an eyebrow at her, placing the helm on the straw-covered tile at his feet.

"Trial by sword is an ancient Fereldan tradition."

"I don't care! It's completely unnecessary."

"Ah, but your  _brother-warden_ did accept, did he not?" countered Loghain smoothly, his sharp, dark eyes meeting hers. "He could have said no and I would have gone instead to trial. Or he could have nominated a champion."

His voice seemed oddly muffled, as though he were speaking through a blanket. Flora stared at the former teyrn, wondering at the odd, shimmering halo that had emerged around his broad-shouldered frame. She blinked at Loghain as he began to speak, his thick, greying eyebrows drawing together as he scowled up at her.

"Or, he could have executed me there and then before the – Flora?"

Quite suddenly, the cell contracted into a single point of brightness. Flora was vaguely aware of the disgraced general rising to his feet, before he was consumed within a mass of swelling shadows.

As with Flora's previous fainting spell, it took only minutes before her senses returned to their full capacity. She awoke a short time later, to something cold and wet resting across her face. Reaching up, Flora removed a handkerchief that had been drenched in water and placed over her forehead.

"Are you trying to smother me?" she whispered, eyeing Loghain suspiciously as he sat on the end of the narrow bunk. She was sprawled haphazardly along its length, clearly having been placed there without ceremony. "Or drown me?"

Loghain let out a dry snort, reaching for his water pouch and handing it to her wordlessly. Flora propped herself upright, taking several large and unladylike gulps.

"Does Alistair know, lass?" the former general asked abruptly, taking back the empty pouch.

"Know what?"

"About the child."

Flora stared at him in naked horror, which promptly put paid to any hope of her trying to brazen it out.

"How do  _you_ know?!" she demanded, then looked down and realised that her shirt was partially unbuttoned. "Oh."

"It came loose when you stumbled," Loghain countered in response to her suspicious glower. "And unlike your bastard Theirin, I'm no fool; I know the signs. Maker knows Cailan studied my daughter for them hard enough."

Flora felt a sickening surge of alarm in her stomach. She imagined Loghain revealing this juicy titbit at some crucial moment in the duel, intending to catch the incredulous Alistair off-guard.

"You can't tell him," she said bluntly, her pale eyes boring into his dark ones. "I have to fight the Archdemon when the horde gets here. Regardless of- "

She made a vague, euphemistic gesture in the direction of her stomach.

There was a beat of silence, which extended into a longer pause. Loghain shot Bryce Cousland's daughter a sideways glance from the tail of his eye, leaning his head back against the wall.

"Have you had sufficient to eat today?"

"Eh?"

"If you're feeling faint, it's because you've not eaten enough," the general said abruptly, gaze sliding off towards the doorway. "The babe has taken the food, and left none for you."

"Oh." Flora put a hand on her stomach, feeling the firm roundness beneath her palm. "Greedy. It takes after me, then."

Suddenly, there came the sound of muffled consternation from outside, and the rattle of keys in the lock. Loghain sighed under his breath as the door swung open; a half-dozen guards spilling into the room with swords drawn.

"I'm fine," Flora said hastily, seeing their alarm at her proximity to the condemned traitor. "Could you give us a few moments more, please?"

The guards withdrew reluctantly, positioning themselves deliberately within earshot at the cell entrance. Loghain reached down to rub idly at his knee, grunting slightly as his fingers made contact with an old injury.

"Odd," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "Seems as though I've been trapped in a bad dream - for  _months -_ and only just awoken. Why did I not see clearly before?"

Flora looked sideways at him, fingers twisting anxiously in the hem of her shirt.

"I shouldn't have underestimated you," the general continued bluntly, dark eyes swivelling to meet hers. "Anyway… don't fret over-much about this evening."

The northern coast was seeping through Loghain's voice once again; it reminded Flora of her father, and she found herself oddly reassured. The sensation was disconcerting to the young healer - considering that Loghain had been their named enemy since Firstfall - and she rose hastily to her feet.

The relieved guards stood to the side to allow Flora to exit the cell. Before she crossed the threshold, she turned around and asked the question that had been worrying at the edges of her mind for weeks.

"I understand why you had to blame us for Ostagar. I even think I understand why you betrayed Cailan. But  _slavery?"_ she whispered, canting her head in the direction that she imagined the elven alienage to lie. "What gain was there for you?"

Loghain paused for a moment, an odd flicker passing across his lined features.

"I have been questioning my own motives as to that, child," he muttered darkly, so quiet that Flora could barely hear him. "I assume that it must have been for the money."

"For  _money?"_ Flora whispered, tremulously. "You did it for coin?"

Loghain met her accusatory stare for a brief second, before his eyes slid away once again.

"I spent most of the gold in the treasury when Maric was lost," he continued, bitterly. "In the search for my missing friend. And funds were depleted further through Howe's illegal leeching. I can only surmise that I was receiving some profit from the sale of the unfortunate creatures."

His frank gaze rose to meet hers, raw and open. Flora stared at him, reading the uncertainty writ naked on the older man's face.

"You… don't remember agreeing to it?" she asked tentatively, and received only a slight shake of the head in response.

Just then Guillaume appeared at the doorway, the Royal Steward's brow deeply furrowed with anxiety.

"Please, my lady," he entreated, stepping across the cell with a surreptitious hand on his blade. "I cannot countenance your continued exposure to this traitor. Prince Alistair will not be happy if he finds out you were left alone with him."

Flora rose to her feet obediently, casting a final look down at Loghain as he leaned his head against the wall. He suddenly looked each one of his fifty five years; far paler and greyer than he had been at the Landsmeet.

"I won't let you land a killing blow on my brother-warden," she said bluntly in place of a farewell, pausing in the doorway. "I don't care about Fereldan tradition."

"I am aware, girl," replied Loghain, weariness running like a fraying thread through the words.

Shortly afterwards, Flora found herself back in the King's bedchamber; pacing between hearth and window so extensively that she took off her boots for fear for wearing down the carpet. Mid-afternoon the servants brought up a tray of grapes and cheese, but to Flora's mild alarm, she realised that she had lost her appetite. Portraits of past kings gazed sternly down at her as she wandered around their lodgings, eating grapes out of obligation to the unwelcome resident in her belly.

Finally, she heard Alistair and Teagan's muffled conversation in the corridor outside. When they entered, Flora scuttled immediately to her brother-warden and put her arms around his neck. Alistair embraced her back enthusiastically, lowering his face to press a kiss against her mouth. His damp shirt was plastered to his body after the day's exertions, the gilded hair dishevelled and sweaty.

Guillaume, appearing like a silent shadow from the passage, enquired discreetly if the prince wanted any dinner. Alistair shook his head impatiently; a bright, almost feverish look in his eyes.

"You ought to eat," murmured a perspiring Teagan, removing his sword belt and placing it on a side table. "Keep your energy up."

"I don't have any appetite," retorted Alistair, keeping a possessive arm around Flora's waist. "I just want to get this over with."

Teagan glanced across at Guillaume, and the steward gave a slight nod. The two men withdrew quietly back into the corridor, leaving the Wardens alone in the Royal bedchamber. The wide hearth belched smoke up the chimney, perfuming the air with a faint cedar scent. The servants had replaced the blankets and furs spread over the Royal bed – despite it now being midway through Bloomingtide, Ferelden summer nights were still prone to be chill.

Alistair reached out to move a strand of hair away from his sister-warden's full mouth, with a delicacy that belied his large, powerful hand. He gazed down at Flora with mingled affection and desire, dropping his hand to cup her breast.

"I wish I had time to take you now," he murmured against her hair, thumb brushing with intent against the thin linen. "You just wait until tonight, my love. I'll have your eyes rolling in your skull."

Flora gazed at him with mild incredulity; lust being the very last thing on her mind.

"I don't know," she replied, her voice several pitches higher than usual. "How you can even  _think_ about bed at a time like this."

Alistair shot her a long, searching glance, eyes moving deliberately up and down her body as though he were able to see through the loose folds of wool and linen to the bare skin below. Flora blushed inadvertently, dropping her gaze to the rug.

There came a quick knock and then a tactful pause of several moments, before the doors to the king's chamber opened once again. Teagan entered, his green Guerrin eyes grave and portentous; followed by the steward and a pair of manservants.

Between them they were carrying an armour stand, unwieldy due to the weight of the cuirass, greaves and other accessories arranged upon it. The gold and ebony suit was a masterpiece of Fereldan craftsmanship, a Theirin lion engraved in silverite in the centre of the chest-guard. Such was the lustre of the polished metal that it seemed almost liquidous in its brilliance, reflecting the flames of the hearth like glass.

Alistair let his sister-warden's fingers drop as the servants let the stand rest in the centre of the chamber; approaching with mingled awe and hesitation.

"This suit of armour once belonged to Maric," Teagan said quietly, watching the young prince as he reached out to run a hand over the carved spaulder. "Since you're the same height as the old king, it should fit you better than anything belonging to Cailan."

After a short while, the steward and servants departed, leaving Flora, Teagan and Alistair alone in the chamber to prepare. Flora sat cross-legged on the end of the bed and tried to calm her racing nerves, watching Teagan strap and buckle Alistair into his father's armour. Slowly, piece by piece, she watched her kind-hearted brother-warden transform into a warrior king.

"How do I look, Flo?"

Alistair turned to her, spreading his arms self-depreciatingly and smiling to hide his apprehension. Flora pushed herself from the bed and went to him, reaching out to touch his gauntleted fingers tentatively.

"Shiny," she replied miserably, for want of anything more eloquent.

"You look the spit of Maric," remarked Teagan, shaking his head slightly as he stood back to survey his nephew. "It's uncanny."

Alistair took a deep breath, acclimatising himself to the pressure of the gilded metal across his chest. He glanced around but Flora was one step ahead of him; she had already retrieved Duncan's sword and now offered it to him with her customary solemnity. Alistair took the blade, honed sharp as any of Zevran's daggers, and slid it into the scabbard at his waist.

"Right," he muttered, his voice low and steely. "Let's go and get this over with."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So I know in game you get Cailan's armour from Ostagar – but surely that would be all crushed and manky after he's squashed by an ogre? So I changed it slightly – I imagine there's got to be some stuff belonging to Maric hanging around the castle, still.
> 
> Ooohhhh lol the list of people who know about Flora's condition continues to grow, haha.
> 
> I decided to incorporate a little bit of the blood magic Loghain influence thing re the slavery, thank you to the reader who suggested that! Such a fascinating theory!


	278. The Duel

Alistair paused outside the Landsmeet chamber, coming to a halt before the heavy double doors. He turned to Flora, whose naturally solemn mien was not quite able to hide her apprehension.

"I'm not going to kiss you now," he murmured, armour shifting like fluid metal over his body as he reached to pat his gloved palm against her cheek. "I'll kiss you afterwards."

Flora nodded wordlessly, feeling her stomach give a lurch of anxiety. Then the guards pushed open the double doors and the herald dutifully announced the arrival of  _Prince Alistair, Lady Cousland and the Bann of Rainesfere!_

An excited murmur sprung up to greet them, along with the rustle of clothing as those present stood up.

Flora had not been in the Landsmeet chamber since her triumphant exit the previous week. The tiered stone seating was only half-full, many nobles were still away facilitating the summoning of their troops. The great hearth still belched forth scented smoke; the suspended iron candelabras blazed like wreaths of fire. The shutters leading to the Alamarri balcony were still pushed back, although the armies encamped on the plains below had been swallowed by evening shadow.

The herald led them straight down the centre of the chamber, towards the raised platform at the far end. A grim-faced Eamon was already seated up there, on a chair placed to one side. Alistair led the way through the tiers with chin set and determined; fully aware that those present were whispering excitedly about the uncanny resemblance to Maric. Duncan's sword hung at his side, a slash of blazing silverite against the ebon and gilt of the armour.

Flora and Teagan followed in his wake, the former quailing inwardly as the herald gestured her up onto the platform. Alistair had already taken a seat on the highest chair, leaning forward on his elbows. He was clearly so preoccupied with what was to come, he had not realised that he had just taken a seat on Ferelden's throne. As Alistair sat, so did the rest of the Landsmeet chamber.

"Lady Cousland," murmured the herald, seeing Flora hesitate. "There, if you please."

Mindlessly, Flora sat in her assigned seat; a deeply uncomfortable chair to the right of Alistair's own. Casting a surreptitious glance over her shoulder, she realised that the source of her discomfort was the carved wooden back, the protruding muzzle of the Theirin lion digging directly between her shoulder-blades. Sighing, she shifted as subtly as possible, while Teagan took a seat beside his brother.

Eamon, as incumbent regent, opened the session with little ceremony. There was no joy in his voice as he announced the  _trial-by-sword_  of traitor Loghain Mac Tir; a challenge which would be undertaken by Alistair Theirin, king-to-be.

Letting Eamon's voice fade into the background, Flora glanced around at the other occupants of the chamber. The lack of her brothers and Arl Leonas was disconcerting; yet she was relieved to see several of her companions – Wynne, Leliana and Sten – seated on the front row. The former two wore carefully impassive expressions, yet Flora was astonished to see something akin to  _approval_ on the Qunari's stern features.

Letting her eyes drift to the opposite side of the chamber, Flora was astounded to see Anora Mac Tir sitting on the front row. The woman was rigid as a board, lips folded tightly together and hands interwoven in her lap. Nobody was sitting near her; not desiring to be associated with a traitor's disgraced name. Flora felt a sudden throb of compassion towards the former queen as she sat alone, preparing to watch her father fight for his life.

Eventually she became aware of a weight on her knee, and looked down to see Alistair's gauntlet resting there. Flora put her own hand on top of the metal glove, sliding her fingers through his. Although he kept his face fixed determinedly forwards, Flora could see a minute tremor at the corner of her brother-warden's mouth.

A small and unobtrusive door to the side of the chamber opened. A half-dozen Royal Guard trooped into the chamber with Loghain Mac Tir between them, clad in his customary silverite armour. His hands were bound before him in a metal clamp; one guard carried the general's blade, and another his shield.

Loghain's entrance was greeted with a far different timbre of murmur than Alistair's had been. Now that the Blight had been officially acknowledged, many of those nobles present saw Loghain as the man who had allowed the horde to swell to its current proportions. One daring young bann called out  _slaver!_ in accusatory tones as the former general proceeded to the centre of the room.

Anora sat rigidly, her eyes fixed on her father. She betrayed no external sign of anxiety, but Flora noticed that the older woman had anchored her fingers in the rose-coloured velvet of her skirts.

Eamon read out the terms of the duel, his voice echoing around the deathly silent chamber. Alistair squeezed Flora's fingers a final time, before reaching down for the ebon and gilt helm at his feet.

As the Arl of Redcliffe finished, there was some consternation amongst the guards. It seemed that – in the excitement of bringing the former regent up for a trial by combat – the key to unlock the silverite clamp around Loghain's wrists had been mislaid.

There was a dark muttering from the crowd, as Eamon exhaled in frustration.

While he berated the captain of the guard, Flora rose to her feet, feeling Alistair tensing beside her. Descending from the platform, she crossed the chamber and came to a halt before Loghain. He gazed down at her with his customary scowl; but Flora was used to the taciturn sternness of northerners, and this did not faze her.

"Hold out your hands, please," she requested, feeling energy spark beneath her fingernails.

He did so, and Flora slid her fingers between his sinewy wrists, lowering her voice to a whisper.

"I won't let you land a killing blow," she reminded him under her breath, and Loghain let out a soft grunt of acknowledgment. "I don't care about tradition."

With the slightest pulse of her shield, the silverite clamp yielded; splaying apart as easily as if the metal was still soft from the forge. It dropped to the flagstones, mangled beyond recognition.

Flora stepped back as Loghain rubbed at his wrists, receiving gauntlets, shield and sword from one of the wide-eyed guards. Then, she was swapping positions with Alistair; returning to the platform while he took her place in the centre of the historic Landsmeet chamber.

She sat down as though in a dream, watching her brother-warden raise his shield and Duncan's sword. The next moment Flora felt a comforting hand on her elbow; grateful for the pressure, she reached up to clutch Teagan's cold palm.

"He'll be fine," Flora heard the bann murmur in strangled tones, fingers squeezing hers tightly. "He's got youth on his side."

Flora nodded mechanically, forcing herself to stay focused through the blossoming panic. She clung to the bann's hand as though it were a rope trailing through a storm-tossed sea.

Loghain reached up to close the lid of his helm, lifting his own sword in response to Alistair's challenge. With a start, Flora recognised the armour that the former general was wearing, with the distinctive Mac Tir emblem emblazoned across the breast-plate.

_He wore the same armour at Ostagar, the night of the battle. Why would he choose to wear it now, knowing that it would only spur Alistair on?_

_**Perhaps that is his aim.** _

"Father!"

Anora's voice rang across the Landsmeet chamber, high and anxious. "Surely the mage's eyes should be bound? Her hands?"

Loghain's head tilted a fraction towards his daughter; but he made no other indication that he had heard her frantic plea.

_Do not fret overmuch about this evening, he'd said in the cell earlier._

The two men circled one another in the centre of the chamber, one in silverite and the other in ebon and gold, their faces obscured by closed helms. Alistair had the advantage of height and youth, fleet-footed despite the raw bulk of his plate-clad body. Yet Loghain had the benefit of experience, having first raised a weapon decades before Alistair's birth.

The first exchange of swords was tentative, each man trying to gain the measure of the other. In contrast to the quick, metallic clattering of an Orlesian rapier duel; this was a meeting of solid Fereldan craftsmanship, the blades dense and weighty as they crashed against one another.

It soon became apparent that Alistair had the advantage. Despite the general's additional decades of experience; it had been a long time since Loghain had been in the field of battle, and longer still since he had engaged in one-on-one combat. Alistair, conversely, had spent the past year fighting a foe far more dangerous than any ageing human.

Loghain soon went on the offensive, raining a solid barrage of blows onto Alistair's shield. The metallic clatter echoed to the Landsmeet's vaulted ceiling; but Alistair's arm was strong and the shield withstood the blows.

Moving quickly despite his broad frame and heavy armour, Alistair thrust the haft of Duncan's sword forward. The tip of the blade pierced a weak spot at the top of Loghain's thigh and the general let out a strangled grunt of pain. Anora clapped her hand to her mouth, turning away with a grimace. Flora felt Teagan's fingers convulse around her own and she clutched his hand doubly tightly, a cold sweat forming between their palms.

Slowly, a trickle of scarlet began to roll down the outside of Loghain's metal-clad thigh. The general brought up his shield to successfully deflect a second blow that would have bit into his abdomen; but was too slow to counter the following shove from Alistair's own shield. Loghain braced his feet against the flagstones but he was unable to match the prince's brute strength, staggering back and dropping his sword.

It fell with a metallic crash against the tiles, and Anora let out a little scream. Instead of pressing forward the advantage, Alistair drew back, lifting his own shield and sword once more.

"Pick it up!" he demanded, voice muffled through the helm. "We continue."

The general took a moment to retrieve the sword, hissing a curse as wounds both old and new to his leg visibly pained him. Raising his sword, he made a lunge towards Alistair that glanced off the side of Alistair's shield, staggering forward when the blow did not land.

Alistair circled the older man like a lion stalking a wounded deer; his blade catching the last rays of the setting sun. Feinting deftly to one side, he sent the edge of the blade crashing down upon Loghain's opposite spaulder. The metal caved in, crumpling like tin beneath the force of Alistair's anger-fuelled blow.

The general's shield dropped like a severed banner, and the prince took advantage of the sudden vulnerability. Lunging forward, Alistair drove the sword towards a gap at the top of Loghain's greave. The general made a futile attempt to parry it, failed, and let out a grunt of pain as the blade sunk home. The metal tip thrust its way through the chainmail, driving the bloodied metal links home into the flesh of Loghain's thigh.

The man sunk to the ground, sword dropping with a clatter; inhaling a ragged gasp of air as blood spurted through the damaged armour. The audience sat rigid, electrified by the sight of the once-powerful general brought both literally and figuratively to his knees. Anora sat as though she were made of stone, her mouth pulled wide with disbelief.

Alistair reached up and pulled off his own helm, face red and hair dishevelled.

"Do you yield?" the Theirin prince demanded, sword tip poised at at Loghain's throat.

The general let out a cough, reaching up with a trembling hand to pull off his own helmet. It took him several attempts, and when he finally succeeded, the chamber inhaled at how pale he was. Eyes red from burst blood vessels struggled to focus on Alistair; and it was clear that he was bleeding profusely within his armour.

"That feint..." Loghain murmured, shaking his head before coughing wetly. "Maric to a tee."

" _Do you yield?!"_ Alistair demanded again, voice rising as he held the sword-tip to the general's naked throat.

Blood trickled from the corner of Loghain's thin lips, and when he replied the word was little more than a hoarse whisper.

"Aye," he muttered, averting his eyes from his rigid daughter. "I yield."

Alistair took a deep breath, lifting Duncan's sword so that it caught the liquidous gold sheen of the flame suspended overhead.

Flora could feel Teagan's fingers sweaty and intertwined with her own. All eyes were focused on the two men in the centre of the chamber; one standing with sword raised, the other crouched and bloodied.

"Loghain Mac Tir, you have been found guilty of treason," Alistair said, the words sounding as though they were emerging from somewhere deep and long-buried. "For abandoning King Cailan and the Grey Wardens to die in the field; and then attempting to usurp the throne of Ferelden from… from its  _rightful_  occupant. The sentence for these crimes is death."

Anora let out a strangled gasp, and yet nobody looked to offer comfort to her. The rest of the Landsmeet had distanced themselves from Mac Tir's daughter as surely as they had distanced themselves from the disgraced father.

Alistair raised the sword, then stared down at Loghain, his brow furrowing. The general's wounds were grievous and numbered in the half-dozen; a combination of blood loss and pain meant that he was now trembling uncontrollably.

"You need to keep still," Alistair breathed, a stiff note of entreaty creeping into the words. "I… I would make this clean."

"Easier said than done," retorted Loghain hoarsely, blood emerging in gouts through the mangled parts of his armour. Despite the obvious pain that he was in, the man's tone retained its sardonic timbre.

Alistair paused, sword raised in the air like some macabre tableaux; clearly unsure about how to proceed. If he swung the blade now it would cut messily into the general's trembling neck; it would take several bloody hacks to part head from shoulders.

_**Go on.** _

_Really?! Him!_

_**You're a healer. This is what you do, child.** _

_Ugh, fine._

Moments later, Flora was at Alistair's side, having taken matters into her own hands. Heedless of the blood, she knelt before Loghain and turned his greying face towards her own. With only fractional hesitation, she pressed her mouth to his; feeling the healing mist surge joyfully up her throat.

_**Good girl.** _

It took only a minute for her to discharge a combination of rejuvenative and anaesthetic miasmas between his lips; golden energy blooming beneath the pallid skin of his throat. To her surprise, Flora tasted something odd on her tongue, a sour curdling with an arcane tinge.

_What..? It's like- what was it? It reminds me of something._

_**Arl Eamon, while he was under the maleficar's spell.** _

When Flora drew back, frowning in confusion, some of the colour had returned to the general's hollowed cheeks. The convulsive trembling of Loghain's limbs had stopped, and when he turned his face back up to Alistair, there was no fear in it.

"Come on then, lad," he said, the words clear and faintly mocking. "My wife will be waiting for me."

Alistair lifted the sword high above his head, the breath caught in his throat as his lungs stilled. Flora, who had retreated to Leliana and Wynne, could see the intense concentration contorting her brother-warden's features; the focus in his hazel stare as he gazed at the pale sinew of Loghain's now-rigid neck.

Then the blade came arcing downwards, in a single, graceful motion – and returned to Alistair's side. Loghain looked up at the young prince, his brow furrowed incredulously.

"Return Mac Tir to his cell and attend to his wounds," Alistair commanded, his voice clear and steady despite the conflict in his eyes. "There's too great a wealth of military experience in that head to sever it just yet. I need time to consider my options, Loghain and I won't be rushed into making a decision under  _your_ terms."

For a single moment, Loghain looked almost as though he wanted to laugh incredulously; a split-second breaking of the clouds across his face. There came a ragged chorus of approving cries from the sparsely-filled chamber; most of them calling out  _Theirin! Theirin!_ as the disgraced commander was assisted from the chamber. Loghain had, after all, once been named as a hero of the realm.

Anora rose, with a face as still and waxen as a corpse. Her only colour came from two spots of pink sat high on her cheeks. Bowing her head in response to Alistair's decision, she swept alone from the Landsmeet chamber.

Alistair returned Duncan's blade to its sheath, suddenly looking weary and far older than his two decades. Turning his back on the rest of the Landsmeet; he went straight to where Flora was sitting between Wynne and Leliana.

"I've had enough for one evening, Flo," the future king muttered, jaw taut and eyes shadowed. "Can we get out of here?"

"I know where," Flora replied immediately, reaching out to take his hand. "Follow me."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Noooo Loghain is too fascinating a character to kill off just yet, lol. I hope that I've developed plot and character of those involved (although not Loghain, he's a mystery to all) sufficient so that this turn of events isn't entirely unexpected!
> 
> I'm so crap at writing fight scenes, lol.
> 
> You definitely did not want to be trembling if the executioner is going for your neck with an axe – it could lead to something very messy and NOT NECESSARILY FATAL. Since hanging was a much more common method of execution in Medieval England, executioners were often not quite as proficient when called to chop off someone's head. Also, axes at the time were pretty blunt and used more to bludgeon off someone's head with sheer force. This probably counts for a lot of the 'bungled' executions reported in history – the ones that took multiple blows. EUUGHHH what a Christmassy topic of discussion!


	279. Respite On The Beach

And so the Wardens and their companions found themselves on a small beach, tucked away within a cove on the sea-facing side of the Royal Palace. Flora had discovered the steps cut into the cliff-face while on one of her many unsuccessful missions to locate the castle kitchens. The stone stair had a dual purpose – mainly to serve as an escape route for the occupants of the palace in case of attack. However, in the last years of Maric's life, he had spent a significant amount of time sailing to visit foreign nations; and this beach served as a more discreet launching area for the King's personal vessel. There was a stone quay built from boulders and limestone cement that curved into the saltwater estuary, although no ship had been anchored in its shallows for many years.

The cove itself was a mix of sand and shingle; the curving cliffs of the Palace headland formed a natural harbour that was protected from the elements. From the beach, the estuary stretched out into the vast Amaranthine Ocean, sea and sky blurring together on the far horizon. Silver-backed gulls nested in the various nooks and crannies of the cliff face, occasionally wheeling overhead with mournful cries. The sun was just setting, turning the heavens into a wash of blushing apricot and rose. Despite night only just beginning to draw in, faint promises of stars winked from within the veil of twilight.

Sten and Leliana had collected driftwood, working together in quiet unison to construct the most efficiently-built fire in Denerim's history. Once the final lengths of kindling had been laid, Leliana glanced around for Wynne. The senior enchanter was standing at the foot of the quay, inhaling the salt-tinged air as a stray breeze teased a strand of hair from her bun.

There came a sudden rush of flames from behind the bard and Leliana turned in surprise; only to see Morrigan standing with the head of her staff held to the smouldering wood. The witch raised a dark eyebrow, as though challenging the bard to express her surprise.

"I found myself without entertainment this evening, and desired company," Flemeth's daughter hissed, casting a slightly defensive look towards the bard. "'Tis probable that you will mock me for such uncharacteristic sentiment, so go ahead and laugh."

Instead, Leliana smiled and bowed her head towards the witch, the beads at the end of her auburn braids rattling.

"It's always nice to see a familiar face," the bard offered, lowering herself onto the sand beside the campfire. "Especially in a strange city."

Sten settled _Asala_  across his lap and took out a whetstone, honing the edge of the Qunari blade until it was as sharp as a shaving-knife. Leliana prodded at the flames with the end of a narrow piece of driftwood, watching a flurry of red sparks make their way upwards.

"Funny," she murmured, her eyes pensive. "It's almost like it was when we first began to travel together. Just us, our two Warden-recruits, a handful of mouldering tents and a campfire."

"Except for the set of matched fools at our backs," countered Morrigan, casting a derisive look towards the half-dozen Royal Guard who stood unobtrusively in the shadows of the cliff. "I wonder: would they all topple over if I pushed the one at the end?"

"They are doing their duty," interjected Sten, and so rare was any contribution volunteered by the Qunari that both women fell silent. "Their purpose is to guard their leader: the taller male Warden."

"Come, Sten, you  _definitely_  know their names by now," chided Leliana, amused. "And don't tell me that you still view Flora as a  _man?"_

Sten let out a contemptuous snort, duly returning his attention to  _Asala._  The gulls cried and wheeled overhead, returning to nests buried deep in the splintered rock face.

Meanwhile, Alistair himself was some distance away, standing on a patch of sand before the slowly encroaching tide. He was rigid as a Tevinter statue; staring off towards the twilit horizon with a face like granite. Every so often his fingers would convulse, as though still clamped around the hilt of Duncan's blade.

Flora was moving around her brother-warden, slowly and methodically dismantling each piece of Maric's armour. Despite her initial unfamiliarity with heavy plate, its removal was a task that she had become adept at over the course of their journey. She slid off the gauntlets and placed them on a low rock, before unstrapping the cuirass from his chest with a grunt of effort.

With each piece of his father's armour that was removed, Alistair relaxed in slow increments. His fingers dangled still at his sides after his sister-warden removed the gloves; his heart settled to its normal pace as she lifted away the breastplate. He found odd comfort in Flora's steady, measured movements, her face alight as she concentrated on dismantling the armour. He could imagine her sat on the damp sand mending her father's nets with equal focus.

By the time that he stood in boots and thin breeches, clad in the linen shirt customarily worn beneath plate; Alistair found himself calm once again. A combination of his sister-warden's deft fingers and the lapping of shallow waves against the ridged, damp sand had served to purge the events of the Landsmeet chamber from his mind, at least temporarily.

"Come here, sweetheart."

As Flora returned from placing his belt on a low rock, Alistair reached out to embrace her. He held her against his chest, pressing his chin protectively to the top of her head.

"Maker's Breath," he murmured into Flora's dishevelled hair, curling his fingers into the baggy folds of her tunic. "How did a fool like me get so lucky as to be loved by someone like you?"

"You're not a fool," replied Flora automatically, bare toes sinking into the damp sand with the pressure of her brother-warden's embrace. "But you're very easy to love."

Alistair took her face in his hands and leaned down to kiss her mouth. Flora pressed herself reflexively against him as he kissed her, the shape of her body apparent beneath the thin linen. Alistair could taste the saltwater breeze on her lips and heated tongue, and let out a soft, shuddering breath of desire.

"By Andraste," he murmured, moving his mouth to her small ear and worrying gently at the lobe with his teeth. "I can't  _wait_  to get you alone."

Hand-in-hand, they returned to their companions at the campfire. Leliana was humming to herself gently, strumming chords on an imaginary lute as she plotted out some future verse. The bard raised her eyes and smiled up at the Wardens, shuffling over to make room for them beside the fire.

Keeping hold of his sister-warden's fingers, Alistair lowered himself to the sand; wrapping his arms around Flora's waist and resting his chin on her shoulder as she leaned back against his chest.

They were silent for several minutes, watching the scarlet sparks drift up into the twilight. The whisper of waves against the sand melded with the soft, methodical scape of the Qunari's whetstone against  _Asala_  and soon Wynne was asleep, head drooping over her notebook.

"So, Alistair, you must feel better now that the man who quit the field is at your mercy," murmured Morrigan, disguising her genuine curiosity with a sardonic tone. "I recall that you once came up with some rather  _inventive_  ways to bring about his death. Will you be inflicting such tortures upon the unfortunate creature?"

Alistair shook his head after a brief pause, taking comfort from the sturdy warmth of his sister-warden wedged against his chest.

"No," he replied eventually, turning his eyes up to the emerging stars. "There's no point to it. I haven't yet decided what to do, but Loghain isn't our priority at the moment. Stopping the Blight  _is."_

Flora grimaced, fidgeting as her knee gave a painful throb. Alistair sensed her discomfort and reached forward, manoeuvring her into a position where he could pull her bare calf across his lap.

"Anyway," he continued, brushing an affectionate thumb over her toes. "I'd not torment a man before his daughter."

After loosening the leather strapping, Alistair began to expertly work his sister-warden's swollen knee with strong, calloused fingertips, knowing from long practise how best to soothe the sore joint.

The sky had deepened to shades of indigo and violet, the sun having finally ceded the heavens to its lunar cousin. A round, pale eye of a moon rose triumphantly on the horizon, silvering the waves with pearlescent light.

"' _King Alistair spares the traitor'_ ," mused Leliana, strumming an imaginary chord as she gazed out across the wide mouth of the estuary. "My  _epic_  will be full of the most curious twists and turns."

The witch let out an exclamation of disgust, almost loud enough to rouse the dozing Wynne.

"'Tis unbelievable! You're  _still_  composing that dirge?" she declared, with the wide amber eyes of a startled cat. "The one you began all the way back in Lothering?"

"Of course!" replied Leliana, a note of defensiveness creeping into her tone. "Our Wardens  _are_  making history, are they not? If they successfully defeat the Blight, then future generations will study their actions. I wish merely to provide my own account for the chroniclers to take into consideration."

"What are you going to call it?" asked Alistair curiously, pulling the leather strap taut around his sister-warden's knee. Flora sat up, brushing sand from her hair, eager to contribute her own ideas.

"' _The Herring Tales'!"_

Leliana shot her a mildly incredulous look, shaking her head.

"No,  _ma petite._ Only one of you is from Herring."

"' _Two Fools And An Archdemon',"_ suggested Morrigan malevolently, letting out a quiet cackle.  _"'Dolts Versus Darkspawn'."_

"' _Adventures of Horse Boy and Fishwoman,"_ offered Flora, and promptly received a glare from the scowling lay sister.

"Horse Boy?" asked Alistair, stifling a chuckle. "That makes me sound like some sort of…  _monstrous hybrid_."

Leliana swept an icy blue glower over each of them in turn, nostrils flaring.

"I'll let you know the title once I've actually _finished_  it," she retorted, with a little Orlesian sniff. "But it shall be  _my_ choice, and it will definitely not include fools or  _'fishwomen'."_

"Well, you've lost your Herring market then," replied Flora cheerfully, smiling through the flames at the irate bard.

"Nobody in Herring can even  _read!"_

Far above the beach, night spilled inky darkness across the heavens; the stars standing out against the cloudless sky like flecks of silver. It was a mild evening, still and breezeless, the moon a hanging lantern above the saltwater estuary.

Sten left first, offering a grunt in place of a farewell. Shortly afterwards, Morrigan followed in his wake; winging her way across the water in the form of a dark-feathered bird. Leliana continued to sing quietly under her breath, eyes closed and swaying to some inner rhythm. Wynne was still dozing, soft snores escaping her partly-open mouth.

Flora, who half-recognised the folk melody that the bard was humming, lay inelegantly on the sand with her head on Alistair's thigh. He was tracing her features with his long forefinger, gazing intently down at his sister-warden's face as though he were sketching it.

Eventually, Leliana rose elegantly to her feet, reaching down to pat Wynne gently.

"Bedtime, I think," the bard murmured as the senior enchanter yawned, brushing sand from her maroon robes. "Are you two coming back inside?"

"In a bit," replied Alistair in distant tones, preoccupied by counting the scattered freckles on Flora's nose.

Arm in arm, lay-sister and mage made their way across the sand; back over to the cliff face where the route up to the palace had been hewn from solid rock. As the pair ascended the steeply sloping steps, they passed the half-dozen Royal Guard who had positioned themselves tactfully within easy access of the beach. Since the small cove was only accessible by the cliff route from the palace, the captain was able to grant their prince the illusion of privacy.

The moment that Wynne and Leliana had vanished from earshot, Alistair bent forwards over his sister-warden; reaching down to move a strand of hair away from her face. The only sound, aside from the fire's erratic crackling, came from the gentle whispering of the waves as they crept across the sand, leaving damp ridges in their wake.

"If I close my eyes," breathed Flora eventually, sprawled on her back in the firelight. "It's almost like I'm in Herring."

"What a  _coincidence_ , my dear. I've been wondering: how _does_ a boy court a girl in Herring?" Alistair murmured, sitting alongside his sister-warden and admiring the smooth line of her bare calf. "I imagine it's different from how the nobles do it, not that I'd know anything about that. There was no  _courting_ in the monastery. You'd get a slap round the ear if you even  _looked_ at someone else."

Flora thought for a moment, shooting him a little glance from beneath her eyelashes. The warm glow from the fire illuminated Alistair's strong, deceptively arrogant features; warming his hazel irises to a honeyed bronze.

"When a boy and girl like each other in Herring, they go down to the beach together," she replied, feeling the  _want_  in his stare as a prickling heat over her skin. " _I_  never did it, but everyone knows what they do down there."

"What  _do_  they do?" breathed Alistair, the desire thickening in his voice as he lay propped on an elbow in the sand. "Tell me, Flo."

"Well," said Flora, caught between responding to his lust and wallowing in nostalgia. "If the girl likes the boy  _a lot_ , she might… show him something."

She flushed and raised her eyes to the star-flecked heavens once again, hearing the breath catch in her brother-warden's throat.

"Show him what?" he breathed, words blurred by lust. "Show  _me."_

Flora reached up and loosened the top strings of her bodice, pulling down the shirt to bare one small breast. Alistair let out a soft groan, running tongue over lips hungrily at the sight of the pink nipple.

"Herring doesn't really  _do_ flowers and poetry," she continued, stifling an inappropriate giggle at the naked desperation on her brother-warden's face. "Or courtship."

"Would a Herring girl let the boy  _kiss_  her there?" he asked thickly, unable to take his eyes from the small mound, pale and curved as the inside of an eggshell.

When Flora nodded solemnly, he took her breast hungrily in his mouth, tonguing the nipple with ardent desire. She could see his arousal straining against his breeches; becoming more prominent as involuntary gasps began to escape her throat. The stubble on her brother-warden's jaw rubbed against delicate skin as he bit gently at the underside of her breast, teasing her nipple until it stood stiffly upwards.

"What else do Herring girls do?" Alistair murmured eventually, after lavishing copious attention on her exposed breast. "I want to learn more about your northern customs."

"Well," replied Flora, sitting upright to catch her breath with the shirt slipping from her bare shoulder. "If she  _really_  likes him, she might… kiss him back."

Alistair closed his eyes with a grin, anticipating the familiar press of his sister-warden's lips against his own. Instead, he felt deft fingers tugging at the laces of his breeches; moments later, a mouth had enveloped him within an eager caress.

He hissed between his teeth, hips rising involuntarily as a hand went to the back of his sister-warden's neck. Fingers tangled in her hair, assisting the rhythmic motion of her head as it bobbed up and down.

"That's… quite a kiss," Alistair managed to croak, before abandoning any semblance of coherence.  _"M-Maker's Breath."_

Leaning back on his elbows in the sand, he let soft groans of pleasure slip free from his mouth; unable to stop from thrusting himself more deeply between his best friend's willing lips.

Finally, on the brink of losing control, Alistair rolled his sister-warden onto her back in the sand, yanking her breeches to her ankles. He met no resistance between Flora's thighs; both Wardens sighing as their bodies came together in familiar juncture.

Almost immediately they began to writhe against the damp sand, panting with want; the noises of their lovemaking echoing around the cove. Alistair took her first on her back, gripping her ankles at his shoulders; then Flora was rocking on top of him, bodice hanging open to reveal small, shuddering breasts.

He was just pulling her into his lap when a low, discreet enquiry came drifting through the shadows at the foot of the cliffs.

"Your Highness?" Guillaume's voice came low and deferent. "Arl Guerrin is waiting in your chamber. Will you see him this evening?"

"Yes," called up Alistair, as his sister-warden stifled a giggle against his shoulder. "I'll be up… presently."

"I shall inform him that you have been…  _delayed_ ," replied the Royal Steward decorously, a faint shred of humour tingeing the words.

Alistair reached down to anchor his wrist in his lover's trailing hair, tugging Flora's head back while sheathing himself in her from below. The pace of their coupling increased; urgency spurring him onwards as she let out helpless gasps on top of him.

"Say my name, baby," he instructed breathlessly, sensing that she was close. "Say it for me."

Flora did as she was told, and the sound of her wailing his name as she climaxed was enough to tip Alistair over the edge. He pulled at her hair hard enough to make her gasp, letting out a strangled shout as his hips spasmed against her rear.

"Ow, my hair," said Flora a few moments later, rubbing a hand over her sore scalp. "Are you trying to make me  _bald?"_

Alistair, collapsing limp and boneless onto the sand beside her, let out an incoherent groan.

The next moment, a sudden tidal thrust sent an over-enthusiastic wave surging up the beach, soaking both Wardens as they lay sprawled in the sand. They let out simultaneous squawks of shock; the seawater was cold and  _deeply_  unforgiving.

Alistair scrambled to his feet with some difficulty as the wave withdrew, hoisting his breeches back up around his waist. Reaching down, he helped haul his sister-warden upright, removing a clump of seaweed from on top of her head. Flora smiled up at him, hair hanging in damp tendrils around her face.

"Ready to go back?" she whispered, squeezing his palm tightly against her own.

Alistair tilted his chin upwards, gazing at the sprawling behemoth of the palace as it sat on the cliff above them, silhouetted against the night sky. He gave a nod; lifting her hand to his mouth to kiss it.

"Yes."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I don't know why I take vicarious pleasure in torturing poor Flora and Alistair – i.e. wavus interruptus, hahaha. Anyway, this was a fun chapter to write – a bit of respite amongst the angst and drama of the previous few updates.
> 
> I wanted to demonstrate a bit of the practical partnership that Flo and Alistair have developed over the past eight months – she knows how to remove the complicated bits of plate armour (something she definitely wouldn't have known how to do in the Circle Tower), and he knows how to soothe the ache in her injured knee.
> 
> omg just realised that I've left Maric's armour on the beach for the tide to wash away... oh well let's just assume the Royal Guard went and collected it on the culmination of #beachshag


	280. News From Highever

Less experienced soldiers might have struggled to hide their grins as they escorted the prince and his mistress back through the winding bowels of the palace. Yet the Royal Guard were consummate professionals, used to maintaining a discreet watch over their charges in all manners of circumstances. Cailan had often ventured into the less salubrious areas of Denerim to visit various lady companions; accompanied by a selection of meticulously neutral guards.

The steward Guillaume was waiting outside the King's bedchamber, his feline features fixed still as a statue. If he was weary due to the late hour, there was no hint of it in his elegant Neverran poise.

"Arl Eamon and the Bann of Rainesfere wait within, bearing news of Highever," he announced, rising from a deep bow. "I took the liberty of preparing hot water. Lady Cousland, would you prefer to bathe elsewhere?"

"I want to hear the news from Highever too," replied Flora immediately, feeling her heart skip a nervous beat in her chest. "I don't mind bathing in there. In the Circle, Templars watched us in the wash chamber  _all the time."_

"I shall send for some screens," murmured the steward, bowing his head diplomatically.

To Flora's mild annoyance, the screen and the sound of the water effectively masked the Guerrins' conversation with Alistair on the other side. She sat ill-temperedly in the bathtub, attended by two female maids who were taking it in turns to wrestle a comb through her tangled hair. Fuelling her irritation further, she could hear tantalising phrases such as  _Highever troops_ and  _resistance_ passing between the three men; the rest of their words drowned out by a combination of crackling hearth and splashing water.

At last, Flora grew tired of being on the periphery of the conversation. Clambering to her feet in the half-full bathtub, she retrieved the thin nightshirt draped on top of the screen and pulled it over her damp head. It was striped blue and white linen and fell to an inch below her bandaged knee; there was a tiny Theirin crest sewn carefully onto the right breast.

"Are my brothers alright?" she asked anxiously, coming around the edge of the screen just as Alistair was stepping out of his own bathtub. "Zevran and Oghren, too? Arl Bryland?"

Both Guerrin brothers were now used to Flora's lack of propriety; aware that  _privacy_ was a concept thoroughly foreign to both her childhood in Herring and adolescence in the dormitories of the Circle. Teagan courteously shrugged off his fur-edged outer jacket, placing it around Flora's shoulders as she waited expectantly for news. Water trickled down her bare legs and pooled in a shallow puddle around her feet, cooling rapidly against the flagstones.

"All are well, pet," the bann replied, handing Alistair a large linen cloth. "They arrived at Highever yesterday morning, and within hours, the townspeople had rallied beneath the laurel. Howe had men stationed within Castle Cousland, but they were unable to hold out against Fergus' forces. Your companions redeemed themselves well."

"So they've taken the castle?" Flora repeated, the sleeves of Teagan's jacket coming down several inches over her wrists.  _"Properly?"_

"Aye," confirmed Eamon, smiling at her through his wiry grey beard. "With minimal resistance. It appears that the townsfolk were pleased to have their Couslands back within Highever."

Alistair grinned at his sister-warden, planting a kiss on her cheek as he went to retrieve his own pyjamas.

"Will the Couslands return to Denerim?" he asked, buttoning up the linen shirt over his damp chest. "Now that Highever is retaken?"

Teagan nodded, stifling a yawn as the change of watch bell rang in some nearby passageway.

"Fergus will leave instructions to rally the troops, I imagine, and then they'll return."

Flora stared at the bann with the open frankness of a northerner, her brows drawing together slightly.

"How long will it take them to get back?" she asked impatiently, wanting both her brothers and companions back within the walls of the city.

"Several days, most likely."

Alistair returned to the fire, rubbing a square of flannel over his damp hair.

"I've got sand  _everywhere,_ even after washing, _"_ he complained, stepping to one side as the servants discreetly removed the bathtubs and screen. "Flo, how are you supposed to get rid of this stuff?"

"You can't, really," replied Flora, with the resigned air of experience. "It's in  _my_ hair, too."

Eamon coughed diplomatically, rising to his feet with a soft grunt of effort. Teagan made his best attempt at a ribald grin, wondering if he should clap his nephew on the back to disguise the fleeting grimace passing across his features.

The bann glanced at Flora, who was sliding his overlarge jacket from her shoulders with a yawn. As usual, the Herring native was entirely unconcerned about being in the presence of others whilst clad only in flimsy nightclothes. Despite his earnest efforts to divert his attention elsewhere; the younger Guerrin brother still felt the reflexive pull of lust deep in his gut far too often when he looked at their odd little chimera of a figurehead.

 _Half your age,_ the familiar, voiceless warning echoed.  _Lover of the future king. Too kind and well-meaning for you to harbour such shameful thoughts._

"Thank you for loaning me this," Flora said, wondering if Teagan was suffering from indigestion.

The bann grunted, taking the fur-edged jacket back and shrugging it over his shoulders.

"Of course, poppet. We don't want you to catch a cold."

Once the Guerrin brothers had taken their leave, the Wardens were left alone in the Royal bedchamber. The hearth - freshly supplied with wood - provided some illumination, but the majority of the chamber was still bathed in shadow.

Alistair went to pull back the shutters over the window, letting the unclouded moonlight spill across the flagstones. The city lay sprawled in darkness beneath him, the myriad lanterns and braziers unable to make much headway against the unyielding night.

"Alistair?"

The prince turned reflexively towards Flora, who had already climbed into bed. She was busy making a nest within the furs, meticulously adjusting the blankets against the chilly air.

"Yes, my love?"

She opened her mouth as though to speak, then slid further down the cushions and pulled the blanket over her head.

Alistair crossed the flagstones, sliding beneath the layers of warmth and reaching out to retrieve his sister-warden from where she had buried herself. Flora curled herself against the hard muscle of her brother-warden's body, their fingers entwining as he pressed a kiss to her clothed collarbone.

"I feel sorry for Anora," came the muffled confession after a moment, pulling a small and involuntary face beside his chest. "This isn't her fault."

"I'm sure she doesn't want your pity, sweetheart," replied Alistair hastily, feeling an irrational clench of fear at the prospect of his best friend venturing into the Mac Tir quarters. "Anora is an intelligent woman; she must have known the risks of allying herself with Loghain."

"He's her dad, of  _course_  she allied with him," Flora countered, while simultaneously remembering that Anora had offered to support their bid to secure her own position. "Anyway, I still feel sorry for her."

Alistair drew his head back to look his sister-warden in the eye, assuming his best stern expression. Flora gazed back at him innocently, dark red hair tangled like crimson seaweed around her solemn features. It did not take a great leap of the imagination to picture her stealing surreptitiously down a passageway, head swivelling in search of the Mac Tir quarters.

"Flora," he said, and she looked up in surprise at the use of her full name. "You mustn't sneak off in the middle of the night to see  _that woman_  without telling me. I… I won't allow it! In fact, I  _forbid_ it. Absolutely forbid it."

Amused, Flora propped her chin in a hand and gazed at her brother-warden.

"And how would you  _stop_  me, exactly?" she enquired innocently, peering at him from beneath her eyelashes.

In a smooth, practised motion Alistair rolled on top of her, straddling Flora's thighs whilst pinning her wrists above her head, against the wall.

"Like this," he murmured into her ear, teasing gently at the earlobe with his tongue.

Flora let out an unladylike snort, amused by the implication that he could counter her magic with his arms alone. Alistair raised an eyebrow, pressing her into the mattress a little harder.

"Or... I could use something  _stronger."_

He stared down at her, a question burning in the depths of his hazel irises. Flora, who was always open to being distracted by her brother-warden, shot him a guileless smile.

"I'm a fisherman's daughter," she whispered sweetly, deliberately nudging her hips against his pelvis. "I tie a good  _knot._  How about you?"

Alistair groaned, gritting his teeth as the breath escaped in a ragged burst from his throat.

" _Maker's Breath."_


	281. Attending To Duty

The next three days passed in similar fashion to their predecessors. The two Wardens spent much of their time down at the encampment, either patrolling the perimeter on horseback, or walking amongst the tents on foot. The dwarven earthworks were growing at rapid pace; a series of crude trenches dug into the soil of the plains that would theoretically break apart the horde's initial charge. The ballistae had mostly been constructed, hulking at the base of the city walls like skeletal beasts of wood and rope.

More troops arrived by the day – a contingent of dwarven engineers wielding pickaxes; a Dalish tribe that had been buried deep in the Wilds and received the summons later than their brethren. Bann Reginalda's men arrived from the White River Bannorn, armed mostly with scythes and pitchforks. Alistair, on seeing their inadequate weaponry, immediately made arrangements for them to receive supplies from the dwarven armoury.

Both he and Flora, aware of their position, had reluctantly embraced their respective uniforms. Alistair wore the gold band that was not quite a crown; while Flora donned the navy and silver tunic and high boots of the Warden battle-mage. Leliana dutifully arrived in the Royal bedchamber every morning to strap her into the leather bodice. With stays pulled tight and laces knotted, they managed to wrestle the swell of Flora's abdomen into submission.

The prince and the Lady Cousland, as they were known to the troops, soon became a familiar sight within the encampment. The lowborn men soldiers found Alistair's arrogant, aristocratic features and well-spoken tones rather intimidating; Flora's common accent and northern openness proved far more approachable. She listened readily to their stories of families and home villages, their fears about the Darkspawn and any concerns they had about the upcoming battle.

As a result, they came to recognise Flora as an ally despite also being a noble; and shouts of  _Lady Florence!_ soon began to spring up as she toured the camp with Alistair. After Leonas' men from South Reach arrived on the second day, fragments of  _'Warden Flora, we adore her,'_ also drifted in their wake. Flora hoped fervently that the troops would not discover the more explicit version penned by Zevran.

In total, the Wardens spent nearly twelve hours a day down on the encampment; eating with the troops in the mess area and meeting at least twice daily with the commanders of each army. It was draining work, and by the time that the Royal Guard arrived to escort them back up to the palace, Alistair and Flora were both generally exhausted.

Too tired to face dining in the great hall under the scrutiny of the court; they ate within the relative privacy of the King's chamber. On the third night, Flora fell asleep with her face planted in a bowl of roasted vegetables. The creature growing in her belly was shaping itself into a more recognisable form, and was thus demanding more sustenance than ever before.

Fiercely spurning any assistance from the servants, Alistair carried his sister-warden over to the bed and undressed her with tender hands. They usually now made love in the mornings, once energised from a night's rest. Couplings were hasty by necessity; since more often than not, Arl Eamon would soon arrive to brief them on the day's schedule. Scouts had been dispatched to try and espy the horde's position but – worryingly - none had yet sent word back.

To Flora's intense annoyance, the Archdemon skulked at the edge of her dreams but failed to make a solid appearance; meaning that its location remained obscure. She even went to the extent of venturing through the alien territory of the Fade in her dreams, plunging through green miasma and swirling mists in an attempt to rout it out. Her spirit allies extended their own tendrils of awareness as far as they were able; yet could unearth nothing definite.

_**Urthemiel proves elusive.** _

_I know,_ Flora thought back, grimly.  _It's very frustrating!_

On the fourth day, both Wardens were called to a war council within the commanders' tent. A light summer drizzle was falling and the entire camp smelt like damp canvas and wet grass; water dotting the still, mirror-like green surface of the estuary.

Riordan greeted them both inside the tent, bright-eyed despite the shadows accentuating the hollows on his face. The senior Warden had spent the past week scouting out possible locations to lure the Archdemon towards; wanting to engage it away from the main field of battle.

The other commanders were already gathered around the map table; each one acknowledging Alistair with a bow and Flora with a nod. The Dalish war leader, Lyna, began a long-winded justification of the positioning of her archers, which Alistair understood partially, and Flora not at all. She nodded along vacantly while wondering when her brothers would be back from Highever; until she became aware of a pair of heated eyes resting on her. Looking up, she caught a glimpse of Riordan's stare moments before he swung his gaze away, regret darkening his features like a raincloud. Flora blinked for a moment, confused.

_**There's something he's not telling you.** _

Flora frowned to herself, but was then distracted by the sounds of movement. The dwarven commander and Riordan left the tent, as did the leader of the Dalish archers. Only the elven arcane warrior from the Circle remained, wholly at ease in full armour as he lounged against the war table. Telathin Surana's dark hair hung loose over his ears, partly braided to keep it away from his face.

"I'd love to sketch that profile."

The elf's light, amused words broke the silence as he directed them towards Flora. She gawped inanely as he flashed her an arch smile, sensing Alistair's expression crashing into a scowl beside her.

"What?" Flora said, rather stupidly. The elf held up slender fingers to frame her face, tilting his head to one side.

"Your features are very comely," explained Telathin, apparently amused by Alistair's glower. "Would it please you, being drawn? Once the duties of the day are over. Of course, I could replicate  _more_  than just your face, if you so desire."

Flora shook her head, confused. The arcane warrior smiled, not in the least disheartened by her denial.

"Ah, well – if you change your mind, my tent is just yonder," the elf murmured with a shrug, retrieving his sword from where it leaned against the table leg. "Stop by anytime."

Alistair watched him go with naked dislike and the moment that the Wardens were alone in the commander's tent, he launched into a hissed tirade.

"Unbelievable! The  _cheek_ of the man," he snarled, pacing back and forth in frustrated little circles. "' _I could replicate more than just your face'._ I'm sure he could!"

"Eh?" asked Flora, who was looking around for an unguarded snack. "What do you mean?"

She felt Alistair approach quickly from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist as his breath moved hot over her neck.

"He wants to bed you," he murmured in her ear, wishing that the thick silver and blue striped tunic did not disguise so much of her body.

Flora looked entirely bemused, tilting her head to one side as her brother-warden bit softly at her earlobe. The stubble on his jawline chafed against her skin and she felt her body responding involuntarily to his caresses.

"What? No, he  _doesn't._  How do you know?"

Alistair snorted, giving her a quick kiss on the back of the neck as he abruptly withdrew his arms. Flora felt a little twinge of disappointment as he pulled away, a steady beat of desire pulsing deep in her core.

"It's obvious," he called over his shoulder, crossing the short distance to the tent entrance and conversing in low tones with the Royal Guard waiting outside. "I've seen it often enough on the faces of other men in your company."

The next moment, the inside of the tent was plunged into shadow as the door flap dropped shut. In less than a heartbeat, Alistair had returned to press himself against his sister-warden; she could feel his arousal even through the thick worst cloth of his breeches. Within moments, their mouths were crashing together in a familiar dance of tender intimacy. Alistair's hand went immediately down the back of her trousers and she began to rub shamelessly at his own straining desire.

Aware that they needed to be hasty, Alistair leaned his sister-warden over the map table, kicking her legs apart and tugging down the leather trousers. Allowing himself a second to admire her naked rear; he reached between her thighs to check her arousal. The next moment his eyebrows shot up, and he let out a sound that was half laugh and half lusty groan.

"You wanton little hussy, do you  _like_ this? The danger of being caught?"

Flora cackled, then gasped as she found herself being doubled over with her cheek pressed against the polished surface of the table. Then he was between her thighs, meeting no resistance as he began to rut himself into her. Without giving her a chance to take a breath, he escalated the pace of his thrusts until she was gasping and clutching frantically at the polished wood in a vain attempt to gain purchase.

"Lady Florence," came a low murmur from outside the heavy canvas door flap. "The Cousland party has been spotted on the North Road. They should arrive back at the city before nightfall."

To Alistair's abject dismay, Flora immediately extracted herself from his desirous embrace and pulled up her trousers.

"Flo- " Alistair said plaintively; a tragic sight with his breeches tangled around his knees. "You can't just  _leave_  me like this!  _Flora!"_

But Flora had already left, barging out of the tent and nearly knocking over the hapless messenger who had delivered the news.

Alistair let out a deep sigh, willing himself to calm down.

Flora, made impatient by the prospect of seeing her brothers, had not even waited for a horse to be brought up from the stables. A light, misting summer rain went entirely unnoticed; she charged unseeing through rows of tents towards the city walls. Soldiers, squires and servants scattered hastily before her with bobbing deference.

Yet the city walls were a half-mile away and the plains were laden with obstacles. More troops were arriving by the day, the earthworks formed vast, artificial barriers and the entire camp was swollen at the seams with occupants, animals and the detritus of war.

A damp Flora was just navigating her way through the earthworks when a wry voice drifted down from above her left ear.

"Need a ride, sweetheart?"

She looked up to see Alistair on horseback, trying and failing to maintain an expression of affront. The ubiquitous Royal Guard lurked behind him, mounted on silverite-clad chargers.

When she nodded eagerly, Alistair reached down and hauled her up onto the saddle before him. Flora shot him a slightly bashful look over her shoulder; recalling the plaintive indignation on her brother-warden's face as he stood in the tent. Alistair appeared relatively composed now, rainwater dripping in rivulets down the chiselled planes of his face.

As they rode up the sea-grass plains towards the base of the city walls, passing rows of freestanding ballistae, he pressed his mouth to Flora's damp hair and murmured in her ear.

"I can't believe you  _left_ me standing there with my breeches down. The  _cheek_  of it!"

Flora, incongruously, laughed and almost slid off the saddle. Alistair tightened his arm around her waist, voice thickening.

"You won't be able to see straight after I'm finished with you later," he continued, brushing his fingers deliberately over her breast. "Or  _walk_  straight."

Flora shot him a quick little glance, eyes wandering over the stubbled jaw and handsome, arrogant features arranged above it. Beneath her surface excitement at seeing her brothers again, she felt a pull of desire deep in her belly.

"Is that a promise?" she whispered back and he groaned, tightening his grip around her waist.

" _Don't_ , or I won't be able to sit on this saddle properly. Come on, let's go up onto the city walls. We can see the North Road from there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I don't know why the past three chapters have all had smut in them, lol. Oh well, Flo and Alistair are two good looking young people, with huge responsibilities, faced with impending doom; they have a lot of stress to work out of their systems haha. Although: on the map table? REALLY? Poor Alistair, lol


	282. The Couslands Return Triumphant

Before long, the Wardens had made their way up to the city walls. They left the horse with the guard and climbed up the crumbling steps that led to the ramparts. Denerim was encompassed on two planes by these vast, centuries-old defences – the other parts of the city faced onto the coast, with the sea providing a natural barrier.

Constructed in the era of Vanedrin Theirin, the walls were built on the solid bedrock that lay beneath the Alamarri plains. Maric had ordered a decade-long programme of repairs and maintenance for the crumbling structure; now, they stood at nearly thirty feet tall and wide enough for three men to ride abreast. Maric had added watchtowers at sporadic intervals, each one informally named after the King's favourite Mabari hounds.  _Biter_ stood guard over the market district;  _Claw_  towered beside the central square; while  _Fang_  was built from the same limestone as the manor houses in the surrounding noble district.

Perched atop the city walls, one could see for miles in any desired direction. Standing on the west wall afforded an exceptional view over the Alamarri plains, which sprawled around the river estuary before rising into the hills of the Bannorn. From the north, one could see the trade highway vanishing into distant woodland, roughly following the line of the coast.

Alistair and Flora had ascended the  _Biter_  tower, which granted the best view towards the North Road. Scarlet Denerim banners, damp from the drizzle, hung limp alongside its stone face. Two guards had been playing cards atop the ramparts, both men springing hastily to attention as Alistair came into view.

Flora positioned herself against the low battlements, palms flat against the stone, squinting off towards the dark fringe of woodland. Her brother-warden cast a cursory glance down the empty road, and then patted her on the elbow.

"The Cousland caravan will probably be some time yet, my dear?" Alistair murmured, watching her gnaw anxiously at her lip. " _Exotic Fish of Thedas_ is in the saddlebag. Shall I get it?"

"Yes, please!"

Together, sitting side by side on the rampart wall, they worked their way through three entries on variants of Rivaini shark. Alistair held his arm up courteously to shield the pages from a misty drizzle that showed no signs of abating.

Flora was entranced by detailed illustrations of the layered shark teeth, tracing their menacing outline on the page with her fingertip. She had removed the outer layers of her Warden battle-mage armour, leaving behind a thin shirt and leather breeches. These were paired with the trusty boots that she had worn since Ostagar, which Flora had become irrationally attached to.

The reference to Rivain reminded Alistair of an old story that Duncan had once told, about an encounter with a shark he'd had while swimming as a youth. Just as Alistair had been on first hearing it, Flora was fascinated by this rare glimpse into their Warden-Commander's past.

Alistair confessed that he had never used a fishing rod in his life; Flora looked at him as though he had revealed himself to be the Archdemon's lieutenant. The prince laughed out loud at the horror on his sister-warden's face as she gaped, incredulous.

"Don't look at me like that, Flo! I didn't grow up beside the sea. Not many opportunities to fish at the monastery at Bournshire."

"Not all fish live in the sea," retorted Flora, still taken aback by his confession. "They live in rivers and lakes, too. You need to study my book more than I do!"

Alistair grinned, gazing down at his companion's wide-eyed disbelief.

"How would you survive if you were lost in the wilds?" Flora demanded, smacking the edge of the stone ramparts with her palm for emphasis. "If you couldn't  _fish?"_

"I'd hunt!" replied Alistair triumphantly, trying not to laugh at the expression on his sister-warden's face. "As Leliana does."

"But you can't use a bow," Flora pointed out, indignantly. "How would you kill anything?"

"With my… sword," Alistair replied vaguely, reaching out to brush a strand of damp red hair from where it lay against Flora's cheek. His thumb lingered on her skin as his eyes dropped to her Cousland mouth; all three siblings claimed the full, haughty curling lips inherited from some distant ancestor.

"With your  _sword?"_ Flora squawked. "You'd chase after rabbits and deer with a  _sword?!"_

Then, she stopped talking as Alistair's thumb moved to her mouth, the calloused ball running deliberately over her lower lip. Resting one hand on the rampart wall; he leaned forward and pressed his own mouth softly against hers, tender and almost chaste.

When he withdrew, Flora peered up at him through her eyelashes.

"Again," she requested, archly. "Please?"

Before Flora had even finished forming the words, Alistair was lifting her onto the low ramparts; securing her with an arm as he stood between her legs. Then, his mouth was back on hers, devouring and fierce, his tongue a thief intent on stealing the breath from her throat. The drizzle fell about them unheeded, carving damp rivulets on the stone and pooling in the cracks between the cobbles.

The sun was just beginning to lower itself towards the hills of the western Bannorn, flooding the sky with apricot and ochre light. The sprawling army encampment below was softened by the muted glow; and even the rows of ballistae seemed less menacing with their edges blurred.

When the Wardens finally parted, Alistair let out a soft groan and pressed his forehead against Flora's for a moment, exhaling unsteadily.

"Maker," he said at last, not quite yet able to open his eyes.  _"Maker's Breath_. You have  _no_  idea what you do to me, my dear."

"Well," replied Flora, with a northerner's bluntness. "I do have  _some_ idea."

She dropped her gaze delicately and Alistair laughed, passing a rough, affectionate hand across the top of her head. The next moment, his eyes moved over her shoulder, and he grinned.

"Turn around, sweetheart."

Flora spun around so quickly that her ponytail whipped him in the face. As Alistair recoiled reflexively, she let out an incoherent squeal of excitement.

A long caravan had emerged from the woods; made up of horses and men and wagons, with the laurel banner held up high before them. The pale green wreath of Highever stood out stark against the navy background, at least a dozen of them rising above the mass of moving people.

Well-dressed figures on horseback were riding at the forefront of the train, conversing amongst each other. Although at this distance their features were indistinguishable, the dark scarlet hair gleamed like a match struck in the shadows. They were followed by what seemed to be an unending stream of soldiers, columns of men and women emerging from beneath the canopy of the trees.

"How many men have they  _brought?"_ Alistair breathed, eyebrows rising as he watched a group of mounted knights close on the heels of the men before them.

"A thousand," came a familiar, Orlesian-accented voice from behind them. "At least. I imagine more are to come."

Flora squealed and nearly fell backwards off the ramparts in shock; Alistair, equally startled, made a frantic grab for her.

Leliana, smiling inscrutably, made her way across the top of  _Biter_ towards them. The bard was dressed in her customary tight leathers, a pair of wicked-looking blades glittering at her thighs.

"Highever is the largest teyrnir in Ferelden," she explained, coming to stand beside them on the battlements. "It's logical that they should provide the bulk of the troops. Especially since we need to compensate for the lack of support from Gwaren."

Flora gazed down at the caravan, eyebrows rising slowly. Incredulous, she turned to Alistair and gave him a little nudge.

"Ferelden's army is growing every day," she breathed, the raw hope almost painfully stark on her face. "I think we might actually have a chance?"

Her brother-warden smiled down at her, bowing his head to plant a kiss on her cheek.

"That's not the only thing that's  _growing_  every day, now, is it?"

For a moment, Flora felt a bolt of sheer, unadulterated terror coursing through her body, as though she had been directly hit by mage lightning. Leliana's face mirrored her own, the bard's composure crumbling for a split-second.

" _Whaaaat_  do you mean?" Flora croaked, in a voice several tones higher than her normal pitch. "Whaa, do you – what? Mean?  _What?"_

Alistair snorted, well used to his sister-warden's eccentricities.

"My love for you, darling," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her other cheek. "What else?"

_You don't want to know,_ Flora thought grimly to herself, gazing up at her brother-warden.

_The worst mistake we've ever made._

Pushing the thought to the back of her head, she beamed at Alistair, reaching out to grip his hand.

"Let's go!"

Almost stumbling on the steps in her relief, Flora barrelled downfrom  _Biter_  and nearly took out a pair of ascending guardsmen. They flattened themselves against the wall in alarm; bowing their heads in response to a breathless apology hurled over one shoulder.

"For someone so short," panted Alistair, catching up with her as she paced impatiently before the slowly rising portcullis. "You're very  _quick."_

"I'm not that short," retorted Flora, accepting his hand up into the saddle. "You're just very  _tall."_

Alistair grinned, clutching the reins loosely in one hand while securing his sister-warden with the other. Leliana joined them on a beautiful grey mare, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

"The gate is open. Shall we go to meet them?"

Alistair nudged the horse's flank with the heel of his boot, clicking his tongue. The horse surged forward, escalating into a trot and then a canter; dust and grit billowing up in the wake of iron-clad hooves. They covered the half-mile in minutes, riding at rapid pace as the sun lowered itself into the far horizon with a sigh. Twilight bloomed over the northern plains, violet and navy replacing the warmer blush of sunset.

The figures on horseback could be seen with more clarity as the Wardens approached. The familiar silhouettes of Fergus and Finian materialised from the shadows; alongside the distinctive squat figure of Oghren. The dwarf was clutching the reins of his docile pony as though his life depended on it, hunched over in abject terror. At the end of the row, the broad-shouldered form of Arl Leonas was just visible, blending into the shadows.

" _Florence!"_

Finian cupped his hands around his mouth and called out to her, spurring his horse forward to break rank. Like his brother, he was clad in rich Cousland navy fustian; the gold band of lordship around his head.

They met at the point where the North Road widened on its final approach to the city. A tollgate stood at the side of the road, shuttered and closed up for the night. Both Cousland brothers drew up their steeds, Finian immediately slithering from the saddle and striding over to help his overexcited sister down.

"Flossie! It's good to see you again, little sister."

Finian embraced her as she lunged up at him, laughing out loud with relief.

"Is everyone alive?" Flora breathed anxiously in his ear, grateful that her slender, academic brother seemed unhurt.

"Aye, but- "

His words were lost in the commotion of Leonas and Fergus dismounting, joining the fray as they greeted her companions in a flurry of calls and gripped hands.

Leliana exchanged an Orlesian double kiss with Arl Bryland, who let out a grunt to hide the flush rising to his cheeks. Fergus, flashing a wry grin at the golden coronet around Alistair's head, made a little bow towards the bastard prince before clapping him on the back. After greeting Alistair, Fergus turned to Flora; a smile breaking out over his handsome, prematurely lined face.

"Sister," he said, as Flora approached him; made suddenly hesitant by the sight of the Highever finery. "Give me a hug, pup."

Flora went to her elder brother shyly and Fergus embraced her, pressing a fierce kiss to the top of her rumpled head.

Turning Flora to face the mounted knights, Fergus raised his voice with pride suffusing the ensuing words.

"Men, this is my beautiful sister, Florence. The one I told you about."

The knights of Highever peered down at Flora from their elevated saddles, the older ones reacting with surprise and their younger counterparts with hearty approval.

"I remember this one when she was but a babe in arms," said one ageing knight, with a bristling salt-and-pepper beard. "Wreaking havoc about the castle and driving Nan to distraction. She's grown up lovely, Fergus."

"Hasn't she?" replied Fergus with a proud smile, while Flora suppressed a grimace at the additional confirmation that she had been a brat.

"Aye, she's a little jewel. And  _this_  must be Prince Alistair," continued the old knight. "An honour to meet you, Your Highness."

Hearing his name, Alistair turned towards them from where he had been conversing urgently with Leonas and Oghren. The knights bowed as much as they were able on horseback, but Flora was preoccupied with the furrowed brow and shadowed irises of her brother-warden.

"Flo, Zevran was hurt during the retaking of Highever," Alistair murmured, with a nod of endorsement from Leonas. "Not badly, but you'll need to see to the wound. It's been stitched."

Flora's face fell; she had been wondering where their elven companion had gone.

" _How?!"_  she demanded, nearly treading on Finian's heels as he gestured for them to follow.

"Howe had troops at Highever castle, who put up some resistance," Finian replied, hurrying to keep up with Alistair as the prince strode ahead with lips taut. "I- I got separated from the others and cornered in a passageway by… a half-dozen men. Zevran came and took them all on, single-handedly. One of them managed to land a blow before he- he  _died."_

Finian's voice trembled and for a moment, he looked younger than Flora. She reached out and gripped her brother's hand, giving it a tight squeeze as the Highever forces parted before them. Many of the older townsfolk stared at Flora as though she were a ghost; recalling distant memories of the old teyrn riding through the streets of Highever with a small, redheaded daughter perched before him.

Finian led the way to a wagon in the midst of the caravan, where a stretcher rested well-cushioned amongst padding and blankets. A bare-chested Zevran lay sprawled there, seemingly more irritated than pained by his condition. A half-drunk bottle of Antivan brandy threatened to fall from his drooping fingers; the scent of alcohol clung to his breeches and hair like exotic perfume. A square white bandage had been affixed to his lower abdomen, with a single spot of blood seeping through the thick layers of gauze.

"He's been self-medicating with brandy," Finian whispered tremulously, as Zevran hiccupped and rolled coal-dark eyes down towards them.

"Ah, my King," the elf purred as his gaze fell first on Alistair, words slurring together like drunkards stumbling from a tavern. "Forgive me if I don't bow."

Alistair clambered easily into the back of the wagon, noticing the faint greyish pallor beneath Zevran's tan complexion. With the tenderness that nobody expected could come from such large, powerful hands, he reached out and put his fingers on the elf's elbow.

"What happened, Zev?" he breathed, shaking his head. "From what I've heard, you're  _more_ than capable of taking on six men at once."

The Antivan let out a bark of laughter, shooting an appreciative look towards Alistair even as he winced.

"Six may have been a little ambitious, even for a man of my… capacity."

Flora, feeling the bitter taste of guilt beneath her tongue, climbed up to kneel on Zevran's other side. The elf rolled his eyes towards her, a wry smile curling the corner of his mouth. He reached up and touched the side of her cheek, very gently.

"Now I know I've crossed into the Fade _,"_ he murmured, the words heavily accented. "A face like this surely could not be crafted by mortal hand."

Flora immediately crossed her eyes at him and the elf grinned, lifting the bottle shakily to his lips. As he gulped down the last dregs of the brandy, she reached down to pluck at the square of white gauze with tentative fingers. The elf inhaled sharply as she revealed an uneven wound, crudely mended with jagged black stitches. Although the puncture itself was not large, Flora was horrified at the nearness to his stomach.

"I'll take the stitches out," she whispered, fighting to keep her voice even. "I need something sharp."

Alistair went off in search of a seamstress or leatherworker, while Flora gazed down unhappily at the elf's tattooed face.

" _Mi sirenita,"_ Zevran complained, knowing instinctively that she was near tears. "You must get your brother-warden to repair the northern road. It is full of ruts and potholes, each one of which I felt."

Flora almost embraced the elf but then stopped herself; remembering the wound. Instead, she took his hand and pressed it hard against her cheek, lost for words but still desperate to show her gratitude.

" _Mi tesoro,"_ Zevran protested, the  _'s'_  blurred and elongated by the brandy. "I beg you- "

Just then, Alistair returned triumphantly with a needle charred black from being passed hastily through a torch flame. Flora began to unpick the stitches, deft fingers adept after years of mending fishing nets.

The elf gritted his teeth as she worked, not allowing a single sound of pain to escape his lips. He was grateful for Alistair's hand resting on his shoulder; strong fingers squeezing in regular, rhythmic intervals.

Once the bloodied black thread had been discarded, Flora licked her lips. She could already feel the golden energy blossoming in her throat, eager to spill forth from her mouth and into the open puncture. It took her only a few minutes to seal the wound, exhaling her peculiar magic and coaxing it in tendrils over the torn flesh with her fingers.

As soon as Flora was finished, she sat on her heels and wiped her bloodied mouth with the back of her hand. Zevran propped himself upright against the cushions, running admiring fingers over the faint white line marking the tan skin.

"Thank you,  _nena._ A remarkable job, as always."

"You saved Finian," Flora breathed in response, glancing down at her anxious, like-featured brother as he hovered beside the wheel of the wagon. "He would be  _dead_  without you. Thank you."

As the elf waved his fingers dismissively, Flora slithered across the wagon floor to sit alongside him. As he put an affectionate arm around her shoulders, she rested her head gratefully against his arm.

"So,  _Your Highness,"_ Zevran murmured, raising an eyebrow as the wagon slowly began to move; the Highever caravan making its way through the darkness towards the Denerim walls. "What have we missed in the week we've been away?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol both Flora and Leliana had a mini freak-out at Alistair's comment at something growing every day, haha.
> 
> Finian is really bad at fighting – he's definitely a scholar, rather than a soldier. So now Highever has been officially reclaimed by the Couslands, and they can start summoning troops from the north (hint hint!)


	283. Playing Cards With The Couslands

The Cousland caravan divided once it reached the base of the city walls. The bulk of troops proceeded to the Alamarri plains to join the ever-growing encampment, while Wardens, nobles and companions headed back through the north gate. Oghren, who hated formality, soon made his excuses and diverted himself into the nearest open tavern.

The city was still and shuttered as their party proceeded through shadowed streets towards the Royal Palace. Once they had arrived back within the castle and made the laborious trek up to the royal passageway, the Royal Steward Guillaume greeted them with a practised bow.

Smiling, the steward explained that servants had worked steadily for the past week to restore the neglected Cousland quarters to their former glory. The vast double doors, which were set adjacent to the king's chambers, had been polished to a high shine; the Highever laurel engraved meticulously into the wooden lintel.

The doors opened up into a sprawling set of chambers, large enough to hold a meeting of the King's Council or host a mid-sized informal gathering. Examples of fine Fereldan craftsmanship were everywhere; from the rich navy upholstery to the carved mantelpiece decorated with laurel leaves. Above the hearth sat a framed map of the Cousland teyrnir.

Flora was instinctively drawn to the illustrated parchment, the heat of the fire warming her belly as she squinted up at the inked place names. Behind her, the others settled into various armchairs or took seats at the table; a servant bringing forth a flagon of ale.

An admiring Leliana was inspecting the thick velvet curtains, rubbing the material between a finger and thumb. Zevran and Finian stood conversing in low tones on the other side of the hearth, the young Cousland's expression earnest. Leonas, Teagan, Eamon and Alistair sat at the meeting table, full flagons of ale resting before them.

Once Flora had identified the village of Herring, she wandered over to the table only to find that all the chairs had been taken. Teagan was about to rise courteously and offer her his own seat, when Alistair pulled his sister-warden onto his knee and wrapped an arm around her waist. Flora bestowed a beatific smile on him in return, and he kissed her squarely on the cheek.

"We've brought nine hundred soldiers from Highever," Fergus was saying, pale grey eyes alight with fevered determination. "Summons were sent out the night we took back the castle. In the next few days, troops will start arriving from the rest of the teyrnir."

Eamon nodded, finishing the last dregs of his tankard.

"Aye, and the last Redcliffe and Rainesfere forces should be arriving soon. I suspect we'll need to start commandeering supplies from surrounding farmsteads to provision them all."

For the next hour, the nobles discussed various logistical issues amongst themselves. Alistair, who understood about two-thirds of what they were saying, asked the occasional question whilst absentmindedly stroking his sister-warden's back. Flora could comprehend very little, but did her best to listen so that she could understand more.

The fire burnt down in the hearth and the servants discreetly brought more wood; refilling the ale like silent ghosts. Teagan discussed the possibility of sending more scouts out to the south – worryingly, they still had heard nothing from those that had ridden out the previous week. Leonas, who had accepted the official mantle of Royal Commander, left shortly afterwards. The Arl of South Reach had chosen to accommodate himself within the encampment itself, for purpose of accessibility and ease of communication.

Finally, Eamon rose to his feet and the rest of the table followed suit.

"Shall we meet on the morrow, same time?"

After a consensus was reached, each began to make ready to depart for their own quarters. Leliana glanced towards Teagan, who gave a slight nod.

Flora slithered down from Alistair's knee and went to put her arms around both Finian and Fergus in turn. Her elder brother clasped her especially hard, his ruddy beard brushing against her ear.

"Finding you again has helped to ease the pain of our loss," Fergus murmured, and Flora caught a glimpse of raw hurt in his eyes as he withdrew. "There was no sign of any memorial to our parents – or to my wife and child – when we scoured the castle grounds. I don't know whether they were burnt with the proper rituals, or… whether their bodies were simply tossed into the sea. There's no monument to them, anywhere. No prayers were said to guide their souls to the Maker's side."

His voice faltered on the last words, and Flora gazed up at him, anxiously. For several moments, she thought about how to respond; her brow furrowed in concentration.

"I think the rituals and memorials are more for us, than for  _them_ ," she replied at last, carefully. "To help us accept their loss. The dead don't need anything in this world to help them cross the Veil and travel through the Fade. The Maker draws souls to him like… like the pull of the tide."

Fergus gazed down at his little sister; the other conversations in the chamber falling to a hush.

"I know that's not what the Chantry teaches," Flora muttered, dropping her eyes to the flagstones. "But in Herring, we don't have a Chantry sister most of the time; no-one knows the Chant and we can't spare stone to build memorials. But… none of us worry about our dead. They get to where they need to be."

Lost for words, the new teyrn of Highever reached out and touched his sister's pale, lightly freckled cheek.

"That's a… comforting thought, Flossie," he said at last, very quietly. "Thank you."

Unlike the willowy Finian, Fergus was stockier and only two heads taller than Flora; so it was easy for her to reach up and peck him on the cheek. When he drew back, his eyes were shadowed and very sad.

Alistair reached for his sister-warden's hand, as Teagan and Leliana departed separately in a carefully timed interval. Zevran and Finian also made a discreet exit, in the direction of the latter's newly assigned chamber.

Flora looked over her shoulder at her eldest brother, who now sat alone at the meeting table. Despite being surrounded by the finest craftsmanship in Ferelden and sporting a gold band worth the collective value of three northern villages; he looked more desolate than any peasant that Flora had ever met.

"Shall we stay a bit longer?" she asked impulsively, squeezing her brother-warden's palm.

A muscle in the corner of Alistair's eye flickered – he had been anticipating getting Flora alone ever since she had abandoned him in the commanders' tent – but he possessed a kind-hearted nature and could see that Fergus was in need of company.

"Let's see if the teyrn is any better at Wicked Grace than you, then," Alistair said gallantly, withdrawing a pack of cards from the pocket of his breeches. "He can't possibly be any worse than  _me."_

Over the next two hours, they played five games in a row. Flora, more through luck than judgement, won the first one; then proceeded to lose horrifically in every following round. Fergus proved to be even more adept at cards than Finian, and soon had a growing pile of coin stacked on the table before him.

Zevran and Finian emerged from the bedchamber just in time to join the third game. Finian grinned, clapping his brother on the back as he spotted Fergus' spoils of victory.

"Looks like you've won the shirt off Theirin's back," he crowed, and then his face fell rapidly. "Wait, are those  _copper_ coins?!"

Fergus nodded, giving a rueful smile as Zevran let out a little cackle.

"Aye, brother. At our sister's insistence."

" _Gambling_ ," breathed the sanctimonious Flora, eyes wide. "Is bad enough!"

Zevran slid into a chair beside the indignant redhead, reaching out to give her thigh a surreptitious squeeze beneath the table.

"Why not increase the stakes a little?" he murmured, peering around the table from beneath his eyelashes. "And resume our old tradition of removing an item of clothing with each lost hand?"

This suggestion was met with stony glowers from all three Cousland siblings, and a none-too-subtle kick to the shins from Alistair.

"I'm not playing Strip Grace with my  _brothers,"_  clarified Flora, shooting the elf a look of Wynne-like disapproval. "We don't  _do_  that sort of thing in Herring."

Zevran snorted and proceeded to win the next three games quite decisively, utilising every inch of his Antivan guile. By the time that the midnight watch took over, Fergus had lost the majority of his pile of copper coins.

Once nobody had any more suitable coin to put up, the elf declared himself the grand victor; sitting back with a smug smile and steepling his fingers.

"I might see if there's anywhere I can spend my winnings," Zevran declared, scooping the pile of coins into a leather pouch and tucking it neatly inside his tunic.

"Don't spend it all at once," Alistair called snidely after the Antivan, as he headed towards the doorway.

"I might be able to afford a single flagon of ale, or a kiss on the cheek from a willing wench," retorted Zevran, rolling his eyes as the doors swung shut.

Alistair yawned, rubbing a hand across his own face.

"I don't know how he has the energy," the prince muttered, slowly easing himself to his feet. "Come on, my dear. Bed time."

Flora had fallen asleep face-down on the table, and swatted grumpily at her brother-warden when he tried to rouse her. Alistair snorted, hoisting her up easily into his arms as she draped a sleepy hand around his neck.

"Thank you both for staying," said Fergus Cousland suddenly, leaning back in his chair to catch Alistair's eye. "I appreciate it."

Alistair nodded as Flora yawned, curling her fingers idly into the fur-edged collar of his tunic.

In the passageway outside, the Royal Guard stood rigid as impassive statues at regular intervals. Half-hidden by shadow, their hands were clenched around the hafts of viciously sharp halberds.

"Is this a lion? You feel like a lion," Alistair's passenger mumbled into his ear as they proceeded the short distance down the corridor towards the King's bedchamber. "Why do you want to be a  _lion?"_

"The Theirin emblem is a lion, sweetheart," he replied, grinning as he felt Flora burrow her face against his neck, plastering poorly-aimed kisses across his jaw.

"Everyone seems to want a _lion_  as their symbol," she retorted, the words muffled as she spoke them into his skin. "Including Orlais. Surely you should have a  _Mabari_ , as a proud Fereldan?"

Alistair let out a bark of laughter, pausing as a guard hastened to open the doors into the King's chamber. The hearth roared away within, fresh-built, taking the edge from the chilly summer night.

"As if the Orlesians need  _another_  excuse to call us dog-lords," he retorted, politely but firmly declining the offer of a servant posted within the chamber.

Flora cackled quietly to herself as Alistair carried her over to the bed. He settled his sister-warden gently amongst the furs and blankets before crossing the flagstones to prod at the hearth with a poker. She pulled at her boots, letting them drop one by one onto the flagstones; then began the painstaking task of removing the leather breeches.

_Ugh, they feel like they're getting tighter every day._

_**That's because they are.** _

Flora scowled, finally managing to divest herself of the hated trousers after a laborious effort. With a grunt, she hurled them onto the floor along with her smallclothes.

"Ha!"

It was only then that she noticed Alistair standing near the bed, palming himself through his trousers with pupils blown wide and dark.

"Sorry, Flo," he murmured, although he did not look the slightest bit apologetic. "You just look so beautiful lying there, all… dishevelled. Can you unbutton your shirt for me too, baby?"

Flora, hoping that he would not insist on the shirt's  _complete_  removal, parted the material enough to reveal one small breast, smooth and pale as the curving shell of an egg.

As she had hoped, Alistair  _was_  sufficiently distracted. Stroking himself with a practised grip, he advanced towards the bed with lust burning like an exposed flame on his face.

"Get on your hands and knees, sweetheart."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Alistair not exactly doing much to repute the Ferelden 'dog lord' reputation with his request there, lol.
> 
> OK so Flora isn't into gambling because it's not a Herring approved activity, haha. Flo would actually be a real bore at parties – she can't drink, she doesn't gamble, she looks sulky all the time… fun!


	284. Traumatised Teyrns And Drunken Dwarves

The next morning dawned bright and hopeful. The dawning sun shone with wilful exuberance, as though to compensate for yesterday's drizzle. Another troupe of mages had arrived from the Jainen Circle in the early hours, and Eamon had gone down to the encampment to enquire after news of his son. The Wardens' army was now so large that it dominated a full half of the Alamarri plains; tents and wagons spreading right down to the banks of the river estuary.

Flora and Alistair went to take breakfast in the Cousland quarters, only to be greeted by a slightly traumatised looking Fergus. The young teyrn poured a flagon of ale with a shaking hand, proceeded to spill it all down his front, then disappeared into the bedroom with a muffled curse.

"What's the matter with him?" Alistair asked, leaning back in his chair as a procession of servants brought in steaming eggs and a selection of fruit.

Finian, who looked every inch the young Orlesian noble in a turquoise silk doublet, rolled his eyes tragically as he peered out of the window. Seagulls wheeled in the balmy air, calling out to each other as they surveyed the choppy green surface of the estuary below.

"As it happens, the wall between his chamber and yours is rather  _thin,"_ he replied acerbically, making a euphemistic gesture with his hand.

Alistair nearly choked on his eggs, while Flora's spoon fell right out of her mouth.

" _Nooo!"_

"That's  _not_  what you were saying last night," retorted Finian with a quirk of the brows, as Flora hid her face in her hands. "I advised him to do as I did while travelling with you under canvas, and stuff his ears with rags."

"Well, Loghain may as well have impaled me in that duel," said Alistair grimly, wiping his mouth with a square of linen. "Because the teyrn is going to kill me. I bet he's gone into the bedroom to get his sword."

"It's no different from what  _you_  do with Zevran, Finian!" protested Flora, lifting her face from her arms with a defiant scowl.

Finian shot her a supercilious, and slightly pitying, look. With exquisite manners refined from five years spent in the University at Val Royeaux; he broke apart a pomegranate and scooped out its fleshy innards with a small silver spoon.

" _I'm_  not the sweet-faced baby of the family," he retorted, raising an eyebrow that appeared to have been plucked into shape. "You're not even old enough to legally vote in the Landsmeet."

"I'm old enough to get them to vote for _me_ though," Flora countered, then promptly undermined her protest of maturity by sticking her tongue out at her brother.

Eventually, a brave-faced Fergus emerged from the bedroom in a clean and unsoiled tunic. He even managed to make conversation with Alistair, grinning fixedly.

"Poor Fergus," Flora breathed as the Wardens headed down the passage some time later. "Maybe we should… not lie together for a bit. Give him some time to come to terms with it."

Alistair shot her an appalled look, fumbling with the buckle of his sword belt as they approached the main staircase.

" _Not_  lie together?!" he retorted, eyes widening in alarm. "For how long?"

Flora did some silent calculations in her head, mouthing to herself.

"Until… autumn?"

There was a metallic clatter: Alistair had dropped both sword and sword-belt on the flagstones.

"AUTUMN?" he said, in a voice that came out far louder than he had intended. A mop-wielding servant let out a squeak and fled into a nearby side-chamber, toppling a bucket of grubby water in their wake.

Flora grimaced inwardly as Alistair gripped her elbows, turning her to face him while flatly ignoring the growing puddle.

"What's this  _really_  about, Flo?" he demanded, several pitches higher than usual.

"I'm… ashamed about my body," Flora replied hastily, feeling her heart-rate escalate into a panicked staccato. "I still haven't managed to shake off all those South Reach pastries and I don't want you to see me… chubby."

Alistair gaped at her with such incredulity that Flora almost wanted to laugh.

" _Sweet Maker,"_ he murmured, shaking his head from side to side in disbelief. "Flora, you could be the size of a  _horse_  and you'd still be the rarest and… and most beautiful creature in all of Thedas."

Heedless of the passing retainers and guardsmen, Alistair sank to his knees on the damp flagstones and lifted Flora's tunic up around her waist. He pressed his mouth to the firm, rounded curve of her stomach; kissing it ardently as he gripped her hips. Flora froze in horror, aware that her attempt to deflect his attention had gone terribly wrong.

Leliana appeared at the top of the stairs and immediately began to gesticulate violently at Flora, jabbing a furious finger towards Alistair and mouthing.

_?!_

_I didn't mean to!_ Flora mouthed back, trying to communicate her desperation through expression alone.  _It's a mistake!_

Snarling, Leliana checked briefly to make sure that her daggers were tucked safely away, then prettily stumbled forwards; feinting a fall onto the flagstones.

"Ah!"

The courteous Alistair released Flora and immediately went to the bard's aid, helping her to her feet.

"Are you alright? Did you slip on the water?"

" _Merci beaucoup,_ Alistair," Leliana replied, smiling up at him with very white teeth. "I just lost my balance for a moment, distracted by the beautiful artisanship before me."

She gestured up towards the depiction of the hapless  _halla_ being torn apart by Mabari.

Alistair gave the gruesome portrait the side-eye before nodding, hastily.

"Yes, it's certainly… something."

As usual, the Wardens spent the day down on the encampment, patrolling on horseback between the rows of tents until both prince and Lady became familiar to the entrenched troops. There were more human faces now, soldiers summoned by the men and women of the Landsmeet; their tents now spreading down to the very edge of the river. The estuary water was a mix of green and brackish tan, freshwater from the bannorn mingling with the lazy Amaranthine salt.

Ragged cries and hails of  _Prince Alistair!_ followed in their wake; Maric had been popular and long-reigning enough that many had displayed small enamelled portraits of their King on mantels within their homes. Alistair, with his striking similarity to his father, served as a gratifying reassurance to those who had heard tales of Maric's heroism. Alistair lifted a gloved hand to acknowledge their greetings, grateful for his sister-water's slight, sturdy frame wedged against his chest.

They ate lunch with the men and women of South Reach, their camp easily identifiable through the green portcullis banner suspended overhead. A fully armoured Arl Leonas was there too, looking far more at ease amongst the detritus of war than he had done clad in velvet within a finely appointed chamber.

To Flora's dismay, the provided meal was a pottage of some unidentifiable meat. Alistair devoured his in minutes, talking with his mouth full to Leonas whilst using a spoon to gesticulate. Flora had to be content with eating the bread intended to complement the stew, miserably chewing her way through three gritty rolls.

Leonas noticed her sad face and untouched bowl; leaning back, he conferred with his steward Dane, who had accompanied the troops from South Reach. Dane nodded and rose to his feet, sliding off between the tents.

A few moments later, the South Reach native returned with a large hunk of Denerim cheddar, wrapped in wax paper and string. Flora took it gratefully, beaming up at him with unabashed delight.

"Thank you very much," she breathed, deft fingers easily working the knots loose. "How is your sister and her baby?"

"Both doin' well," muttered Dane, hiding his surprise that she had remembered. "Babe is growing strong."

After catching sight of Alistair's covetous stare, Flora broke the cheese in two and offered half to her brother-warden. He took it with a smile of thanks, patting her on the knee.

Once they had finished lunch, Leliana swooped down upon them like a particularly stylish bat. To Alistair's dismay, the bard had come to deliver a summons from Eamon – the Arl was requesting Alistair's signature on some messages that needed to be sent urgently.

Unfortunately, more troops from the White River Bannorn were scheduled to arrive that afternoon. When Flora suggested that she stay behind alone to greet them, Alistair ground his teeth together loud enough for the bard to hear.

"Don't worry yourself unnecessarily, Alistair," commanded Leliana sternly, reading the naked anxiety writ across the prince's handsome face. "Flora will be absolutely fine in the encampment. I've brought someone to keep an eye on her."

"Sparkles…  _hic!"_

Oghren stumbled out from behind a nearby tent, nearly tripping over a guy rope. He just about managed to keep a grip on the bottle of ale clutched in his right hand, and let out a belch of triumph.

Alistair blinked at the half-drunk dwarf, then shot Leliana a death stare.

"Flora is more than capable of looking after herself, anyway," the bard continued hastily, gesturing for a passing squire to bring their horses.

Eventually and with great reluctance, Alistair agreed to leave, glancing over his shoulder at his sister-warden as he rode in Leliana's wake. Despite the distinctive oxblood hair, she was soon lost within the blurred mass of surrounding figures. Alistair felt a sudden, entirely irrational jolt of fear; it took the combined might of his willpower and reason to stop him from turning the horse about and returning to Flora's side.

Oghren insisted on being shown the fruits of his brethren's labour, and so Flora took him on a tour around the dwarven earthworks. Her own dwarven companion nodded with begrudging admiration as she pointed out the great trenches and ramparts that the engineers of Orzammar had carved from the soft soil of the Alamarri plains.

Flora had clambered to the top of a tightly packed mound of earth and was lying on her belly, watching the diggers work in grunting unison.

"So they'll channel the Darkspawn into these ditches?" Oghren asked from beside her, the ends of his long ginger moustache trailing in the soil.

"Mm," replied Flora, twirling a strand of hair idly around her finger. "Like groynes."

" _Groins?!"_ The dwarf perked up, excitedly.

"No,  _groynes,"_ Flora clarified. "G-R-…"

She trailed off, realising that she did not know how to spell the name of the coastal breakwaters built to sunder the tidal surge. In Herring, the rocky Hag's Teeth promontory had served as a natural barrier, protecting the beach from much of the Waking Sea's fury.

"Groins or not, this is  _borin',"_  announced Oghren a short while later, used to seeing the efficient, eerie synchrony of dwarven diggers. "I want to see the war machines."

Together they slithered back down the earthen slope and went to see the ballistae and trebuchets; lined up like a regiment of skeletal beasts with ammunition piled at their sides.

"Ooh, I'd love to operate one o' these bad boys," announced Oghren, clambering up onto the base of a particularly menacing looking catapult. "Here, Sparkles, who can we load up in this thing? What about your imprisoned general? How far could we launch him, d'you reckon?"

Flora, enchanted by the mental image of Loghain soaring majestically across the Alamarri plains, had to stifle a giggle.

"It's not meant for living things," she told the dwarf, unnecessarily. "It's meant for rocks. Or… balls on fire."

She couldn't remember the technical name for the incendiary ammunition described by the chief engineer. Oghren snorted, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

" _Flaming balls!_  Sounds like what you'd get after spendin' a night with a wench from Tapster's."

The men from the White River Bannorn arrived just as the sun began to set, weary from their long journey. Bann Reginalda, who had personally gone out to gather her troops, rode proudly at the head of her straggling column.

Flora greeted the bann with a deep bow of respect, which the grey-haired woman promptly returned.

"Good to see you, Lady Cousland," she drawled, her distinctive rough-edged voice warm. "I've brought four hundred more men to join the cause."

Flora positioned herself at the side of the road, gazing at the men as they processed duly past. At first she had tried to give each row a smile, but her face was so unused to continual smiling that soon her cheeks began to ache. Soon, she resorted to her usual solemn expression, reasoning that this was more what people expected from her anyway.

To her surprise, several of them greeted her with shouts of  _Lady Cousland,_ and even ragged fragments of  _Warden Flora._ She had no idea how the verse had spread from South Reach to White River, and could only hope fervently that Zevran's version had not also made the journey.

Sensing the approach of an unseasonably chill night, the sun made a quick retreat from the sky; slithering hastily beneath the Bannorn in the face of its cold, pale cousin. Attended by a host of stars, the icy lantern of the moon hung suspended over the encampment without even a veil of cloud to keep in some of the day's heat. The sky was a cold swathe of navy glass, broken by uneven fragments of light.

Oghren left Flora at the dwarven camp, lured by the prospect of freshly opened kegs of ale. Flora assured him that she would be able to make it back up to the Royal Palace unaided.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol at Alistair's reaction to Flora suggesting abstinence until the autumn (ie until the baby is born). He's literally gobsmacked, haha.
> 
> The 'flaming balls' ammunition that Flora couldn't remember the name of, is actually called a 'firepot', haha. They consisted of a clay pot filled with flammable substances (like tar) that would create a fireball on impact. Other historic ammunition included human heads (niiiiiice), and raw manure (to spread disease.) Biological warfare Medieval style!


	285. Silly Mistakes And Scented Bath Oils

Unfortunately, once the dwarf had disappeared with a roar amongst his brethren, Flora realised that she did not quite know  _how_ to get back up to the castle. Alistair had taken the horse when he left with Leliana, and she was not yet familiar enough with her status to realise that she could have simply marched to any stabling tent and requisitioned a horse for her own usage.

Instead, Flora decided to head back up to the Royal Palace on foot; as a northerner, she did not pay much heed to the evening chill. She made her way through the dwarven earthworks, with the strange silhouettes of the ballistae rearing up to either side, then up the gentle, sea-grass covered incline leading to the base of the city walls.

The guards let her in through the portcullis, mouths twisting with confusion as they saw that she was alone and on foot. Waving away their offers to escort her back to the palace, Flora set off through the market district. The stalls were closed up for the night but the taverns were doing a roaring business, judging from the light and noise spilling from their open doorways.

Recalling the group of drunken soldiers they had encountered a handful of weeks previously, Flora kept a wide berth. To her mild annoyance, the journey was taking far longer than she had estimated. On horseback, the route from palace to encampment took just over half an hour; but it seemed like she had been walking for three times that long, and she still hadn't reached the noble district.

Flora's knee began to ache by the time that she reached the Square of the Bride, the vast cathedral's silhouette looming over the cobbles like a watchful Chantry Mother. Gritting her teeth, Flora realised that she had committed herself to this foolish course of action and would now have to see it through. The moon glowered down at her from above, a lone white eye that radiated frigid disapproval.

As though to add insult to injury, a thin drizzle began to fall just as Flora reached the boundary wall that marked the edge of the Palace grounds. The guards at the gatehouse emerged, eyes wide behind their closed-face helms; uncertain enough of Flora's position that they did not quite know how to respond to her. While they discussed in a huddle whether or not to provide the prince's mage mistress with a formal escort up to the castle, Flora grew fed up and took matters into her own hands.

She set off through the palace grounds, now familiar with the wide, gravelled boulevard as it wound slowly through the trees. A fox darted across her path and startled her; Flora almost summoned her shield in reflexive response.

"Sorry, fox," she said to the terrified creature as it skittered away between the bushes. "You have more right to be here than me. This was a  _very silly_  idea."

Just over two hours after Flora had left the army encampment, she emerged onto the cobbled palace forecourt. To her surprise, it was occupied by a group of shadowed men and horses; she recognised a grim-faced Teagan at the edge of the huddle, preparing to mount up. Torches were being distributed, blazing away despite the steady drizzle.

"What's wrong?" Flora asked Teagan in an undertone, squeezing the excess moisture from the end of her ponytail as she sidled up to him.

The Bann of Rainesfere, who had been partway through mounting, clung to the horse's reins to stop himself from falling off in shock.

"Sweet Maker, child! You're  _here!"_ Teagan slid back down to the cobbles and reached out to grip her arm, the relief writ naked on his face.  _"Alistair!"_

"Where else would I be?" Flora replied, slightly nonplussed. "What's all this for?"

"For  _you!"_ Teagan retorted, squeezing Flora's arm and looking half-tempted to embrace her. "Alistair sent an escort down to the encampment to get you, except you were nowhere to be found."

"Oh," replied Flora, feeling slightly foolish. "I didn't realise. I just walked, it was fine. Took  _ages,_ though."

Just then Alistair came into sight, elbowing his way impatiently through the crowd. His face was white and rigid as a Tevinter statue, yet the hazel eyes were blown wide and dark with fear. Covering the distance between himself and his sister-warden in a handful of strides, he gathered her up into his arms like a child reunited with a beloved missing toy.

"Thank Andraste," he murmured against her hair, repeating the words over and over until they ran into each other and made no sense. " _Maker's Breath,_  Flora."

"I'm sorry," she said automatically as he clutched her by the damp linen of her tunic. "I didn't realise it was going to take so long to walk back. But, Alistair, I was  _fine."_

Alistair withdrew, clenching down on his jaw to stop his teeth from rattling. Reluctant to let his sister-warden go and unable to yet form a sensible response, he kept a tight grip on her elbows.

"Poppet, cities are dangerous at night at the best of times," murmured Teagan, sensing that his nephew was not yet capable of coherency. "And these are  _desperate_ times. A girl your age shouldn't wander the streets alone in the dark."

"But I have a  _shield_ ," replied Flora, confused. "I'm not defenceless."

"Aye, but it's not up all the time, is it?" retorted Teagan bluntly, reaching up to touch the back of her head. "If someone had attacked from behind, they could have knocked you out cold and dragged you off into some alleyway."

The look of horror on Flora's face was almost comical, and Teagan's voice softened.

"I don't mean to scare you, pet," he murmured, patting her clumsily on the shoulder. "But it's the truth. This isn't Herring, I'm afraid."

Alistair, who had blanched at his uncle's graphic description, wrapped an arm protectively around his sister-warden's narrow shoulders. Pressing a fierce kiss to the top of Flora's rain-dampened head, he gave her a querying squeeze.

"How many guards did you pass on your way up here, my love?"

Flora shrugged vaguely, not wanting to get anyone into trouble.

"Um," she replied, entirely unhelpful. "Some?"

Her brother-warden stared at her for a moment, before giving a tight nod. Clearing his throat and taking a deep breath to steady his tone, Alistair turned to the guard-captain and accompanying men.

"Some of you may be under the mistaken impression that your job is to guard me alone," Ferelden's incumbent heir stated, the words coming out soft and steely. "If you  _were_ under that impression, let me correct you now. Lady Cousland is to be afforded the same level of protection as would any rightful queen of this nation. Her safety and wellbeing is your  _foremost_  priority, do you understand? If I hear that she has ever been left unprotected in  _any_ circumstance…"

The threat hung naked and unspoken in the air, and Alistair nodded tightly, jaw stiff.

"Communicate this to every guard in the city," he instructed in taut, uncompromising tones.

The guard-captain saluted dutifully, snapping orders to the men and women under his command.

Once this had been done, Alistair exhaled as though a weight had been relieved from his shoulders. He turned back towards Flora and Teagan, and forced a smile onto his anxiety-hollowed face.

"That wasn't so hard," he breathed as they entered the palace, the hearths in the entrance hall blazing away in defiance of the chilly summer night. "Did I sound convincing?"

"Aye, lad, very convincing," replied Teagan quietly, reaching out to place a hand on Alistair's shoulder. "How did it feel to deliver your first official royal instruction?"

Alistair thought for a moment, calmer now that his fingers were wrapped tightly around Flora's.

"Oddly… normal," he replied, after a brief pause. "Because I was telling them to watch out for Flo, I suppose."

Flora smiled up at him anxiously, seeing a shadow pass across her best friend's face. Alistair glanced at her, then let out a groan and dragged a hand across his stubbled chin.

"Maker, uncle, why did you have to put that image in my head?" he complained, drawing Flora to his side. "About Flo being dragged off - that's going to fuel my nightmares for  _weeks."_

Flora patted his elbow, thinking privately that anybody who attempted to manhandle her into a back alley would quickly find themselves launched across Denerim's rooftops.

Back in the king's quarters, Alistair instructed for a bath to be drawn, pacing impatiently back and forth across the breadth of the chamber. The iron candelabra smouldered away overhead, competing with the hearth to prove itself a superior source of illumination. Candlelight flickered over the faces of the painted Mabari depicted on the walls; in the half-light, it almost appeared as though their jaws were moving.

Flora, rain-damp hair in a loose tangle down her back, was sprawled in unladylike fashion across the window seat. Clad only in a blanket with her bare feet propped up against the shutters, she took absentminded bites from a plum while peering down at the estuary below. The surface of the water was so still that the moon was reflected in a perfect white replica; almost as though it had fallen from the heavens and submerged itself in the saltwater.

Every so often, Flora glanced across at Alistair, who was scowling to himself as he trod restless patterns over the flagstones. Knowing that there was nothing she could say that would reassure her brother-warden – he would calm down eventually, in his own way – she turned her face back to the window and exhaled.

As the mist of her breath condensed across the glass, Flora used her fingertip to scrawl  _ALISTARE_ in the clouded moisture; idly wondering if that was the correct spelling. She did not even bother to attempt Alistair's last name – all she knew was that it began with a  _T,_ followed by some mysterious tangle of vowels.

She had written  _FARRELDAN_ and was about to attempt  _Denerim,_ when two servants entered. They were manhandling a large copper tub between them, steam rising from the water's surface as they deposited it before the hearth. A third servant entered carrying a tray filled with various bath unguents; then all three bowed deeply before Alistair and left the room without a word.

Flora finished off  _DENNARIM_ with a swoop of her finger, before swinging her feet down to the floor. Clutching the blanket around her shoulders like an emperor's robe, she padded barefoot across the flagstones towards the hearth.

Alistair retrieved a low three-legged stool meant for a servant, setting it beside the bathtub and lowering himself down.

"What's all this?" he murmured, investigating the contents of the tray. It was filled with powdery bath-cakes of indeterminate substance, and vials filled with scent so pungent that it permeated even through the stoppers.

Flora pulled a little face, letting the blanket drop to the floor as she clambered into the bathtub.

"It's that nasty Orlesian oil," she replied bluntly, lowering herself into the water while simultaneously eyeing the tray with deep suspicion. "I hate it: it stinks. Is there  _normal_ soap there?"

She tied her damp hair into a loose knot before resting her chin plaintively on the metal rim. Alistair rummaged through the tray, then swore under his breath as he dropped one of the powdery cakes onto the flagstones. It billowed outwards in a delicate puff of lavender, scattering pale dust everywhere.

"In Herring, we make soap from fish oil," Flora said unhelpfully, as Alistair inadvertently inhaled some of the purple powder.

While her brother-warden was sneezing and cursing, she spotted a plain white cake wedged between two ornately embellished glass vials. After a tentative sniff, Flora established that it was just plain soap, and began to lather it briskly between her palms.

Alistair, meanwhile, had needed to pour himself a flagon of ale to recover from the powdery lavender ambush. While he was gulping down the warm liquid, his attention was caught by the scrawled characters on the window. He stared at his sister-warden's valiant attempts to replicate  _Ferelden, Denerim_ and his own name; feeling a sudden, dizzying swell of affection.

"I don't think they're  _completely_ correct," Flora called across the room, twisting around in the tub as she rubbed soap up and down her forearms. "But I don't think I've done  _to-oo_  badly over the past months, considering it's not been our main priority."

Alistair returned to sit on the three-legged stool, reaching out with a thumb to wipe some suds from her cheek. Flora smiled at him, returning the plain soap to the tray. The wedge slipped from her damp fingers and knocked over one of the vials; the glass stopper tumbled out as it spilled its pomegranate-scented contents across Alistair's breeches.

"Ooh,  _sorry!"_ she squawked, recoiling. "Oh no, it's loose! The  _smell!"_

Alistair, who had been looking for an excuse to join his sister-warden, gave a mild shrug; rising to his feet to unbutton his tunic.

"Shift over, sweetheart."

Flora inched forward obediently as the prince clambered into the tub behind her. She settled back against his bare chest and he wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Bann Reginalda brought four hundred more men tonight," Flora said, and heard her brother-warden give a low grunt of acknowledgement. "Do you think it's going to be enough? Not just them – I mean: the whole army."

"It  _has_  to be enough," Alistair murmured back, running his palm up and down her arm as they sat submerged in the water together. "If the dwarven earthworks and siege engines do their job, hopefully we'll be able to minimise casualties on the field."

Flora understood the implicit meaning of his words:  _the quicker we kill the Archdemon, the sooner the battle will end._

Wanting to distract himself from the prospect of facing the creature that they had seen spiralling upwards like some vast, malevolent bat in the Deep Roads; Alistair reached forward to cup his sister-warden's breasts beneath the water, rubbing his thumbs over her nipples.

"I washed there already," a solemn Flora informed him, and he snorted gently against her ear.

"I know, baby. Mm."

He began to kiss her neck, brushing aside the wet strands of hair plastered to the skin. Flora began to squirm against him, a flush that had nothing to do with the warm water creeping up her throat.

Curving an arm around her waist, Alistair reached between her thighs and began to stroke, gratified by the strangled whimpers that soon started to escape her throat. He fondled her until she trembled, arched her back and went limp, slumping against his chest.

Giving Flora no time to recover, Alistair gripped his boneless sister-warden by the hips and swivelled her around to face him; sending water lapping over the bath rim onto the flagstones.

"That was beautiful, sweetheart," he breathed, reaching down to angle himself at the juncture of her legs. "But  _far_ too quiet. I want to hear how much you  _love_  taking me."

Alistair dropped his voice and began to murmur even cruder suggestions into her ear; enjoying her squirms and pinkened cheeks as he sheathed himself inside her.

Soon, Flora was helplessly clutching the metal sides of the tub; water splashing over the flagstones with each upwards thrust of her brother-warden's hips. He was letting out hoarse, guttural grunts of pleasure, lips drawn back over his teeth as he clutched her around the waist.

Just as he had desired, she was unable to stop herself from crying out; and when he urged her to call his name, she did so, over and over again.

At last, both of them lay wet and thoroughly sated in each other's arms, in the few inches of cooling water that still remained in the bathtub. The hearth had died down to embers, the occasional pop of resin sending a rush of sparks up the chimney.

"Wasn't there  _water_  in here at one point?" Flora said sleepily, raising her head from her brother-warden's wet chest. "Where's it all gone?"

Alistair looked around and gave a lazy shrug, snorting.

"All over the floor. Right, we'd better get out of here before we both get triple pneumonia."

Flora beamed at him as he flashed her a sly wink, pecking her swiftly on the cheek.

After drying off to the best of their ability, the two Wardens went to bed hand-in-hand, sleeping unclothed and face to face. For the first time in several nights, Flora's sleep was uninterrupted by either Fade nightmare or Archdemon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: You know when you have a stupid idea, start doing it, realise halfway through how stupid it is, but then you've committed so you have to keep doing it? That's what Flora experienced, with her silly decision to walk back to the palace. Although she now looks the part of a noble, she doesn't think like a noble – she could have easily commandeered any horse in the camp, but it doesn't even occur to her - she still thinks like a fisherman's daughter.
> 
> OK so we've now had #bathshag to follow #beachshag, hurray!
> 
> Triple pneumonia was a little reference to when they were in the Deep Roads and Alistair dropped Flora into a freezing cold pool (as a result of being startled by a naked Oghren bursting in yelling COVER YOUR EYES ALISTAIR OR YOU'LL NEVER FEEL LIKE A REAL MAN!). Flora got irritated with Alistair and accused him of giving her triple pneumonia (a biological impossibility).
> 
> These chapter names keep getting stupider and stupider haha


	286. The King's Wedding Ring

The next two days were spent in similar fashion to the previous, deviating only in that Alistair now flatly refused to be parted from his sister-warden under any circumstance. Flora didn't mind; she still felt uneasy within the imposing starkness of the Royal Palace, and was grateful for the constant presence of her best friend.

As a result, Flora attended a series of meetings with various nobles from the Landsmeet; she and Alistair sat patiently as they described their vigorous efforts to rally their troops. Eamon did most of the talking, pausing to let Alistair give the occasional nod.

To Flora's surprise and slight alarm, the Fereldan nobility were almost as deferential to her as they were to Alistair. When the lord of Dragon's Peak bowed deeply in Flora's direction, she turned around to see what important personage had emerged behind her. There was only a startled elven servant, clutching a mop and bucket beside a statue of the Rebel Queen.

"But I'm a  _mage,"_ she said to Eamon, as they rode down towards the military encampment on the afternoon of the second day. "I don't understand it."

"Mage or not, you're still a  _Cousland,"_  replied the Arl of Redcliffe, steering his horse adeptly around a trader's cart that had broken down in the middle of the road. "The Grey Warden that summoned the armies. And Alistair's mistress. The nobles learn quickly who to befriend in order to secure their own position."

"Well, I don't like this ' _mistress'_ business. I'd rather Flo was my  _wife_ ," Alistair retorted, belligerently. He kept one hand on the reins, while lifting the other sporadically to acknowledge the scattered cries of  _Prince Alistair!_ and  _Theirin! Theirin!_

Flora, who could feel her brother-warden sitting rigidly in the saddle behind her, hastily diverted him from this pointless line of thinking.

"I wonder if the rest of the troops from South Reach have arrived yet?" she asked, running her fingers idly up and down Alistair's leather-clad forearm. "Arl Leonas thought they might come today."

Indeed, the remaining troops from South Reach had arrived that morning. They set up camp on the stony river bank, alongside their fellow townsfolk. Leonas was already amongst them, greeting familiar faces and making enquiries as to the calibre of their weapons.

The dwarven earthworks had also been half-completed; long gullies and ditches carved into the soft earth of the Alamarri plains. Progress had been slowed by the collapse of one trench, the soil walls sodden after nearly two days of rain. The Orzammar engineers were unsure how to prevent this problem from recurring in the future _. After all,_  the chief engineer had said defensively,  _rainfall was not an issue on their usual types of project._

Surprisingly, it was Sten who offered a solution. In his customary contemptuous tones, he suggested the digging of slender irrigation channels to divert rainwater away from the earthworks and down towards the river. This was interspersed with a long monologue about how much he detested the soggy Fereldan climate; especially when compared to the stern, unyielding heat of Par Vollen.

On the evening of that same day the Wardens dined in the King's chamber with a mixture of their companions, both noble and low-born. The iron ring of the overhead candelabra cast light onto a large round table that had been carried into the bedchamber by a troupe of servants. More servants brought forth platters of food, while keeping the hearth stacked with fresh kindling.

Leliana was in her element and on top form, entertaining those beside her with stories from the glittering court of Val Royeaux. The tales were chosen carefully for her mostly-Fereldan audience; many of them emphasising the more audacious aspects of Orlesian culture. Wynne smiled benevolently at the bard as Leliana spoke, scooping up a spoonful of scallops.

"Birds in her  _hair?!"_ Teagan repeated, his jaw dropping with in naked astonishment.  _"Maker's Breath."_

"It's true, Teagan," interjected Finian, dabbing wine from the corner of his mouth. "And that's not the  _only_  wildlife that the great and good of Orlais have exploited for fashion purposes. Let me tell you about the Duchess of Mireaux and the spotted python…"

On the other side of the table Zevran was talking to Fergus, and for once, the elf's tone held neither humour, nor flirtation. Instead, the unlikely pairing were having a frank discussion about the relatively rare usage of assassins within Ferelden, compared to many of its Theodosian neighbours.

Neither Flora nor Alistair were very adept at making conversation in formal company, a fact which did not particularly bother either of them. They perched on adjacent chairs, offering an opinion or responding to a query when prompted; but for the most part, they sat together companionably and ate in silence. Between courses, Alistair would put down his fork and settle a palm on his sister-warden's thigh, gazing with open admiration at her solemn, fine-hewn profile.

"Alistair, you look deep in thought," chirped Leliana from the opposite side of the table, flashing a dazzling smile towards a blushing maidservant as she refilled the wine. "What's on your mind,  _chéri?"_

"About… how fortunate I am," he replied slowly, watching Flora stuff an overambitious fragment of bread into her mouth.

"Ah, because you are sitting in a palace with a gold band upon your head, sporting a tunic worth more than any blade I've ever owned?" Zevran teased lightly, coal-black eyes sparkling with humour.

"No," Alistair continued, reaching out to intercept Flora's hand as she reached greedily towards the bowl of grapes. "I could be living in a shack, eating pottage and wearing rags, and I'd be the richest man in Thedas if Flo was with me."

He clasped his sister-warden's fingers tightly as Flora blushed, pinkness spreading up from her cheeks to her hairline. She dropped her eyes to her crumb-covered plate as Leliana gave the requisite coo of approval.

In the darkest part of the night Flora awoke with her mind racing, having just experienced a most  _unusual_ succession of dreams. At first, she was watching the villagers of Herring rotate in one of the traditional circular dances; then she was covering her ears as a large bell swung back and forth inches from her face. Then she was sitting at the edge of the round arena where Fereldan boxing matches traditionally took place, cheering despite the lack of any competitors.

_Makes a change from waking up sick or terrified_ , Flora thought amiably, pushing back the furs and extracting herself with some difficulty from Alistair's arms. Yawning, she padded naked across the chamber to pour herself a cup of water from the ewer; absentmindedly musing over the contents of her mind. As a product of the superstitious northern coast, Flora put a great deal of stock in the meaning of her dreams, but she was perplexed as to the content of these seemingly random images.

_A circle of villagers, a bell pealing, a boxing arena?_

_**Rings,**_ hissed a small, impatient voice from the back of her skull.  _ **They're all rings!**_

Flora frowned to herself for a moment, and then was struck by a blinding realisation. Feeling a large wedge of guilt rising in her throat, she scuttled across the room and retrieved her travel pack from beneath the bed.

Using her own fingers to illuminate her search, Flora rummaged through the contents of the leather bag. She put the case containing the Cousland wreath to one side, along with  _Exotic Fish of Thedas._ Inside the book's front cover, Alistair's rose lay flat – there had come a point when not even Flora's rejuvenative magic could maintain its freshness, and she had pressed the bloom to keep it from rotting. The wax paper dog that Alistair had folded for her at Ostagar was tucked alongside the preserved stem.

Finally, beneath the crumpled Grey Warden treaties, Flora found what she had been looking for. The same handkerchief that she had used to transport Andraste's ashes from Haven was knotted around something small, hard and rotund.

Unfolding the handkerchief, Flora let the golden band fall out into her palm. It was bright and brilliant despite months of storage; its distinctive geometric pattern still clear to the eye. She felt another throb of guilt, mingled with a sadness that tasted like bitter ashes on her tongue.

_The King of Ferelden, suspended half-naked on a Darkspawn crux; cruelly positioned to gaze down at the valley in which he and his men had been slaughtered._

Flora could still remember the dried, leathery texture of Cailan's wind-preserved skin as she and Sten had manhandled him down. With a little shiver, she closed her fingers over the king's wedding ring and rose to her feet. About to cross to the door, she realised that it would be probably be a sound idea to put on some sort of night-clothing.

Retrieving a pair of overlarge blue pyjamas, Flora pulled them on over her head whilst simultaneously trying to nudge Alistair awake.

"Alistair, Alistair," she whispered, then ducked to avoid his sleepy, possessive grab.

"Come back to bed, darling," he mumbled, tiredness blurring the words together. "Mm, come here, my lovely girl."

Flora stifled a giggle, continuing to avoid his flailing grasp.

"Go back to sleep," she whispered, planting a kiss on Alistair's stubbled cheek. "I won't be long."

Clutching the ring in her palm, Flora crept barefoot through the chamber and quietly nudged open one of the tall doors.

The passageway outside was lit by torches, and unusually busy for it being so late at night. Flora paused for a moment, wondering at the activity; then realised that it was the changing of the watch. The night guard had arrived to be briefed by Guillaume van Pylus, who was speaking in low, measured tones accompanied by slight gestures. Further down the corridor, Flora could see two retainers clad in Cousland navy positioned outside her brothers' quarters.

The Royal Steward cut himself off abruptly as he spotted Flora sidling out of the King's bedchamber. Immediately, he was before her with a slight bow, palms spread upwards in supplication.

"I apologise humbly, my lady – did I miss your call?"

"No," replied Flora. She was about to start weaving her way through the clusters of guards when – to her slight surprise – they all stood back against the wall and ducked their heads.

Guillaume abandoned the briefing of the soldiers and pursued her with a fleetness impressive for a man in his grey hairs.

"My lady- " he began, as Flora disappeared around a bend in the corridor.  _"Wait,_ my lady, how may I assist you?"

Flora glanced back and forth down two branching passageways; their only visible difference being that one was decorated by statues of birds, and the other by wolves.

"Are the Mac Tir quarters near here? I thought that teyrns' quarters were always near the King," Flora threw over her shoulder, squinting up at the carvings over each arched doorway as she passed. "What's the Mac Tir emblem, a dragon?"

"My lady, I quite like my manhood," offered the Royal Steward, in a frank and depreciating tone. "I would not want to lose it."

Flora stopped in her tracks, turned around, and eyed the Nevarran man dubiously. Guillaume continued, spreading his arms in an entreating plea.

"I only say this, my lady, as Prince Alistair will surely castrate me if he learns that I have allowed you to venture into Mac Tir territory. Especially in light of his recent instruction regarding your supervision."

Despite her urgency, Flora cackled – as the shrewd Guillaume had guessed she might – and opened up her palm towards the Royal Steward.

"This is King Cailan's wedding ring," she informed him, with a small shrug. "I just wanted to return it to his widow. I forgot to earlier, and I feel guilty."

"Ah, I know it well," murmured Guillaume, having ordered the ring's creation in the first place. "Very well, my lady, but you must allow me to accompany you. The lady Anora is not within the Mac Tir quarters tonight; she is visiting her father."

Flora grimaced to herself, wondering if she should wait until the following day. However, once she had set herself on a course of action, it was difficult to deviate from it – and so, gritting her teeth and with the ring clenched in her fingers – she turned to the Royal Steward.

"Could you escort me to the dungeons, please?"

Guillaume inclined his head, politely. The Steward had just turned around to lead the way, when Flora let out a little groan of apology.

"One moment, sorry!"

She scuttled back down the corridor, her erratic behaviour provoking no reaction from the impassive Royal Guard. Passing a suit of armour edged with gilt and a vase that stood almost as tall as she did; Flora sidled surreptitiously back into the King's bedchamber.

Alistair was snoring contentedly, bathed in a patch of moonlight and tangled naked amidst the furs. One muscular bare arm was still extended towards where she had been lying, his fingers curled around empty air. He looked so peaceful that Flora was suddenly struck by doubt, hesitating at the foot of the bed.

_Maybe I shouldn't wake him._

_**He would want to know.** _

Thus reassured, Flora sidled around to where Alistair was sprawled and reached down to put a tentative hand on his shoulder.

"Alistair," she whispered under her breath, for a second time that night. "Alistair,  _wake up."_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OK so I'm usually quite good with tying up loose ends and smaller plot lines, but I completely forgot about them finding Cailan's wedding ring when they returned to Ostagar (to be fair that was literally 200 chapters ago, lol). So Flora also forgot about it with the excitement of the Landsmeet, and the army – so her spirits had to deliver a sneaky little reminder in the form of ring-themed dreams, lol.
> 
> At least Flora isn't charging off into Mac Tir territory on her own this time – she did remember her brother-warden's warning not to try and venture there alone. So we'll have to see how Anora reacts to the return of her late husband's wedding ring. Clue – it's not going to be a good reaction – Anora dislikes Flora intensely, haha.


	287. The Two Teyrn's Daughters

Alistair opened a sleepy eye and focused with some effort on his sister-warden, who was standing solemn-faced beside the bed. Without hesitation, he reached out and pulled her down amidst the furs and blankets, rolling on top of her with a muffled growl.

"Mm, my beautiful girl," he mumbled into Flora's neck, lips moving eagerly towards her mouth. "I was dreaming about you. Maker, you're even  _more_ lovely in reality."

Despite her previous steadfastness, Flora felt her resolve melt away beneath Alistair's ardent affections. For several minutes, she yielded to his desirous breath and slow, deliberate thrusting of the hips; wrapping her arms joyfully around his neck.

Then Flora's conscience gave a reproving twinge as Cailan's ring dug into the flesh of her clenched fist.

" _Nooo_ ," she mumbled half-heartedly, but even this unconvincing denial was enough to send Alistair shooting backwards with a slightly terrified expression.

"No?" he squawked, the confusion so naked on his face that Flora almost felt sorry for him.  _"No?!"_

"I want to return this to Anora," she said, sitting upright and unclasping her fingers to show him the ring. "But she's with her father in the dungeons so I wanted to… let you know. You don't need to come, I'm going with Gu- Gwa- Gwam-  _Gamine?_ "

"Guillaume," corrected a soft and decorous voice from the shadows beside the half-ajar door.

Alistair's face twitched at the mention of Mac Tir; lip curling as both frown and fleeting distress passed over his features in rapid succession.

"Ha!" the prince declared, swinging his legs out from beneath the furs and reaching for a shirt. "As though I'd ever let you venture into the Mac Tir snake pit without me, my dear."

"What's a  _snake pit?"_ breathed Flora, passing her brother-warden one boot at a time.

"A method of punishment used in both Antiva and Nevarra," came Guillaume's discreet murmur from the shadows. "Criminals are dropped into a pit filled with poisonous snakes."

"Sounds perfect for the likes of Loghain and his spawn," hissed Alistair, rising to his feet as Flora pulled a small face. "Right, let's get this over with. It bemuses me, darling, why you felt compelled to do this in the  _middle of the night."_

"I had a dream," Flora replied, vaguely. "About… wrestling rings."

Alistair remained quiet for much of the journey through the torch-lit passages of the Royal Palace. The labyrinthine maze of corridors was still a mystery to the Wardens; both of whom had got lost on several occasions. Flora, in her ceaseless quest to locate the kitchens, had managed to find herself in the under-croft, one of the palace's several armouries and, mysteriously, a chamber devoted entirely to hats.

Fortunately, Guillaume appeared to know the shadowed castle like the back of his wrinkled hand. He led them down a myriad of corridors lined with tapestries and carved busts, interspersed with steps that spiralled downwards in gentle curves.

Once they had passed a life-sized portrait of the Rebel Queen with sword raised, Alistair reached out to clasp Flora's hand, twining their fingers together.

"I love you, sweetheart."

Flora replied in kind, smiling up at her brother-warden as he brought their interwoven hands to his mouth.

It grew damper as they descended, the uneven stone walls slick from mildew and condensing mist. Alistair's jaw grew tauter with every dozen steps further down into the bowels of the Palace. Once they had reached the dungeons, the watch-guards sprang to attention; one hastily shoving coins and a pack of Wicked Grace cards behind a flagon.

"Prince Alistair!" the chief jailer breathed in alarm, sweat beading on his forehead. "We weren't expecting you so late."

Guillaume shot the overweight man a glower; displeased at the surreptitious gambling that was clearly taking place during duty hours. The jailer quailed, knowing that he was in for imminent reprimand.

"Alistair, you're panting like a chained Mabari," Flora whispered, as they headed down the damp corridor towards the final cell. The quartet of Royal Guard assigned to watch Anora were waiting to one side, heads bowed.

"I can't help it," her brother-warden muttered darkly, scowling at the locked and bolted door. "I can't think why I didn't just cut off his head the other day. I  _hate_ him."

As they approached, they could hear the sound of voices raised in argument on the other side of the cell door. Alistair glanced at Flora, who looked as though she were having second thoughts.

"Maybe we should come back later, or…  _tomorrow,"_ she breathed, hearing Anora hiss something angry and indecipherable. "They sound like they're having a – discussion."

Alistair leaned down to murmur quietly in his sister-warden's ear, one hand already at the bolt.

"My love, if it were up to me, I'd be in _bed_  right now," he said, tugging at her earlobe with his free fingers. "With you  _Maker-naked_ in my arms. But, since we're  _not,_ let's just get this over with."

Without warning, Alistair slid the bolt back and thrust the cell door open with rather more force than necessary.

To his credit, the former general did not flinch at the crash of door against wall. Loghain was sitting back on the narrow bunk, a thin grey shadow of stubble covering his jaw. His face was even more sallow than it had been previously, and his eyes were ringed with purplish smudges. His daughter was standing over him, with limp strands of unwashed hair trailing around her ears. She was clad in the same pale gown that she had worn to the trial several days prior, the hem grubby from being swept along the corridor.

"Wonderful, it's Prince Theirin and his little scarlet goblin," breathed Anora, turning around with whip-like speed. "Have you come to gloat further?"

If it had been up to Alistair, he would have left the cell with Flora at that exact moment. His nostrils flared and he took a step forwards; the raw power of his body halted only by his sister-warden's hand as she flailed it against his chest.

"Daughter," muttered Loghain in warning, his teeth audibly grinding together. "That was unnecessary. She's no goblin."

Flora had no idea what a  _goblin_ was, but could intimate from Anora's contemptuous tone and Alistair's barely-restrained anger that it was not flattering. Still, after four years of being referred to as the  _Vase_ within the Circle, she was no stranger to insults.

"I've brought something for you," she said instead, unwrapping her fingers to show the dull gleam of burnished gold in her palm. "I'm sorry that I didn't do this earlier."

Anora shot her a suspicious look, then crossed the narrow cell in a handful of steps. As her dark, imperious Mac Tir gaze dropped to Cailan's wedding band, she flinched as though someone had struck her. Slender fingers reached out to take the band, lifting it as though in a dream.

Loghain watched Anora take her husband's wedding ring – she had stopped wearing its partner months ago – with an utterly impassive expression. If he felt any regret for leaving the ring's foolish owner to perish within the Ostagar valley, there was no hint of it on his own stern features.

Expecting no gratitude from the one whom she had deposed, Flora was just turning to leave when Anora looked up; a hint of the old defiance flashing across her weary face.

"And I suppose you kept it so long because you wished it had gone to  _you_  instead?" she hissed, launching each incendiary word across the cell like a loaded dwarven trebuchet.

Alistair went rigid as a board, his expression clouding over as Flora blinked.

"Eh?"

"I know that you seduced the king at Ostagar, you little  _tart,"_  continued Anora, as Loghain ran a hand over his chin with a muffled groan. "Perhaps you kept this so long because you pretended it was  _yours."_

"Anora, mind yourself," muttered her father, and was promptly ignored.

Flora looked entirely confused, not quite sure how her act of kindness had gone so hideously wrong.

"Or perhaps you wished to sell it at market?" the former queen continued, each word lashing through the musty subterranean air. "I've never understood your inexplicable _pride_ in your common upbringing. It wouldn't surprise me if you had the morals of a peasant to match the garb of one."

The accusation struck Flora across the face like a slap. For once, no smart retort rose to her lips; only a sudden surge of sadness.

"Hold your tongue, daughter," hissed Loghain, in an effort to restrain his recalcitrant child. "No good will come of this."

Alistair, who had finally had enough, let his temper break across the cell like a summer storm.

"I'll have you imprisoned in Fort Drakon if you continue, woman," he snarled, raw anger writ naked over his features.  _"Guards!"_

The Royal Guard were there in an instant, hands on the hilts of their blades.

"Escort her back to the Mac Tir quarters," instructed Alistair, making a conscious effort to steady his voice. "Remove any servants that still attend to her. She is no longer permitted to leave her chambers."

He turned on Anora, eyes flashing like mage-lightning.

"And if that's a problem,  _my lady,_ there are plenty of cells where we can accommodate you instead."

Anora, her lips folded tightly together, was escorted back down the corridor under heavy guard.

There was silence in the cell for a moment; Loghain leaning back against the bunk, Alistair quivering with indignation like a plucked bowstring, and Flora stood rigid in shock. Eventually the former general spoke, after deliberately ensnaring Flora's miserable gaze with his dark Mac Tir stare.

"Cailan tried to persuade your Commander to send you to his tent," Loghain stated, his words muffled by the damp air. "On several occasions, but Duncan refused each time. I have told Anora this."

"It's not that," Flora replied, in a small voice. "She said I had the morals of a peasant, like it was – something to be _ashamed_  of."

In normal circumstance, Flora would have laughed off derisive comments with her usual insouciance. However, Anora's unexpectedly venomous reaction, combined with a sudden hormonal surge, was enough to propel tears to the corners of her eyes.

Alistair felt his sister-warden slumping beside him, and reached out to grip her fingers tightly in his.

"Your snake of a daughter is in no position to lecture anyone on  _morality,"_ he retorted, derision curling through each word. "The next time that you see Anora, why don't you ask her why she paid a visit to the Guerrin manor one evening during the Landsmeet?"

At last, Loghain's stony impassivity flickered; his dark eyes widening almost imperceptibly. At the same time, the older man winced as though he had been struck.

"Come on, sweetheart," Alistair continued through gritted teeth, gripping Flora's palm in an iron grip. "Clearly, you set your sights a little high in expecting  _gratitude_ from a Mac Tir."

Still fuming at the former queen's audacity, Alistair led the way back through the dungeons and up into the main body of the palace. Absorbed in his own indignation, he failed at first to notice his sister-warden's distress.

Flora, to her own chagrin, had been entirely unable to stop the tears from escaping the corners of her eyes. Much like when she had spent her mornings bent double with nausea, she felt as though she had lost control of her body to the unwelcome lodger within.

However, the young Cousland's sadness could not be blamed  _entirely_ on hormonal fluctuation – she was genuinely shocked by Anora's vehement reaction to the ring. Flora had, rather naively, assumed that the former queen would have been grateful for some token remnant of her marriage. Anora's vitriol and ensuing scathing accusation had taken Flora entirely by surprise.

At the foot of a wide, torch-lit stairway carpeted in plush scarlet, Alistair finally caught a glimpse of the tears streaming down his best friend's cheeks. They were nowhere near the King's bedchamber – although the stairway itself was adorned with carved busts of previous rulers – so Alistair sat down promptly on the bottom step, drawing his sister-warden alongside him.

Some yards behind, the Royal Steward Guillaume made a discreet gesture; he and the escorting guards halted a tactful distance away.

"Darling," Alistair said, alarmed at the volume of tears. "What's all this? Surely not over the baseless insults of a  _Mac Tir?"_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I think scarlet goblin is my favourite insult for Flo yet, haha. Now she's almost at four months pregnant, the morning nausea is vanishing but the mood swings are starting, lol.


	288. Sparring Practice

Maric's ivory gaze peered sternly down at both Wardens; the old king's bust positioned at the foot of the sweeping staircase. Maric's youngest son reached out with a fold of his shirt sleeve to dab gently beneath his sister-warden's swimming grey eyes. Flora hiccupped, quietly enraged that fresh tears were welling to replace those wiped away by Alistair. To her alarm, when she opened her mouth to speak a damp, pathetic sounding croak - like that of a particularly depressed frog - emerged instead.

Alistair's eyebrows shot into his gilded hairline as he heard this unusual vocalisation. He drew Flora against his chest and rested his chin on top of her head; murmuring soft reassuring nonsense into her ears until she was coherent enough to speak the King's tongue once more.

"Are you upset because that – that  _woman_ accused you of lying with Cailan?" he asked, tentatively. "We know it's not true, Flo."

Flora shook her head, a tear dripping off the end of her freckled nose.

"No, I don't care about that," she whispered, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of the pyjamas. Alistair reached down and lifted one of her cold feet onto his knee, rubbing her bare toes between his fingers.

"Then what is it, baby?"

"She said I had the morals of a  _peasant_ ," Flora explained, quietly outraged. "Like it's a… bad thing. But the people in Herring are honest and hardworking, and I'm  _glad_  to have their morals."

Alistair let out a bark of laughter, the sound muffled by the solid Alamarri stone surrounding them.

" _Anora_ , lecturing on good behaviour? That's rich, coming from someone with the morals of a particularly slippery eel."

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, hoping that she would appreciate his marine reference. Flora, who always appreciated a nod to fish, sniffed and smiled wetly at him through glassy eyes.

"I d-don't know why I got so upset," she said at last, tilting her head as he kissed the dampness from her cheeks. "I feel all… out of balance."

_**Watch your words.** _

"Well, I feel out of balance whenever I'm with you, sweetheart," Alistair said gallantly, pressing lips to the back of her hand. "Because I  _adore_  you so much. Your beauty makes me dizzy."

The sconce-set torches radiated an inconstant, flickering light; the silhouettes of Ferelden's greatest leaders fell over the sweeping staircase. Flora smiled at the shadowed face of her brother-warden, feeling a rising flush colouring her own cheeks. She could feel the warmth of his gaze moving over her body; it was akin to sitting before a particularly hearty fire.

"But you're always with me," she pointed out, logically. "Does that mean you're always out of balance?"

Alistair obligingly rolled his eyes upwards and pulled his best  _unbalanced_ expression.

" _Yeeees?"_

Cackling, Flora clambered to her feet, the tears drying on her cheeks.

"Do you want to see something even  _more_ imbalanced?"

Alistair nodded, slightly apprehensively.

The action needed a fraction more effort than it would have done when she was a child; but Flora still managed to produce an unsteady cartwheel down the richly carpeted corridor. Guillaume and the Royal Guard hastily retreated several yards further back, out of range of any stray flailing limbs.

"Ha!"

Alistair gaped at Flora as she returned upright, hazel eyes wide and round as those of a young  _halla._

"Flo! You never told me you were actually an Antivan acrobat in disguise."

He strode down the passage towards his sister-warden, reaching out to embrace her. Flora nestled into the familiar, comforting mould of Alistair's arms, her cheek pressed against the firm flesh of his chest. He held her with carefully controlled strength; aware of the crushing power that lay dormant in his muscled arms. She tilted her face to gaze at the underside of his chin, and then lifted her fingers to stroke the chiselled, stubble-covered line of his jaw.

"Let's go back," Flora whispered, suddenly wanting more from her brother-warden than just his chaste, affectionate embrace.

"To the chamber?"

"To  _bed,_ " she clarified, hearing the breath catch in Alistair's throat like it had been tangled in a fishing-net.

When the prince replied, his voice was thick and coated with desire; several pitches lower than normal. He ducked his mouth to Flora's ear, breath prickling against the skin as he gave his response.

"Do you want to be  _had,_  my love?" Alistair murmured, lips ghosting over her earlobe. "You want to be covered?"

She nodded, and he let out a groan; teeth pulling at the soft shell of her ear.

"If we were alone, I would take you on these stairs," Alistair breathed, interspersing his words with lingering kisses down the line of her neck. "I might do it anyway. Who's going to tell me off? I'm the  _king._ "

To Flora's slight relief, Alistair managed to restrain himself until Guillaume had guided them prudently back up to the royal bedchamber. The moment that the door closed behind them, Flora threw her arms around her brother-warden's neck, wanting to purge Anora's scornful face and vehement accusations from her mind.

As it happened, Alistair was more than willing to oblige. Too impatient to carry his best friend over to the bed, he tugged her pyjama trousers partway down her thighs and took her up against the door, teeth gritted and head flung back with pleasure.

As a result of both the journey to the dungeons and the ensuing exertions in the bedchamber, both Alistair and Flora were yawning as they rode down to the army encampment the next morning. As usual, the people of Denerim called out to their prince as he rode through the streets; many of them rushing from their houses as the royal procession passed by.

Flora, much to her alarm, was also greeted with hails of recognition. The news that it was the young Lady Cousland who had summoned the army swelling on the Alamarri plains had swept quickly through the city districts. Although the people of Denerim found it hard to imagine the slight girl seated before the Prince actually  _leading_  troops into battle; they admired Flora's solemn beauty and straight-backed resolution. The elder residents could recall Teyrn Bryce Cousland riding and laughing alongside the old king, the camaraderie between the two plain to the eye.

Nearly half of the Alamarri plains now bristled with troops and tents. The dwarven engineers had almost finished shoring up the defences, and were taking a break from the main earthworks to reinforce weaker sections of the city wall. The mages, who had arrived relatively untrained, were now launching fireballs in a specially prepared practise area. The Dalish had their own training grounds; archers sinking arrows into round wooden targets with near-pinpoint accuracy. Underlying the arcane crackling and sinewy twang of bows was the unrelenting clash of metal on metal; as the soldiers of the Royal Army drilled and sparred in repetitive formation.

Alistair, the upcoming battle gnawing at the edges of his mind, wanted to get back into a regular routine of practise. Stripping off his tunic and unsheathing Duncan's sword, he strode into the drill field with the intention of seeking a sparring partner.

Unfortunately, nobody wished to run the risk of accidentally maiming the future King of Ferelden. As a result, a forlorn Alistair found himself half-heartedly striking at a training dummy while the other men and women duelled around him. Flora, who felt sorry for her solitary brother-warden, went to retrieve Sten from the command tent. After repeatedly imploring him not to unleash his full strength on her fellow Warden, she led him over to the training field.

She need not have worried: the Qunari was aware of Alistair's importance to the cause, and proved to be the ideal sparring partner, providing just enough challenge to keep the prince on his toes while refraining from any serious assault.

The late spring sun blazed down overhead, and those on the drilling field were defenceless beneath its round, white glare. One by one, the soldiers began to drift off towards the mess area, seeking both respite from the muggy heat and satiation of their rumbling bellies.

Sten and Alistair remained, circling one another in the sawdust. The former, used to arid Par Vollen climes, was utterly impervious to the increasing temperature. The latter was sweating, red-faced but determined to continue, gripping the hilt of Duncan's sword with damp fingers. Flora sat perched on the fence, eating a sandwich wrapped in wax paper; ready to summon the shield at a moment's notice if any of Sten's blows got a little  _too_ enthusiastic.

As the sun glowered down unerringly upon the Alamarri plains, Flora wound her hair in a bundle on top of her head and stifled a yawn. Realising that she was absentmindedly resting a hand on the convex curve of her stomach, she whipped it away as though burnt, scowling to herself. Instead, she rested both hands on the wooden fence and watched her brother-warden spar with the Qunari. Years of Alistair's Templar discipline, honed with lessons learnt from a foe that never fought fairly, had culminated in the development of a brutal, yet meticulously controlled style of assault. It was raw, powerful, and oddly compelling to watch.

Soon, Flora found herself surrounded by an audience, all of whom were curious to see their future king sparring on the training ground. Many were watching to take note of the techniques and tricks used by this prince who had experience fighting the enemy they would soon all be facing.

However, many were staring for entirely  _different_  reasons. Alistair had long since discarded his tunic in the afternoon heat, and the rhythmic motion of his tall, broad frame was greatly compelling in its own way. Although Flora had unfairly blamed South Reach for the rounding of her own stomach, the olive musculature of her brother-warden's flexing frame remained as rigidly hewn as ever. Flora had brought a sandwich with her from the palace, but it lay motionless in her lap with the wax paper only part-unfolded.

"Why are they watching?" demanded Sten, nostrils flaring as he readied  _Asala_ for another assault.

Alistair shrugged, running fingers through his sweaty hair to keep it back from his face.

"No idea," he replied hoarsely, readying sword and shield. "Let's keep going."

Finally noticing that her forearms were starting to redden in the sun, Flora slithered off the fence. The neglected sandwich fell onto the grass, and she was just stooping to retrieve it when an amused voice came curling through the crowd.

"I imagine he would make an impressive sight in battle," drawled Telathin Surana in light, clipped tones.

The commander of the battle-mages seemed unaffected by the heat, despite being fully clad in silverite armour. The customary runed blade hung at his side, its wickedly curved edge gleaming in the muted sunlight.

Flora, who was gloomily trying to reassemble her disintegrated sandwich, gave an unladylike grunt.

"Aren't you  _sweating_  inside all that metal?" she asked, eyeing the tightly-fitted armour dubiously.

The elf laughed, shaking a head of hair that held equal darkness to Morrigan's.

"I spent six months in the deserts of Rivain," he replied, fingers moving idly over the carved hilt of his blade. "The Fereldan sun cannot compare. Anyway, I'm surprised not to see _you_  training alongside your prince. Do you not also require practise?"

Flora had the distinct feeling that she was being gently chided. She scowled down into her lap, and gave a uniquely adolescent shrug.

"Spar with me, then,  _Warden-Commander,_ " Surana declared, an edge of challenge in his voice. "Have you ever fought an arcane warrior before?"

Flora shook her head, heart sinking. She had not, and did not particularly want her first time to be in front of an audience either. Still, she could not think of a valid excuse in time, and so trudged gloomily into the training field. There was a small murmur of interest from the crowd of observers behind the fence; none of whom had ever seen their Lady Cousland  _fight._

Surana looked nonplussed, one dark eyebrow rising as he followed her. Flora was clad in her usual uniform of deliberately oversized tunic, paired with leather breeches and boots, with no discernible form of protection.

"I'll give you time to get your staff and armour," the elf replied, with a light chuckle. "I won't go anywhere, don't worry."

"It's fine," replied Flora gloomily, realising that she was still clutching her sandwich in one hand. "I don't need it."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Alistair's yeeeeeees makes me laugh every time I hear it in game, haha. 
> 
> So Flora now has to face off against an arcane warrior- oh dear! She does need to get back into a proper training routine before the final battle.


	289. Spirit Healer Versus Arcane Warrior

Flora, heart sinking deep into her belly, followed Telathin Surana into the middle of the practice arena. She could hear the interested murmur of the crowd gathered at the fence, their eyes moving over her unarmoured body and empty hand.

Just at that moment, Alistair finished a particularly vicious interplay of swords with the Qunari; breaking off with a grunt to catch his breath. The sweat was dripping liberally down his forehead and he grimaced, grinding thumbs into salt-stung eyes.

When his vision had cleared, Alistair caught sight of his sister-warden some distance away, surreptitiously taking a bite of her sandwich while Surana circled her, sword in hand. They resembled a rather vacant-looking  _halla_ chewing mindlessly on grass, while being stalked by some dark-furred, feline foe.

Alistair dropped Duncan's sword unceremoniously onto the sawdust and strode towards them. Telathin Surana bowed as he saw the scowling prince approach, an amused smile already curling the corners of his mouth.

"Is there a problem, Your Highness? We were simply embarking on some sparring practice, just as you yourself were."

Alistair ignored the elf and gripped his sister-warden by both elbows, gazing down at her.

"Flo, what are you  _doing?"_

"Training," Flora muttered sulkily, clenching her sandwich between her teeth as she re-tied her hair on top of her head. "Everyone keeps telling me I need to train more, so now I am."

"But, Flora, you've never practised with a- a magic swordsman like him before- "

" _Arcane warrior,"_ corrected Surana, with a small sniff.

"How do you know you'll be able to defend yourself?" Alistair continued, fear bruising his eyes like fallen fruits. "Darling, I think we ought to ask Wynne for advice before you do this."

"I'll be fine," Flora mumbled back, through a mouthful of cheese and bread. "Don't worry."

Alistair gazed down at her for a moment, and then let out a groan. Swivelling his eyes to settle on Telathin Surana's leonine features; the bastard prince lowered his voice.

"If you  _hurt_ her, I'll launch you from a trebuchet into the middle of the Darkspawn horde."

He then retreated, looking deeply unhappy. Conversely, Sten – who had constantly nagged Flora to embark upon a regular training routine – looked as close as he could come to delighted.

"Are you ready, my lady?" called out Surana, withdrawing his blade. As he did so, a violet flame flickered down its silvered edge and the acrid smell of the arcane began to drift through the air.

Flora nodded, wondering where she could put her sandwich for safekeeping.

As she mused over this, the elf leapt forward with feline grace and brought the arcane-forged sword down in a curving arc towards her.

She barely had to time to react before the shield sprung up around her, gleaming like the filmy, radiant surface of a soap bubble. Despite its transparent and veil-like thinness, when the sword hit the surface it glanced off as though striking silverite. A metallic clang rang out- almost like the chiming of a bell - and the elf dropped the sword with a grimace, having jarred a shoulder with the force of his blow. The violet flame had left a smear on the golden surface of Flora's shield; but within moments, the brighter hue quickly smoothed over the arcane burn.

Rubbing his arm, Surana let out a bark of laughter and retrieved his sword. Sheathing it for a moment, he paced around the circumference of the curving barrier; caressing it experimentally with a gloved palm.

"This is a beautiful piece of casting," he murmured, wondering at its deceptive rigidity. "Who taught you this?"

"No-one," replied Flora, gazing at him through the filmy surface. "It's not even  _me_ doing it, not really. It just… happens."

"Of course, you're a spirit healer," recalled Surana, stepping back and readying his sword for another assault. "Another go?"

Flora nodded dutifully, and then squawked as the elf sprang at her from a variety of angles, a hailstorm of blows battering the shield. Despite her initial flinch, the golden barrier stood strong; now covered with streaks of violet flame where the arcane warrior's sword had struck.

_Hold on, little lemon,_ she thought apologetically to the unwanted creature clinging to her insides.  _It'll be over soon._

Without warning, Surana shot out his fingers and lightning sprung forth, crackling with lethal voltage across the surface of the shield. A golden mist rippled over the curved barrier, yet it remained utterly impervious.

Not daring to look at Alistair, Flora stood patiently as she was barraged with spells from all parts of the arcane spectrum. Chunks of soil were torn up from the earth and hurled towards her; blossoming scarlet flame probed for any weakness in the golden veil. A whole host of spectral weaponry hacked relentlessly at the shield; a hail of ghostly arrows evaporated as soon as they made contact with the shimmering sheath.

Eventually, Flora grew bored of standing in one spot. She knew that Surana's mana was nearly drained – it was obvious from his pale face and the hollowed circles beneath his eyes – and she did not want to leave him exhausted and vulnerable to demons. Carefully, she let her shield expand outwards; colliding with Surana just enough to send him staggering backwards, the sword falling from his fingers.

"Thank you for the training," she said politely, then blinked as the elf held up a hand, panting.

"I have one more trick up my sleeve,  _da'len,"_ Surana murmured, and as he spoke, the words blurred together. His body seemed to flicker and fade away, becoming little more than an ethereal outline. Flora could just see his ghostly silhouette moving towards her in fits and starts, as though not entirely within the waking world.

_**He attempts to use our domain to gain the advantage?** _

To Flora's alarm, the inconstant shape began to meld with her shield, passing through with the faint smell of acrid burning.

_**Goodbye.** _

Suddenly, the elf was launched backwards; thrust brutally from the Fade by those dwelling within. By the time that he landed unceremoniously on his backside in the sawdust, he was entirely corporeal once more.

Surana looked almost comically shocked for a moment, and then began to laugh. Flora let the shield drop and reached forward, gripping his hand as the elf scrambled to his feet.

"Ha!" he declared, shaking his head in rueful resignation. "That's the last time I challenge a spirit healer to a sparring session. I've never felt the spirits actually  _push_ me from the Fade before."

Flora smiled politely at him, and then dropped into a dutiful bow.

"Thank you for practising with me, Commander," she said insincerely, retrieving her sandwich from where she had shoved it down the front of her tunic. "I appreciate it."

The elf bowed, the motion still elegant despite his clear weariness.

"The honour was all mine,  _da'len_ ," Surana replied, with a wry smile. "I will let First Enchanter Irving know that we need a more  _advanced_  training programme for you."

Flora did not like the sound of this _more advanced training programme._ Thrusting the sinister notion to the back of her mind, she headed to the edge of the training field, where her brother-warden was waiting beside the fence.

Alistair was rigid and clearly deeply unhappy; beneath the olive tan, his skin had a greyish pallor. As she came close to him, he reached out his arms, utterly careless of those watching. Flora went readily into his embrace, letting him fold her against his sweaty chest. His grip was hard enough that it bordered on painful, but she knew that he was only frightened and seeking reassurance.

"Are you unhurt?" Alistair muttered into her hair, needing Flora to verbally confirm what he had already visually established.

"I'm fine," she whispered as he released her with great reluctance, keeping one hand on her elbow. "I'm sorry that you were worried."

"Come on," her brother-warden said abruptly, the crowds parting as their future king turned away from the training ground. "Let's go back to the Palace."

Alistair did not utter another word for the entire half-hour duration of the journey up to the castle; his arm wrapped tightly around her waist as they sat on the saddle. Flora, who knew better than to question him, took advantage of the silence to sing all twenty eight tuneless verses of the Herring classic  _Bones in the Sand_ under her breath.

The sun was low in the sky, and lazy wisps of cloud hung over the estuary like trailing blossoms. By the time that the stable boys at the castle took their horses, Alistair was twitching slightly. Flora realised, on reflection, it was probably not the best idea to have sung about the myriad ways to die on the northern coastline.

Alistair jumped down from the saddle and reached to help his sister-warden. As she slithered into his arms, he took her face in his hands and dropped his mouth to hers. Flora was slightly taken aback but dutifully parted her lips in response, wrapping her arms around his neck. The long-suffering horse stood patiently as the future king of Ferelden pressed his best friend up against it's flank; kissing her as though they were about to be parted for a year.

"I'm sorry, Flo," Alistair breathed, gazing down at her with mingled grief and regret. "I just- I don't want anything to happen to you. Sweet Maker, you don't know how scared I was."

"I understand," Flora replied placidly, because ultimately she  _did._  If it had been Alistair subjected to fire, sword and lightning, she  _knew_  that she would have been beside herself with fright, and to hold Alistair responsible for his anxiety would have been entirely hypocritical.

"Maker, that  _Bones in the Sand_ is a depressing tune," he continued as they ventured inside the entrance hall; those within dropping into the requisite bows on the prince's arrival. "I might never go paddling again now I know how dangerous the sea can be."

"' _The sea is a most capricious mistress'_ ," intoned Flora sagely, recalling Leliana quoting from some archaic poem.

Alistair shot her a mildly alarmed look as they began the long trek towards the royal quarters. "Cap- _what_ mistress?"

Flora shrugged, her attention caught by the stained glass Calenhad embedded in a nearby window. Pressing her nose against it, she could see the forested grounds of the palace tinted in crimson and cerulean.

"I don't know what it means. Am I  _your_ mistress?"

Alistair grimaced, plucking the damp collar of his tunic away from his neck. Now that the sweat had dried clammily on his body, he could think of nothing more desirable than a bath and a change of clothing.

"I suppose so," the prince replied, squeezing her fingers as he gently but insistently manoeuvred her down the passageway. "Come on, darling, I can  _smell_  myself and it's not pleasant. Why aren't you sweating like a pig after  _your_ training practice?"

"Because all I did was stand there like a useless lump," Flora replied, following Alistair across a high-ceilinged minstrel's gallery. "I didn't really  _do_  anything."

_**That's true. You're welcome.** _

_I never do anything,_ she thought to herself, slightly guiltily.  _It's all the work of my spirits. I'm just their vessel –_

_Oh, I really_ am  _just the Vase!_

Flora scowled at this unwelcome revelation, just as they turned into the wide corridor containing the Cousland and king's quarters. Pairs of Royal Guardsmen stood at intervals of a dozen yards, and the entire passageway was cloaked in a respectful hush.

Guillaume van Pylus was waiting for them, clad from head to toe in Theirin scarlet. He bobbed into the requisite bow, murmuring a deferential greeting.

"Your Highness, I heard of your exertions on the practice ground and took the liberty of having a bath drawn up."

"Thank you," replied Alistair, eyebrows rising. "How did you know?"

"Lay-Sister Leliana informed me. I wish I'd been there to see it," replied the steward, leading them into the king's chamber. "Your father, Maric, often drilled with his men on the field. It's good to see that the tradition is continued."

As Guillaume had promised, a bath stood steaming before the lit hearth. The spacious chamber was cast in mellow afternoon light, the first muted shades of sunset framed by the leaded windows. Fresh-cut rushes had been strewn over the floor, their sweet scent almost overpowering the smell of fresh paint. The Mabari and horsemen murals daubed across the walls were no longer faded; their colours newly picked out in fresh ochre and tan.

Three Theirin retainers stood beside the bath with heads bowed, each one clutching a flannel towel.

"I, ah, don't require any assistance," said Alistair hastily, and the steward dismissed the servants with a wave of his fingers.

Flora went to sit on the end of the bed, pulling off her boots one at a time. The strapping around her weak knee was coming loose and she pulled it taut, lowering her head to grip one end in her teeth as she tugged at the other.

"Oh, and Lady Florence?"

The steward's Nevarran accent rang out as he crossed the flagstones towards her, clutching something in his hand. It was a crumpled piece of parchment, folded but not sealed.

"Mm?"

"A message for you. It is from Mac Tir, I believe. The  _elder."_

Alistair, who had been pulling his tunic over his head, stiffened at the name. He and Flora shared a glance of mutual confusion as she took the note, unfolding it tentatively.

There was only a single sentence scribed onto the parchment, the letters large and carefully spaced.

Flora mouthed each word slowly to herself, brow furrowing. Uncrossing her legs, she padded over the strewn rushes towards a frowning Alistair. He took the note from her, reading the single sentence it contained with far greater speed.

"' _The morals of peasants are the strongest in Thedas.'_ Huh."

Alistair blinked down at the note, nonplussed.

"Well, he understands your difficulty reading cursive, at any rate," he admitted, begrudgingly. "What does it mean?"

Flora shrugged, sitting down in one of the armchairs before the hearth and drawing her knees up to her chin. To her slight dismay she found that, due to the swell of her belly, this was no longer possible without conscious effort. Scowling to herself, she crossed her legs beneath her instead.

For a moment, Alistair looked as though he might throw the note into the flames behind him. Then, with a small sigh, he let it drop onto the flagstones instead.

"The man is so Maker-damned  _confusing_ ," he complained, unbuttoning his breeches and thrusting them to his ankles. "Even thinking about him makes my brain hurt. Why hasn't Eamon just instructed me to have him executed already?"

Flora, transfixed by her brother-warden's sweat-covered body, did not respond immediately.

" _Flo!"_

"Oh! Sorry. Um, I'm not sure," she mumbled, watching him lower himself by inches into the bathtub.

"I know that he was one of my father's closest friends," continued Alistair, glancing around for the soap. "So  _why_ would he leave Cailan to die at Ostagar? And the Wardens?"

Flora gave a shrug, handing him the plain white bar. Alistair took it, handsome face contorted in perplexity.

"Flora," he said after an extended pause, the soap held motionless in his hand. Each word came out hesitant, as though he were reluctant to even articulate them.

"Do you think we were… _always_ going to lose at Ostagar? Cailan didn't want to wait to summon the armies of Ferelden, did he? It was just the Wardens, and the northern troops of the Royal Army. Do you think we would have been outnumbered even if Loghain  _had_  joined us in the field?"

Alistair was talking as though he and Flora had been present on the valley floor, as opposed to several hundred metres above in the Tower of Ishal. Yet, Flora knew what her brother-warden was  _really_  asking.

_Could Loghain, perched high on the side of the valley, have realised that the situation was hopeless? As an experienced commander with a birds-eye view, he could see the full extent of the Darkspawn horde._

_He's a northerner, with a northerner's practically. He would not commit thousands of Royal troops to a certain death to save one man from his folly, even if that one man were the king himself._

_**You realised this, months ago. Now he knows it too.** _

Flora's silence was telling, and Alistair let out a little groan. The soap slipped from his motionless fingers, settling at the bottom of the tub. When he reached down to retrieve it, it slid from his grasp once again and the prince muttered a curse under his breath.

Flora slithered down from the armchair to the low, three-legged stool beside the bath. Rolling up her sleeve, she reached into the water and groped around until she had grasped the greasy fugitive.

"Let me help," she whispered, rubbing the soap briskly until a thick lather formed. Placing it on the nearby tray, she inspected her palms with an admiring tilt of the eyebrows. "Ooh, this  _is_  good quality."

She reached forward and rubbed her soapy palms over her brother-warden's chest, knowing each curved angle of hard muscle intimately. They had begun to sleep in each other's arms long before Alistair had first kissed his sister-warden on Satinalia night; as an instinctual act of comfort after the horrors of Ostagar.

As her hands moved in idle patterns, Flora prattled on about the fish-oil soap used in Herring, which often left one greasier than one had been before bathing. Alistair closed his eyes as his sister-warden's slender fingers slid deftly through his hair; working out the sweat and sawdust of the practice ring before cupping water in her palms to rinse out the suds.

The humiliation of washing Arl Howe - kneeling before him with a blank expression and washcloth in hand - sprang suddenly to the forefront of Flora's memory. It was not the older man's scrawny frame that so repulsed her, since Flora was used to seeing bodies of all types exposed for her healing attention, but the sickening, gloating expression of triumph on his face.

Shivering despite the warmth of the hearth, Flora forced herself to focus on her brother-warden's face. To her relief, he was smiling down at her; the brooding shadow fallen away from his eyes like the removal of a veil.

Alistair reached down with a damp hand and caressed the top of his best friend's head, sliding his palm around to cup the back of her neck as he pulled her in for a quick kiss.

The kiss was followed by a second, more lingering meeting of lips; which ultimately resulted in Flora's clothes piled on the flagstones amidst puddles of bath water.

"This is becoming a habit," Alistair murmured in his sister-warden's ear some time later, as she lay against his chest in the soapy water. "At least it prevents the sheets from getting all  _sweaty."_

Flora, who was still catching her breath, nodded wordlessly. For a moment they were both silent, Alistair's fingers combing through tendrils of scarlet hair as they trailed like seaweed across her bare shoulders.

"Ahem, Your Highness?"

The Royal Steward's tactful voice echoed across the chamber, directed through a gap of several inches between door and frame.

"There is a small gathering in the Cousland quarters, with the Arl of Redcliffe also in attendance. Your presence has been politely requested."

Alistair grunted an acknowledgment, eyebrows shooting into his hairline as the door shut once again.

"Was he waiting for us to…  _finish…_ before opening the door? That's  _very creepy."_

"Well, would you rather he  _not_  listen and just barge in?" replied Flora, reasonably. "Or not bother to deliver the message at all?"

Her brother-warden snorted, relenting.

"Fine, fine. Let's get some clothes on before they decide to relocate themselves in here."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: When Alistair uses "Flora" instead of "Flo", you know he's being serious, haha. We also see some indication of maternal feeling in this chapter – when Flora tells the creature inside her to hold on during the sparring match with Telathin Surana.
> 
> Also, Flo is a little shit – taking advantage of Alistair's grumpy silence to sing the full twenty-eight verses of the classic sea shanty Bones in the Sand (a traditional Herring wedding song!) in her hideous, grating and grossly tuneless singing voice. Leliana she mostly definitely is not. Hahhaa
> 
> Loghain's note is a subtle apology for Anora accusing Flora of having low morals due to her upbringing. LOOK AT THIS ENTRY FROM WORLD OF THEDAS - a new source of information for me - about the relationship between Loghain and his daughter. "This had two immediate results: First, that his trips were necessarily shorter in duration, and second, that the Hero of River Dane quickly became an expert in braiding the little girl's hair. He also learned how to covert the tales of his bloody battles into bedtime stories for children, how to interrupt talks with leaders of the Bannorn to tend to skinned knees, and how to sneak cookies into cabinet meetings. Anora flourished under the new regimen, and perhaps as a side effect, so did he." AWWWWWWW!


	290. An Unexpected Arrival

Once both Wardens were suitably attired and Flora's hair was half-dried, they made the short journey down the corridor to the Cousland quarters. The leaded windows framed a fading twilight; the faint ghosts of stars and a globular moon just visible through the violet-shaded clouds. Flora was distracted by the beauty of the sweeping green estuary, carving the city in half like a painter's viridian brush.

The Cousland retainers guarding the door greeted Alistair with a stiff bow, and Flora with a small smile.

"Evenin', Lady Florence. Your brothers are both in there."

Florence smiled at them and they reddened, nearly falling over one another in their haste to open the door.

The hearth was blazing inside the Cousland quarters, radiating a perfumed haze around the navy-and-green painted chamber. Leliana was perched in an armchair, playing a southern folk song on her lute and humming quietly to herself. Teagan leaned against the hearth, eyes closed as he listened to a melody half-remembered from his childhood.

Zevran and Finian were playing chess on the dining table; from the look of the counters, the game was nearly over and it was neck and neck. Finian's Orlesian-influenced nonchalance was slipping in the face of Zevran's brazen confidence; and Fergus was murmuring advice in his sweating brother's ear.

Leonas Bryland was sitting further down the table, conversing with Eamon in a low voice. The Arl of Redcliffe was nodding, a sheaf of parchment clutched in his hand.

"Ah, Alistair, Florence. Please, join us. Are you well, son?"

The arl stood up, smiling kindly at them both. Alistair went to join his uncle at the table; and soon they were immersed in conversation as incumbent regent imparted the day's news to future king.

" _Mi sirenita!"_ called Zevran, gesturing towards Flora. "Come, sit on my knee and whisper advice into my ear. There is ten gold at stake here!"

Fergus also stood, but his face was creased with anxiety. He went to his sister's side, scanning her up and down as though to confirm that she was whole and unharmed.

"I heard about the sparring with Surana," he muttered, sitting back down with a muted sigh of relief. "Thank the Maker you're alright."

"Thanks to gossip, so has the whole camp," chimed in Leliana, fingers still strumming at the lute. "Now they're saying that a sea-giant itself could sit on you, and you would remain un-squashed."

Alistair's head swivelled around, nostrils flaring.

"Something that we will  _not_ be trying," he hissed, before returning his attention to the arl.

The evening slowly slipped away, the sky beyond the leaded windows darkening from violet, to navy, to inky black. The watch changed in the corridor outside, supervised underneath the expert eye of Guillaume van Pylus. Zevran won both chess match and gold, much to Finian's disgust. Eamon murmured the day's news in a low voice, Alistair occasionally asking him to repeat or clarify a point. Flora sat nearby, only half-listening but knowing that her brother-warden would relay the events to her in bed. The act of repetition assisted Alistair in their processing; he often found that once he had simplified occurrences and told them in his own words to his sister-warden, they were easier to comprehend.

Zevran was trying to teach Flora chess, but the complex rules and protocol were too intricate for her practical northerner's mind to understand. Teagan sat beside her, purportedly offering advice but too preoccupied with laughing to be of genuine assistance.

"Why can't my Chantry priestess defeat your prawn?" Flora demanded, outraged as Zevran gently corrected her illegal move. "Priestesses are  _much_  more powerful than prawns."

"They're called  _pawns,_ pet," offered Teagan, helpfully. "And they're only allowed to move diagonally."

Zevran smiled sweetly at his opponent as she gnashed her teeth, gazing down in perplexity at the assorted figures on the board. Flora made another move and the elf shook his head, tutting.

"Your pawn is too weak to make that move,  _mi amor._ "

"My Chantry priestess has converted all my pawns into priestesses," retorted Flora, defiantly. "You have to respect their religious choices."

"Nice try,  _mi florita._ But, no."

"Then I can't do anything!"

"Do you claim defeat? You must pay the forfeit if so," Zevran declared, shooting her an evil little wink. "I have not yet decided what boon I wish to request."

Flora then watched in outrage as he took three pawns and a keep in rapid succession.

" _Nooo!_ My prawns!"

There came a low knock at the door. A Cousland retainer clad in the garb of a messenger made his entrance with a bow.

"My lords and ladies, the last update from the encampment for the evening," he announced, and Fergus gave a quick nod for him to proceed.

The man unrolled his scroll and, in a clear voice, began to enunciate the last developments of the day. He spoke of the progress of dwarven engineering (the weak section of wall below Biter Tower had almost been completely reinforced); the daily Templar report (the mages were behaving well and causing no trouble), and the latest from the provisions steward (they would need to requisition food from surrounding farms to supply the swelling numbers).

"Finally," the man finished, eventually coming to the end of the long scroll. "Teyrn Fergus, more troops have arrived from your teynir and set up camp beside the river. Men have been sent from- " here, he glanced down at the parchment to confirm the names – "Arthbrook, Skingle, Herring and Malkon, and more from Neath will be arriving tomorrow."

There was a clatter as the chessboard fell to the floor, knocked aside by Flora's elbow as she rose blindly to her feet. For a moment there was a long, portentous silence, only broken by the splitting of a log in the hearth.

Flora's pale gaze met Fergus', a wordless question in her eyes. He shook his head, appearing just as shocked as she did.

"I- I didn't know," he muttered, in a strangled voice. "Florence- "

Flora went up to the messenger, holding out her hand entreatingly. Once he had handed her the scroll, her eyes moved straight down the indecipherable mass of text to the one word that she  _did_ recognise. It had been the second word that she had ever learnt how to spell, falling only after her own name in importance.

_Herring._

It was inked in black, the smudged letters stark against creamy parchment. Flora felt her stomach roll over for reasons that had nothing to do with the unwelcome resident lodged within her belly.

"Is- is my  _dad_  here?" she whispered, knowing simultaneously that nobody in the chamber was capable of answering her question.

Alistair rose to his feet, an expression of almost comical shock contorting his handsome features. Flora had spoken so often of Herring in lavish and wistful tones that it had become elevated to a place of legend; a mythical little village with no roots in reality; a nostalgic memory with no connection to their daily lives.

Yet, suddenly Herring had materialised into corporeal being; a name inked on a page, and fishermen camped beside the estuary.

"Child,  _wait-"_

Teagan lifted a hand but Flora was already gone, the door left ajar in her wake. Leliana advanced to the empty doorway and peered up and down the corridor, eyebrows shooting upwards.

"For someone with a weak leg, she's a swift-footed creature when she wishes."

The pain in Flora's knee was so inconsequential as to be non-existent; as Leliana had observed, it served as no impediment to her fleetness. She charged down the passage like a rabid Mabari, not caring if it was the  _proper_ way to behave or otherwise.

Fortunately, the corridors were relatively quiet due to the late hour. Flora passed the familiar landmarks that indicated the way back to the entrance hall – minstrel's gallery, portrait of the unfortunate  _halla_ , stained-glass Calenhad – in record time.

The vaulted ceiling of the hall reared above her, shadowed in gloom; the space vast and cavernous. The multiple hearths had burnt down to embers, and the guards posted against the walls were so still that it was unclear whether there were actually men inside the suits of armour. One pair of guards proved their sentience by opening the smaller entrance embedded within the vast double doors; this more diminutive doorway was customarily used once dark fell.

Flora emerged panting in the gravelled courtyard, the night still and quiet around her. The stars blazed above the crenelated towers in a constellation that she might have recognised, had she been in a calmer state of mind.

_Is my dad here? He can't be here. He's too old._

_**How old is he?** _

_I don't know. He doesn't know. Neither of us can count that high._

The palace grounds looked far more sinister at night than they did during the day, the branches of the trees tangled in threatening collusion.

Flora turned around in a circle on the gravel, her heart throbbing painfully in her throat. Incongruously, she felt tears of frustration prickling in the corners of her eyes – the initial shock fading away to a jumble of nervous anxieties.

"A valiant attempt,  _mi limonita,_ " came a familiar Antivan drawl from somewhere behind her. "But you'll have to be quicker than that if you want to best me."

Flora turned around to see Zevran smirking up at her from a bench near the entrance. The elf was sprawled on top of the stone, utterly unruffled and without a single hair out of place.

"I believe this is called a  _mounting block,"_ he purred, arching one platinum eyebrow at her. "Shall we give it a try?"

Flora's entire face wobbled and the elf relented, lifting a hand to her.

"Ah, come here,  _nena."_

She slumped onto the block beside Zevran and he put both arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Why such anguish,  _mi corazon?_ " he murmured, hearing her sniff wetly against his tunic. "I thought you would be overjoyed to see your father."

"I would be," Flora replied immediately, her voice strangled. "It's not that,  _it's not that…"_

"What is it then,  _carina?"_ The elf stroked her head with deft fingers, feeling her surreptitiously wipe her nose on his leathers.

"It's … I'm not the same as I was when I got took away –  _taken_ away by Templars," Flora whispered, turning rain-filled eyes up to him tremulously. "I haven't seen him for – for…"

She trailed off, needing to count the years on her fingers.

"Five years! And look at what's  _happened_ to me."

Flora gestured to herself, trying to encompass all that had happened over the past eight months.

_Becoming a Warden, surviving Ostagar, gathering the armies. Defeating Loghain in the Landsmeet. Alistair._

_Meeting my brothers. Learning the truth about my family. I'm not really from Herring, I'm from Highever. I'm a Cousland._

"None of it your fault, and nothing to be ashamed of,  _mi sirenita,"_ murmured Zevran, understanding instinctually what she was referring to. "But, ultimately, all of that does not matter,  _hm?_  You are going to see your dad."

Flora nodded, sniffing, and the elf gallantly offered her his sleeve to wipe her nose on.

"Here, my Rialto lily, clean yourself up. From what you've told me of your  _papa_ , he is not the type to  _emote_ in public."

"He- he doesn't really  _emote_ at all," Flora hiccuped, attempting to press the tears back into her eyes with her fingertips. "When he sees me, he'll probably just… give me a net to mend."

Zevran smiled at her, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek. Flora sniffled, then returned a slightly damper smile.

"Thank you," she said, impulsively; at which the elf shook his head with a little snort.

"Of course,  _carina."_

By the time that the others had joined them on the gravelled forecourt, Flora was far calmer; her eyes brighter than usual but with no tears leaking forth from their corners. As usual, Eamon seemed to have the miraculous power of summoning attendants by his presence alone; stable-boys swarming to prepare the horses as retainers brought out lanterns and organised an escort.

Holding his sister-warden tightly, Alistair shot a quick, grateful glance at Zevran; knowing that the elf had both calmed Flora down and prevented her from charging off alone into the darkness. Zevran gave a little bow in return, smiling widely to prevent any other residual feeling from manifesting on his features.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OOOooohhh I really enjoyed writing this chapter! I've been looking forward to writing this collision of worlds ever since I first decided to make Flo a Cousland raised in secrecy and penury. Get ready to meet the occupants of Ferelden's dourest and least cheerful little fishing village, hahaha.


	291. The Men of Herring

The Wardens, assorted companions and nobles made the journey down through the palace grounds, then across the noble district. There was little conversation passed between the horses, each rider mired deep within their own thoughts. The streets were silent, save for the occasional drunken patron stumbling vaguely towards home from the tavern. The stars overhead glimmered in joyful, abundant array, so bright that the lanterns carried by the escorts seemed pale and needless in comparison.

Flora fidgeted on the saddle before Alistair, systemically at gnawing each of her bitten nails in turn. He could feel her quivering and restless against his chest; yet since his own heart was also racing a mile a minute, the prince could offer no soothing words of reassurance.

On the one hand, Alistair reasoned, he should be used to meeting Flora's relatives. After all, had he not met both of her brothers in rapid succession several months prior? On the other, both Fergus and Finian had seemed little more than strangers to Flora too, whereas  _this_  Herring native had raised her for ten years. Flora spoke about him in terms of near-reverence; her skilled, taciturn father who spoke in grunts and ventured out onto the stormiest seas without complaint. Even after she had learnt the truth about her Cousland heritage, Flora had clung fiercely to her Herring upbringing; in many ways, it had shaped her character far more than her bloodline had.  _I'm not afraid,_ she had said so often on the precipice of battle.  _I'm not afraid, because if my dad can face a winter storm on the Waking Sea; I can face this._

Rather incongruously, considering that he was on the verge of becoming the next king of Ferelden; Alistair found that his own fingers were shaking with nerves as he gripped the reins.

Fergus and Finian also looked somewhat apprehensive, being part of the family that had rejected their youngest member for possessing the curse of magic. Fergus, especially, appeared particularly nauseous. It had been  _his_ accusatory finger that had sealed his young sister's fate and her ensuing expulsion both from Highever and the Cousland dynasty. The teyrn kept clutching the reins and sitting up a little straighter in the saddle, shaking his head as if to brush off his own anxiety.

Eamon, Leonas and Teagan were all undeniably curious as to the nature of the man who had raised the youngest Cousland in secrecy for a decade. Eamon, although he made no mention of it to anyone else, was also preparing himself to launch into a tirade of persuasion; in case the peasant fisherman voiced any complaint about Flora's role in their defence against the encroaching horde. Although the man had no legal claim over Flora, it was obvious that she valued his opinion as highly as any Maker-divined portent; and Eamon was worried that the man might attempt to dissuade his adopted child from participating in the fight.

Zevran and Leliana were accompanying the others out of sheer curiosity, exchanging gleeful whispers about what the inhabitants of Herring might be like. They had only Flora's lavish and highly subjective praise to go on; tempered by Finian's whispered confession that he had passed the little village on his way to Val Royeaux, and it was the ugliest, most depressing settlement that he'd ever had the misfortune to set eyes upon. Indeed, it was the  _only_ little village that he remembered with any clarity on the long journey to the University of Orlais; purely because of its bleak, unadulterated joylessness.

"I wager that  _everyone_ has a beard," whispered Zevran delightedly, leaning across the gap between their horses as they broached the city walls. "Men  _and_  women. And, in their dreams at night, they fantasise about making love to  _fish."_

Leliana hid a surreptitious giggle behind her gloved hand, gripping the reins of her horse expertly.  _"Zevran!_  Ooh, I wonder what they will make of the city. They'll probably be too scared to look upon Denerim itself, being so vast and sprawling. They've probably never seen anything higher than a single storey building before!"

"Poor Alistair looks as though he's about to be sick," replied Zevran, with a dark Antivan cackle. "I suppose meeting one's lover's parents is always a stressful occasion."

"How would  _you_ know?" retorted Leliana. "You've never had to do it!"

"Well, neither have  _you."_

They rode down the gentle slope of sea-grass towards the army encampment, illuminated by a legion of orderly braziers. The plains were unrecognisable from what they had been a fortnight prior – from the lines of trebuchets and ballistae at the foot of the city walls, to the dwarven earthworks carved into the soft, yielding soil. Tents and wagons now covered both sides of the river-bank; a number of temporary bridges had been obstructed over the estuary to facilitate easier access between the camps.

At first, it was hard to make out the Cousland livery amongst the multiple shadowed colours hanging from tree branches and banners wedged into the mud. Even when the sharp-eyed Leliana had spotted the olive laurel on its navy backdrop, nearly two thousand men had answered their young teyrn's summons. Although the larger towns within the teyrnir – such as Highever – had their own flags; the multiple small villages had no such identifying markers. They clumped together in anonymous huddles around scattered campfires, the only difference between them being a slight shift in timbre of their northern accent.

The soft soil gradually turned into mud, and then gritty sand beneath the horses' hooves. The villagers turned around in surprise as they heard the procession approach, curious as to why  _nobles_  would be venturing out into the commoners' camp after dark. Many of them did not know Fergus by face, but clambered to their feet recognition of the teyrn's gold band around his forehead.

"Stay seated, please," Fergus said hastily, holding out a hand as a cooking pot went tumbling onto the sand. "Do you know where the men of Herring are camped?"

"Aye, milord," replied one man, who was busy sharpening the prongs of a vicious looking pitchfork. "They're just at t'foot of tha' next bridge, see the fire?"

He pointed some way down the riverbank, towards a small cluster of tents gathered about several campfires. They could just about make out about three dozen silhouettes; the diminutive village of Herring could only spare a handful of men to combat the Blight.

Flora groped blindly for her brother-warden's hand, palm sweaty and fingers trembling. She felt Alistair press a kiss to the back of her head, his own breath emerging somewhat unsteadily.

"Alistair, what if my dad's… not there?" she whispered, finally articulating thoughts that she had not allowed herself to dwell upon for the past half-decade. "What if… something's  _happened_  to him? Like, a disease… or a storm at sea? What if they tell me that's he's… that he's - "

" _Stop_ , sweetheart," Alistair murmured back firmly, having entertained similar thoughts himself in the past. "Don't think the worst. Nothing will have happened to him."

Flora twisted in the saddle, her pale eyes searching his face in the shadows. He smiled down at her, and she found some small measure of reassurance in the confident curl of her brother-warden's mouth.

"Promise?"

"I promise, darling."

Flora swallowed, clutching Alistair's fingers in a death grip as he gently steered the mare towards the distant beacon of the Herring campfire. She could feel the percussive beat of her heart thudding against her ribcage; even louder than when they had faced and fought the Broodmother in the Deep Roads. Glancing to the side she caught sight of a pallid Fergus, and wondered why her eldest brother looked ready to be sick on the sand.

_**They gave you up, remember?** _

_Oh._

"Don't announce us," Eamon was muttering to the retainers, nudging his horse's flanks to slow its pace. "I don't want to barrage them with formalities."

Even so, as the horses approached, there was a flicker of interest around the campfire, heads turning and muttered conversation dropping to low murmuring. The smell of roasted fish drifted across the sand, alongside thin wisps of smoke.

The shadows were long enough to disguise the features of those sitting around the fire, but their suspicion was obvious in turn of head and body language as they gazed at the approaching noble party.

"What can we do for yeh, sers?" came one bold query from the dark; the flat vowels and northern throatiness of the voice was so similar to Flora's own distinctive tone that Alistair felt his stomach clench.

Before he could move, Flora had clambered down from the horse, landing clumsily on the uneven sand.

"Odo?" she whispered, the name coming to her easily even after half a decade of disuse. "Do you… do you remember me?"

The conversation around the fire halted completely, curious heads turning one by one to face the noble party.

"Who's that?" The voice came more sharply now, as its owner rose to his feet. "Come into the light, lass."

Flora lifted a trembling hand and felt the golden energy rising from her fingertips, illuminating the solemn, distinctive features of her face.

The man took a step backwards, flinching as though struck, his eyes widening in the gloom.

" _Andraste's Grace,"_ he breathed, eyes wide.  _"Flora?_ Is that  _you?"_

"Which one?" came the query from one of the other seated villagers.

"Our old mender," replied Odo, his voice made hoarse by shock. "Pel's little girl. Noone else has a face like that."

Flora stepped forward into the light of the campfire, and there was a ripple of astonishment. As she turned her gaze over the achingly familiar, weather-beaten faces; she felt a swell of emotion rising in her throat.

_Luther: I healed your broken arm after you slipped from the Teeth. I cured Gawain's daughter of the Frost-cough. I've mended all of your nets at some point._

"Talk about a rose amongst thorns," Zevran murmured to Leliana, who hid a snort with her fingers. "How was she not found out sooner?"

"I thought yeh was in one of them  _mage prisons_ ," Odo continued, shaking his head. "Did yeh escape? We can hide yeh, can't we boys? There's Templars up the hill, but they don't come down 'ere."

There were grunts of assent from the other men at the fire, all of whom were still gaping at Flora as though she were some strange catch they had fished up in a net.

She took a deep breath, tears prickling at their unquestioning loyalty to one of their own.

"I didn't escape, not exactly," she whispered, swallowing. "It's a long story. Is my… is my dad here?"

Odo gave a nod, gesturing to one of the campfires close to the water's edge.

As Flora set off on unsteady legs, the nobles left their horses in the charge of retainers, and followed in quiet procession. The humble fishermen of Herring watched in wide-eyed silence as finely dressed men, grinning elf and Chantry sister trod the sand in Flora's wake. Fergus and Finian drew the most stares – the older fishermen recognised the Cousland colours and gold teyrn's band, but their eyes lingered longest on Finian's like-featured face.

"It's the  _Couslands._ From Hiver! It must be the  _teyrn_."

"What's him and the other doin' here?

"Did you see the tall one's  _face?_ And she’s the spit of Pel's lass."

"That's five copper you owe me, I  _told_ you she had noble blood in them veins!"

Flora approached the campfire nearest the river, her breath coming shallow and unsteady. A half-dozen figures were seated close to its warmth, half-submerged in shadow. Several fish were roasting in a flat iron pan over the flames; the smell was enticing, but for the first time in her life, Flora wasn't even  _close_ to hungry. Her heart felt as though it had lodged itself somewhere in her gullet, her palms were sweaty and she barely trusted her legs to see her soundly over the damp sand.

"What fish is that?" she whispered, as the figures turned around to see who was approaching.

One stood up, revealing a powerfully built figure that reached over six foot tall. Despite the ash-grey beard and lattice of wrinkles crossing the crude, wind-beaten features, there was strength enough in the muscular arms to haul a boat up onto the sands, or heave in a full net-load of fish.

"It's river salmon, lass," Pel replied, through a throat coarsened by years of inhaling the salt-tinged air. "And yeh've been away from the sea too long, or yeh'd recognise it yourself."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: It's Flora's dad! In the flesh! Pel is a bit of an odd name, but I committed to it about a million chapters ago, so I have to stick with it now, haha.
> 
> It would have been so easy to romanticise the village of Herring, but I really didn't want to do that – I didn't want to depict it as a sweet little fishing commune, with simple but happy peasants living in picturesque poverty. I wanted it to be harsh and gritty, wind-swept but not in an aesthetically pleasing way. Hence, the people there are hard-faced and taciturn too. 'Hiver' is what they call Highever, incidentally.


	292. Meeting Flora's Father

Flora took two steps towards the man who had raised her for a decade, whom she had not seen for the past five years. Without warning, she sank onto her knees before him, feeling the dampness of the sand seep through her thin breeches.

"Papa," she wailed, knowing that crying was taboo within the village of Herring but unable to stop the tears from dripping down her nose. _"Papaaa."_

Flora's dad clucked his tongue in disapproval, and stepped forward to attend to his weeping child. He was clad in a larger version of the shapeless jumpers that Flora had always favoured; the dyed navy wool long-since faded and encrusted with salty residue.

"Why're yeh bawlin' at my feet, girl? Come on, get up."

"Papa," Flora mumbled into the sand, eye level with the man's much-patched boots. "I… I  _know_."

The fisherman gazed over his crouching daughter, to where the young teyrn was waiting. There was no need for any further explanation – the likeness between the three Cousland siblings spoke plain enough.

A weighted silence followed, during which nobody spoke and the air hummed like a plucked lute. Flora raised her tear stained eyes to see her dad scratch his head, a resigned expression scrawled across his weather-beaten features.

"Well," he muttered, at last. "'Spose I knew you'd find out someday. I hope yeh not too angry with me, lass."

Flora clambered awkwardly to her feet and threw her arms around his waist, burying her face in the familiar salt-tinged woollen jumper. Pel put a single arm around her for a brief moment, with a slight gleam to his eye. Soon after, he let out a gruff exhalation and extracted himself with difficulty from his daughter's tentacle-like arms.

"Stop yeh  _wailin_ '," he instructed, shooting her a stern, beady-eyed look. "Yeh seem in healthy enough condition – though you ain't grown none - and yeh ain't locked up in a mage prison. There's no reason to be caterwauling like the western wind. Why  _ain't_  yeh in the mage prison, anyway?"

This was the longest speech that Flora had ever heard from her Herring-father, and she gaped at him for a moment before continuing.

"I- I left the Circle eight months ago," she whispered tremulously, uncertain how much he understood about Ferelden's assorted troubles. Herring was isolated enough on its rocky northern peninsula that it seemed the whole world for the people who dwelt within its narrow borders. "Papa, you know that there's… an enemy coming? The ones you all came here to fight?"

Her father gave a grunt that showed  _exactly_  what he thought of an enemy that took him away from Herring during the prime spring catch.

"Well," Flora continued, in a small voice. "I'm… going to fight them too. I actually have a, um, _special_  job to do in the battle."

Pel let out a snort of derision, bristled eyebrows rising.

"Did they teach yeh how to cast fire and lightnin' at that Tower, then?" he asked wryly, but with no rancour in his tone. "From what I remember, you weren't much good at that."

"No," replied Flora, wondering at how easily they fell back into the familiar rhythm of interaction. "I've got help though. Papa, this is my… best friend, Alistair."

Alistair ventured forward, nervous as a shy Mabari pup but making a valiant effort to disguise it. He bowed towards the nonplussed fisherman, so deeply that he almost went headfirst into the sand.

"It's an- an  _honour_  to meet you, Alistair. I mean, Flora. I mean …  _Flora's father."_

He trailed off miserably, so desperate to make a good impression and yet aware that he was making a fool of himself.

Flora gaped at her brother-warden for a long moment, before turning back to her un-amused father.

"Alistair is the best fighter in Ferelden, papa," she said solemnly, her voice firm. "I would be dead a hundred times if not for him."

The initial suspicion on Pel's face lessened somewhat at this, and he let out a grunt of acknowledgement.

" _Alistair,_  eh? Are yeh a mage too, lad?"

"No," replied Alistair, uncomfortably. "I'm a… Warden, like Flo."

Pel's eyebrows shot upwards, his forehead furrowing into a myriad of tiny crevasses.

"I think we ought sit down an' catch up," he muttered, lowering himself back onto his makeshift seat of driftwood. "Lass, yeh new friends can keep lurkin' in the shadows if they choose, or they can join us at the fire."

Flora's father made no further comment as the most powerful men in Ferelden took their seats on logs around the fire; the corners of his mouth twitching slightly as he took a closer look at Fergus and Finian. Despite the slight differences in their appearance, the family resemblance between them was plain; the grave, wide-set eyes, finely hewn bone structure and the dark, oxblood hair that appeared almost mahogany in the shadows.

Without needing to be asked, Flora reached out with tongs to turn the fish over in the cooking pan, so that both sides of the salmon received equal heat. Pel gave a small grunt of approval and she beamed as though receiving the highest honours in the land.

"So, a  _Warden?_ Remind me what they are again," the man murmured after a moment, fingers idly moving over a rusting fishhook.

Flora looked over at Alistair, who took a deep breath and attempted to compensate for his earlier incoherence.

"They're an order of- of  _soldiers_ who fight the Darkspawn. Do you… do you know what they are?"

"What we been brought 'ere to fight," Pel said, with a mild shrug. "Go on, lad."

Alistair nodded, continuing earnestly.

"Flora was recruited from the Circle by our late Commander. And now he's dead, along with most of Ferelden's Wardens; but we've managed to build an army to fight the Darkspawn, just as Duncan would have expected us to do."

Alistair glanced down at his sister-warden, who was sitting at her dad's feet like a loyal Mabari pup. Flora smiled up at him, and he gazed back, wishing suddenly that he could embrace her without fear of censure.

"Sounds dangerous," Pel said after a long moment, lined eyes scanning their faces to take in the measure of the seated men.

"I want to inform you," Eamon interjected quietly, his voice low and steady. "Flora has a part of critical importance to play in the upcoming battle. She has done an exceptional job so far in assembling the army and winning the support of the Landsmeet, but her work is not yet done. I would like to know that we have your support."

There was an even longer pause. The fire sent forth a scarlet plume of sparks towards the heavens, issuing a hiss that caused Finian to jump. Eventually, Pel canted his head down towards his daughter. She was sitting quietly at his feet, having not uttered a single word since they had all convened around the fire.

"There were six families turned the lass down when the elf first brought her round."

Flora flinched slightly at this new revelation into her past, while a flicker of guilt passed visibly across Fergus' face.

"They wanted a strong lad to help wi' boats and haulin' nets, not a little ill-fated lass," continued Pel, glancing down at Flora's dark red head as she sat in the sand at his feet. "My wife and I lost our son to the sea many years ago, an' the Maker never granted us with another. We took the bairn in, despite the  _hair."_

The fisherman was clearly unused to speaking in such volume; the words came out hesitant, and in fits and starts. Yet nobody interrupted him save for the fire, crackling eagerly as it consumed another fragment of driftwood.

"Did you know that she was a mage?" asked Finian hesitantly, and the fisherman gave a grunt of assent.

"Oh, aye. The elf that brought her told us."

"Weren't you… afraid?"

Flora hunched her shoulders slightly, drawing a circle in the damp sand with her finger. Pel glanced down at his daughter, then let out a soft snort.

"Our work is dangerous enough, lad," he muttered, one broad shoulder rising in a shrug. "The Wakin' Sea claims her toll of a dozen men each year. Though we reclaimed some o' the poor drowned sods, thanks to this one."

He nudged his daughter with a gentle boot, and then cleared his throat.

"Anyway, the  _purpose_ of what I was sayin'. Despite her being a lass, she were as good as any son to me. There was nothin' I asked of her, that she couldn't do. So… if you need her to fight in this battle, she will fight. Ain't quite sure  _how_ , though _,_ seeing as she doesn't do the fire… aye, but that would've been a useful talent, eh, lass? Fire-lightin'?"

Flora nodded, before shooting a tentative look up at her dad.

"Does Ma… miss me at all?" she asked, a thin vein of hope running through the words. Pel paused for a moment before replying, his eyes darting sideways into the fire.

"I think she  _does,_  lass, in her own way. Gerda never got over the loss of our son," he clarified for the benefit of the others, with a shrug.

Alistair had never wanted anything so badly in his life as to slither across the three feet of damp sand that separated him from his sister-warden. He could see her hunched-shouldered and pensive; frowning into the flames as though trying to discern something within their inconstant light. However, he could also feel Pel's suspicious eyes resting on him, the man's gaze burning like a brand.

_My dad gave me two pieces of advice when I got taken_ , he recalled Flora telling him, many months prior.  _Eat well. Stay away from boys._

"I would like to compensate you," said Fergus, suddenly; his voice oddly constricted. "I'm Florence's eldest brother, and … the new teyrn of Highever. You had a decade of expenses looking after our sister."

He fumbled in his velvet tunic, bringing out a coin purse that weighed heavily in his palm.

"There's two hundred gold in there," Fergus said abruptly, gesturing for a retainer to come forward. "I have a hundred more, here- "

Pel waved the offered coin away, with a little grunt of dismissal.

"Don't need no coin," he muttered, the evening's earlier eloquence clearly spent. "The lass was a good girl and did as she were told. Weren't no trouble to raise her."

When it came for them to take their horses and return to the Royal Palace, Flora begged Eamon to be allowed to stay in the Herring camp –  _"just for one night."_

Eamon, with some consternation, reminded her that she did not need to ask him  _permission_  for anything – but, if Alistair was also going to stay, an escort would need to remain behind.

Alistair, who had not even _considered_  the possibility of leaving, immediately shuffled over to Flora's side. His sister-warden looked worn out from the evening's gauntlet of emotions, and he reached for her fingers without thinking. The next moment, Alistair felt the blistering heat of Pel's glare and dropped Flora's hand as though it were a hot coal.

As Leliana and Zevran followed in the Couslands' wake, the two conferred gleefully back and forth about the awkwardness that was sure to ensue.

"Poor Alistair," the elf cackled, his teeth very white in the darkness. "Did you see the  _glowers_ he was getting?  _Mi florita's_   _papa_ obviously believes her brother-warden to be a philanderer intent on  _beguiling_  his daughter from the path of  _virtuous chastity._ I wonder how he'll react when he learns that she's Ferelden's most prominent mistress?"

"The man should be delighted," Leliana countered indignantly, adeptly steering her horse around a wagon containing several snoring soldiers. "His adopted daughter is the acknowledged lover of the future  _king."_

"I don't think our fisherman cares about that," Zevran replied with an Antivan shrug, clicking to calm his own horse as it shied at a shadow. "He clearly doesn't care for gold, at any rate. I don't envy Alistair in the slightest."

Then, when Leliana shot him a sceptical look, the elf gave a relenting chuckle.

"Ah,  _fine._  I too would put up with a disapproving  _papa's_  glares if it meant waking up with that sweet little peach within arm's reach, even if he made me sleep on the other side of the tent."

"Other side of the  _tent?"_  replied Leliana, letting out a little snort of disbelief. "I have the distinct feeling that the old man is going to make Alistair sleep on the  _other side of the estuary."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Aaah this was a cute chapter to write! I've always been interested in character backgrounds, and although the game was fab in giving you a choice of different origins; I wanted even more personal history, haha. I'm not sure if there's any lore about the parents of the other origins? I haven't researched it enough!
> 
> Flora's intermittent eloquence is definitely a genetic Cousland trait, rather than something she learnt in Herring, haha. When she's with her father, she gets very taciturn. Incidentally, Alistair is not the best fighter in Ferelden, lol. Anyway, Eamon needn't have worried about Flora's adoptive father raising any concerns about her taking part in the battle - she's a Herring girl, after all. Herring girls have saltwater in their veins and grit in their hearts. Red hair is seen as bad luck by fishermen, funnily enough!


	293. I'm In Love With Your Daughter!

The men of Herring, as it turned out, were not ones for evening revelry. While other encampments were still abuzz with laughter and the soft clinking of bottles; they were occupied in the assembly of a series of large tents, crafted from dried leather and treated with seal fat to keep out the damp. There were no bedrolls to speak of, and only a handful of threadbare blankets.

The tent interiors were dimly lit by the remains of the campfires, smouldering embers casting a dull red hue over the grim-faced men lying huddled within. Alistair, having now spent a handful of hours in the company of Herring's finest, could well understand where Flora's solemnity came from.

Still, he was pleased – if somewhat perplexed - at the obvious delight on his sister-warden's face at being back in the company of her sullen, dour-faced brethren. Even now, when everyone else had settled down for the night, Flora was still beaming to herself as she reached down to adjust the strapping on her knee

Pel had not gone so far as to banish Alistair to a separate tent, trusting in the presence of a half-dozen other snoring fishermen to serve as sufficient chaperone. He had not yet questioned either Flora or Alistair about the Royal Guard standing incongruously outside the tent entrance.

Alistair thought that he had never slept on such an uncomfortable surface in his life, as the damp, ridged sand of the estuary riverbank. The grease-treated canvas gave off a pungent odour, and the six men around them were each snoring at a different reverberating pitch. It was also freezing cold, which he found particularly unfair; since it was now over halfway through Bloomingtide.

He turned his head and gazed at Flora. She was curled several yards away on her side to glean the maximum warmth from the remnants of the campfire. The dim glow of the embers illuminated the fine-hewn angles of her face and gilded the large, pale eyes until they appeared almost a softer version of Morrigan's.

"Sweetheart," Alistair whispered and Flora smiled at him, pillowing her cheek on her forearm. "I'm happy to see you so glad."

She stretched out her free hand and he reached his longer limb across the sand, until they were just able to brush their fingertips together.

"Being with _you_  makes me glad," Flora whispered back, her eyes wide and earnest. "I'm happy you got to meet my dad. He likes you."

"How do you know?" Alistair demanded under his breath, eyebrows rising. "He looked at me as though I were some sort of  _desire demon_ sent to entrap his daughter."

Flora stifled a giggle with the heavy braid of her own hair, shaking her head.

"No, he  _does_  like you, I can tell. He's not sure what to make of Fergus – and he's suspicious of Finian, though that's mostly because of the  _outfit._  But, why wouldn't he like you? You're kind, and brave, and handsome… "

Flora realised that she was rambling and hastily quietened herself.

Alistair squirmed across the sand, inching his way around the ashes of the campfire until he was within arm's reach of his sister-warden. Stretching out his hand, he began to gently stroke his thumb over the delicate planes and angles of her face; tracing the high cheekbone and elevated brow that Leliana had always sworn was not borne from peasant stock.

"My beautiful girl," he murmured, brushing his thumb very gently along the line of her lower lashes. "I  _adore_  you, Lo, do you know that?"

Flora, to her mild alarm, felt tears welling in the corners of her eyes at her brother-warden's affectionate touch.

_Stop unbalancing me,_ she thought furiously to the creature nestled within her belly, making a vain attempt to blink the tears back.  _I never used to cry._

Alistair felt the ensuing dampness on the end of his thumb and inhaled, reaching out to clasp her fingers tightly.

"Stop, or I'll be obligated to come over there and hug you," he murmured, rubbing each of her knuckles in turn with the calloused ball of his thumb. "And then your father will impale me on his fishing rod like a spit-roasted pig."

Flora let out a honk of laughter, which she quickly muffled with her face against the sand.

"Stop, stop," she wheezed as her brother-warden let out a soft  _oink_  through the darkness.

"Spit-roasted  _prince_ ," Alistair hissed defiantly and she buried her face in her arms, shoulders quivering.

The next morning, Alistair woke up in disarray and utter confusion. The tent had been dismantled around him to make way for a cooking area; and he had been lying alone in the sand while four Royal Guards stood impassively over him – two stationed at each end of his horizontal body. The men of Herring were eating breakfast in their huddles, exchanging the occasional grunt and eyeing the prostrate young man with mild wariness.

Alistair clambered upright, squinting against the morning sun, just as Flora made her way towards him carefully clutching a plate in both hands.

"Morning," she chirped, standing on her toes to kiss his stubbled cheek. "My dad caught you some breakfast, and I cooked it."

"How long was I lying on the sand?" Alistair hissed down at her, dusting a shower of sand from his hair. "I must have looked like a drunk passed out in an alleyway!"

Flora smiled vaguely at him, casting her eye across the sparkling verdant estuary. It was a fine Bloomingtide morning, with thin wisps of clouds scudding across an otherwise unbroken expanse of blue sky. Barefoot, she wandered down the beach to sit on a boulder beside the water's edge.

Alistair followed in her wake, hearing one of the Royal Guards mutter a muffled curse as he lost his footing on the damp sand. This momentary loss of composure made Alistair feel slightly more well-disposed towards the impassive figures that were now a constant, muted presence in his life.

"Where's your dad?" he asked, sitting down on the damp sand at the foot of Flora's boulder, and stifling a yawn. Flora pointed out to the estuary, where two figures were just about visible in a small boat. They had lines cast out into the still green water, and Alistair could see a net draped over the hull.

"I thought you'd want to go out there too," he murmured, reaching out to pat Flora's knee as her foot dangled beside his thigh. "Thanks, love."

This was in response to Flora handing him a tin plate bearing a fresh-cooked salmon, along with a slightly bent fork.

"Oh, I've been out already. This is from the first catch of the day."

"You've been up for a while, my dear. Well, you know what they say: the early bird catches the worm!"

Flora eyed him, confused and slightly pitying. "No, the worm is used to catch the  _fish."_

Smiling, Alistair leaned back against the boulder and forked a chunk of salmon into his mouth, absentmindedly running his fingers up and down Flora's bare calf. For several quiet minutes, sitting on the riverbank in the sunlight, it almost seemed as though there was no Blight at all; and they were simply two young people snatching a moment of almost-privacy away from prying eyes. Alistair demolished the fish in record time, startled at how good it tasted fresh compared to the dried and salted strips they'd eaten while travelling.

"Thank you, darling," he said finally, placing the tin plate down on the damp sand and pulling one of Flora's legs over his shoulder. "That was the best breakfast I've had in a long time."

He pressed a kiss to the leather strapping wrapped around her knee, his attention caught by the second figure in the small boat.

"Who's with your dad?"

Flora, who had been tracing the alphabet in the damp sand with a twig, glanced up.

"Oh, that's the shipbuilder's son, Fredrick."

Alistair nodded, and then frowned as a half-forgotten memory emerged at the forefront of his mind.

"Wait, didn't you once say that your dad wanted to  _marry you off_  to the shipbuilder's son?"

"Mm," Flora replied vaguely, wondering what letter came after  _O._ She had written  _S,_ but it didn't look quite correct. "During my rebellious phase."

" _Rebellious phase!?"_

Flora laughed at the expression on her brother-warden's face as he swivelled around to gawp up at her.

"It was when I was about thirteen or fourteen. I kept saying I wanted to be a maid at the big house in Highever, and my dad said that he'd marry me off before he let that happen. Trap me in Herring with – with  _babies."_

Her voice faltered slightly on the last word, and she felt her mind give a little flicker of warning.

_**Careful.** _

"I just think he really wanted a new boat," Flora said, hastily. "Our one had so many leaks, we kept having to bail it out every time we used it."

Alistair was now scowling out at the figure in the boat, which was gradually increasing in size as it approached the shore.

Once the boat was in the shallows, Flora's father and a stocky youth with a freckled, friendly face clambered out to drag it ashore. Flora rolled her breeches up over her knees and waded out to join them, helping to pull up a net half-full of wriggling fish. Alistair stood, rather uselessly, on the shore; unsure what part he could play in this practised rhythm.

Several moments later, the catch had been divided out and sorted, half of it taken to the mess area and half left out on the rocks to dry. Flora and her father had conducted an entire conversation in grunts and hand gestures, and she was now kneeling beside the water to rinse both her hands and the dirty tin plate.

"How was the fish?"

Alistair startled, realising that Pel was talking to him. The fisherman looked older in the unforgiving sunlight, his skin worn and weathered from years of exposure to the elements; a shrewd blue gaze embedded within a trellis of wrinkles.

"I'm in love with your daughter," Alistair blurted abruptly in response, as a startled Flora dropped the plate into the water.

Pel grunted, wiping his oily fingers on the hem of his jumper as he peered up at the taller man.

"The fish she cooked was that good, eh?" he replied mildly, and Alistair mouthed for a moment.

"No- I mean, yes it  _was,_  but – I just wanted to tell you. I  _love_ her, more than anything else in the world."

Flora retrieved the plate from the river shallows, wide-eyed and silent.

Pel was also quiet, his gaze boring into Alistair's anxious hazel stare.

"Then why're you lettin' her fight this monster?" he asked bluntly, winding the empty net expertly over his arm. "The lass told me somethin' about a…  _demon._ My lass ain't some great warrior."

Alistair swallowed, glancing sideways to where Flora was still kneeling quietly beside the water. With her hair tied in an straggling braid, clad in a simple tunic and breeches, she appeared deceptively vulnerable.

"But, she  _is,_ " he murmured, both to himself and to the sceptical man before him. "She's so much stronger than anyone thinks. I know what she can do – and… and she's  _so_ capable, ser. Honestly, there's no-one I'd rather have at my side in battle than your daughter."

"I know she's powerful," Pel replied, then relented slightly. "But, what about when she ain't useful no more? They'll put her back in one of them  _mage prisons."_

For a moment, all three of them recalled the same memory.

_Papa, papa - don't let them take me. Please! I want to stay here. I don't want to go._

"I won't let that happen," Flora's brother-warden said, quietly. "I swear to you, she won't be locked up again."

Pel let out a single snort, reaching up to tug at his salt-and-pepper beard.

"An' how can you guarantee that, lad?"

"Because… I'm going to be king," replied Alistair, his hazel gaze now steadily meeting the fisherman's shrewd blue stare. "And I'll make sure that nobody comes after her again."

There was a long silence and for the first time Pel looked genuinely shocked, staring at Alistair as though he had grown a second head. Flora crept up anxiously beside her dad, tugging her sleeves over her hands.

" _King?"_ repeated the man faintly, suddenly seeming far older than his five decades "You're Maric's boy? I thought his name were Kieran, Calon…"

"Cailan," corrected Alistair, softly. "And he's dead. Soon as we end the Blight and defeat the Archdemon, I'll take the throne. And I'll never be able to  _marry_  Flo, but I can still keep her at my side and… and keep her  _safe_. Nobody will imprison her again, I swear to the Maker."

Flora reached out wordlessly for her brother-warden's hand and Alistair took it, clasping her fingers tightly in his own.

Pel let out a sudden, rough bark of laughter, realisation dawning as he glanced towards the Royal Guard.

"Holy Maker," he exclaimed, passing a hand over his eyes. "I thought them guards were keepin' an eye on  _you,_ lass."

Flora squeezed Alistair's hand and he returned the pressure hard; something bright and determined blazing on his face.

"And… if you want a new boat, I'm sure I can sort that out for you once the Blight is over," he pressed on, unable to stop himself from narrowing his eyes at the thoroughly confused ship-builder's son.

"Eh, just be good to my girl," Flora's father grunted, slightly pink in the cheeks. "And don't raise yeh hand to her without due cause. I know she can be gobby sometimes."

Alistair began to shake his head earnestly, then his jaw dropped open in shock.

"' _Raise my hand to her'?!"_ he squawked, voice rising several pitches higher than usual. "Sweet Maker!"

Alistair continued to voice his disbelief at the fisherman's parting advice, as they made their way back up to the Royal Palace on horseback. He had a far more active imagination than Flora, and was tormenting himself by envisioning raising his hand to his sister-warden in violence.

"Stop thinking about it," Flora instructed him sternly as they proceeded through the Square of the Bride. "Everyone is looking worried because they think you've had some bad news."

She was not wrong: the inhabitants of Denerim were gazing up at their anguished-looking prince in alarm, wondering what ill tidings he had received. Alistair forced himself to smile through gritted teeth, while still hissing his disbelief into Flora's ear.

"Is that what men do in Herring?  _Beat_ their women?!"

"Well, everyone tends to beat each other," she replied, honestly. "I healed a lot of black eyes on husbands as well as wives."

Alistair let out a slightly strangulated snort, steering the horse's head gently in the direction of the noble district.

" _Maker's Breath."_

"Don't worry," Flora hastened to reassure her brother-warden, twisting her head up to gaze earnestly at his stubbled chin. "I don't agree with it at all: it goes against my morals as a healer."

Alistair clamped his best friend more tightly around the waist, silently thanking the Maker, Andraste and anybody else who was listening, that Flora had found herself removed from Herring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author's Note: So Flora's father doesn't get that Flora has been officially released from the Circle because he knows nothing about the Wardens at all, really. He's just concerned that after the nobles have used Flora's talent, they'll have no more use for her and will shunt her back off into 'prison'.
> 
> We also have more de-romanticising of Herring here with the normalisation of physical violence – the casual comment from Flora's father to Alistair about not raising his hand to her without cause is very telling. Of course, this would have been standard in a rural, Medieval-era type society – but the kind-hearted Alistair is absolutely horrified by the prospect.
> 
> For some reason, the image of Alistair lying snoring on the beach while the grim-face men of Herring go about their morning around him, is really funny to me lol


	294. An Archdemon In The Bedroom

The next few days fell into a similar routine. Both Wardens would spent the majority of the daylight hours down at the army encampment, touring the expanding earthworks, meeting with the commanders and greeting new arrivals.

Through sheer volume of exposure, Alistair was slowly growing used to the deference shown to him as the acknowledged heir to the throne. Likewise, the nobles also began to grow accustomed to his presence. The majority of Ferelden's peerage had two decades of experience under Maric's rule, and were gratified that the younger son seemed cut from the same cloth as the father.

Often, one or more of their companions would join them on their patrols around the encampment. Oghren had beguiled his way into the dwarven engineers' favour, through boasting of daring Deep Roads exploits in the company of the Wardens. Sten was quick to point out any flaws he saw in the construction of the earthworks; whereas Wynne was most commonly found in the mages' camp, assisting with the instruction of the less experienced enchanters. Morrigan, however, had not been seen by anyone in several days. When Flora voiced her concern as to the self-professed witch's whereabouts, Alistair suggested disparagingly that she had flown off back to the Wilds.

Their days in the encampment were always finished with a visit to the dour little camp on the riverbank. Alistair made valiant and futile attempts to engage in conversation with the Herring natives, while Flora sat silently with her father and mended nets.

In the evening, the servants would bring the round table into the king's chamber and Eamon would update them on the day's events. Leonas Bryland, who now seemed to have permanent dark shadows beneath his eyes, spoke on the status of the gathering Royal Army; and the failure of scouts to send back any information at all. The fact that the scouts apparently kept disappearing – over a dozen had now vanished – was indication in itself that the horde was on the move. Fergus, as Ferelden's only remaining teyrn, was providing several thousand troops to the cause, and was planning another journey to Highever to better coordinate the recruitment.

At last, once the moon was high in the sky and the veil of night had fallen decisively over the coastal city, the others would withdraw from the chamber and leave the Wardens alone. Once they were in bed, Alistair would spill his thoughts to his sister-warden in a rambling stream of consciousness, repeating the main developments of the day and voicing any issues out loud. This not only helped Flora, who was still a novice at Fereldan politics, to gain some understanding; but the act of condensation and simplification also assisted Alistair in achieving some clarity.

Early one such morning, the prince was sprawled back on the cushions and complaining about a minor dispute between mages and dwarves that had swelled entirely out of proportion.

"I mean, who's to know whether the trebuchet launching caused the potion shelf to collapse?" Alistair moaned, absentmindedly stroking his best friend's head as she rested drowsily against his chest. "Who  _cares?_  There's no use crying over spilt potion. The dwarves have promised to alter their training trajectories; what else do the mages want?  _Blood?_ Well, I hope not! They've threatened to turn the dwarves into toads, which I hope is just mage  _humour."_

Flora snorted, feeling the steady thump of Alistair's heartbeat through the solid flesh and muscle.

"I'll speak to them if you like," she said, amiably. "The dwarves like me, and hopefully the mages wouldn't turn one of their own kind into a toad."

"They'd better not," Alistair murmured, ducking his head down towards hers. "I would miss this sweet little face. And this mouth –  _mm._ "

He kissed her briefly, and then with more enthusiasm; rolling over to prop himself up on top of her. Flora reached up to weave her fingers into his hair, pulling his face down to hers once again. Alistair let out a soft grunt of desire against her lips, pressing her down insistently into the mattress.

His fingers were cold on her breasts and she yelped, squirming beneath him as he touched his mouth to the hollow of her throat.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I mean, were any of the potions  _irreplaceable?"_ Alistair breathed, sliding one hand beneath her thighs.

"No-oo," replied Flora, the word catching in her throat as he began to stroke her with an insistent, calloused thumb. "I- I think it was just refined lyrium?"

He grinned down at her as she wriggled against the cushions, a flush rising to her cheeks. "Mm, you like that, baby? Well, if it's just lyrium, they can get more of that. The Templars have masses of the stuff."

Flora let out a little strangled gasp and he ducked his head to press another kiss to her mouth, reaching down to unfasten his sleep-trousers.

"We do have  _bigger_ things to worry about than lyrium potions," Alistair continued, adjusting his position above her. "Such as the  _encroaching tide of darkness_ currently somewhere in Ferelden? And the whereabouts of the Darkspawn? Ah,  _Maker's Breath_  – you feel so good, Lo."

At last, thoughts of the horde were pushed from the prince's mind as he began to move inside her; breathing hard and urgent against her ear. Flora reached up to clutch his shoulders like a drowning man clinging to a shipwreck.

"Where do you think the Archdemon  _is?_  Have you seen it at night recently?" Alistair asked suddenly, pausing mid-thrust. "I mean, could it be up to something?  _Plotting?_  Maybe it knows we're fortifying our defences on the walls and is going to attack by  _sea_  instead?"

"I don't know," replied Flora, feeling her arousal draining away as thoughts of the Archdemon's fanged maw filled her mind. "I haven't seen it for a week."

Alistair began to move at increased pace inside her, gritting his teeth slightly as he felt his own peak building. "Ah-  _Maker –_  can Darkspawn  _swim?"_

The last word of the question came out as a strangulated grunt as he spent himself inside her. After panting incoherently in an attempt to regain his breath, Alistair gazed down at his sister-warden in mild confusion.

"Wait, you didn't…?"

Flora shook her head, biting absentmindedly at her nail.

Alistair's brow furrowed and he rolled himself off her with a slight groan.

"You didn't last night either," he said, recalling their hasty coupling the previous evening.  _"Or_  yesterday morning!"

His face fell, almost comically as his solemn sister-warden continued to shake her head.

Lying together had always been a way for both Wardens to – albeit temporarily – banish the grim reality of the situation from their minds; a brief respite from the relentless pressure of being Ferelden's last living hope.

However, Alistair, who was able to easily detach his mind from his pleasure, had got into the habit of voicing his thoughts in the middle of the act; whether they be on Loghain, the Blight, or his own upcoming responsibilities as king. This never seemed to impede his own climax, but Flora found her arousal evaporating the moment that Loghain's scowl manifested inside her brain,  _doubly_  quickly if it was the Archdemon's scaled snout. However, she was far too kind-hearted to blame Alistair, knowing the intensity of the pressure focused upon him.

Flora reached up to stroke her brother-warden's stubbled cheek as he gaped down at her, visibly alarmed.

"It doesn't matter," she reassured him hastily, leaning up on her elbows to press her lips against his mouth. "Honestly, I always have such a nice time with you, it doesn't matter whether I…" she made a euphemistic hand gesture, "or… not."

" _Nice?!"_ replied Alistair, his jaw dropping in abject dismay. "A  _nice time?"_

Flora got the distinct sense that she had chosen the wrong adjective, and gave a little apologetic grimace.

Determination set in across Alistair's face, and he reached down to check his own arousal.

"Right, I can go again. This time, I'm going to make  _sure_  you- "

There came a knock at the door, followed by the Royal Steward's discreet cough.

Alistair let out a groan of disbelief, rolling off his sister-warden as Guillaume entered the king's bedchamber.

"My apologies, Your Highness, my lady," the Nevarran man murmured, averting his eyes decorously as Flora adjusted the buttons on her night shirt. "Mac Tir has requested an audience. He claims that it's urgent."

This was exactly the wrong thing to say to Alistair, who was already in a bad mood. The prince shot upright, teeth grinding together in barely muted rage.

" _He requests an audience?_ " Alistair snarled, clambering out of bed so rapidly that he almost became tangled in the sheets. "Who does he think he is, the Empress of Orlais? And what could he possibly have to say that's so  _urgent?"_

These questions were hissed across the chamber as Alistair thrust one foot at a time into his boots, anger spilling over like an overheated pot.

Flora, who had found a woollen dressing robe to pull on over her nightshirt, padded across the flagstones and placed a hand on her brother-warden's chest.  _Calm down,_ her pale gaze entreated, silently.  _Bellowing like a bull is pointless._

Alistair gazed down at his best friend's solemn, inscrutable stare and felt the rage subside to a low simmer. Clasping Flora's hand in his, he brought her fingers to his mouth and kissed them.

"Alright, then," he muttered darkly, running a hand over his bed-rumpled hair. "Let's take our time getting down there. Guillaume, what's the longest route to the dungeons?"

"Through the great hall and via the palace kitchens," the Royal Steward replied, intimate with the sprawling castle as with the back of his own hand.

Flora, who had been about to suggest that they just get the visit over with quickly, bit down on her protest.

By the time that they had made their through the extensive kitchens, which consisted of a dozen chambers of varying sizes, the sun had almost fully risen. However, these lower regions of the palace were less well-lit than the Royal corridors; great masses of shadow welled between the wall sconces. There were no carpets, or even rushes, to insulate the flooring, only cold and damp stone underfoot.

"Watch your step, my lady. It can be slippery on these stairs," Guillaume murmured, shooting Flora a significant look. "You shouldn't fall in your condition."

_He knows? How does he know?_

_**Years of watching Anora like a hawk for similar signs? Your morning nausea has diminished but not disappeared.** _

Alistair assumed that Guillaume was referring to Flora's strapped knee; and immediately offered her his elbow.

"Hang on to me, darling," he instructed, leading the way down the shadowed, winding stair.

There were no windows on this servants' descent, only guttering torches leaving smears of ash on the walls. The stairs were indeed damp, pools of water forming in footprints trodden into the stone over years. Flora splashed her way too enthusiastically through a larger puddle, soaked the knee-length hem of her nightshirt and dropped the six pastries she had stolen from the kitchens.

Alistair and Guillaume waited patiently as she gathered them back up with flushing cheeks.

They entered the palace dungeons through the western entrance, passing a dozen unoccupied cells. The guards – neither of which were playing Wicked Grace this time – sprung hastily to attention as Alistair approached.

"All is well?" Guillaume enquired briefly, casting a shrewd eye around the corridor to ensure that the old rushes had been swept and new ones placed. "How's the drunkard?"

"Still singing, ser," replied one of the guards with a small nod, canting his head in the direction of a nearby cell. Sure enough, they could faintly hear a slurred rendition of a popular Denerim drinking song.

"Is Mac Tir in the end cell?" enquired Alistair tersely, and the guards both gave a hasty nod.

"Aye, Your Highness. We ain't about to move him without your say-so."

Alistair nodded, striding down the corridor with a look of grim determination on his face. The guards posted outside the far door immediately saluted, and then hurried to unfasten the heavy locks and bolts. Alistair shifted impatiently from foot to foot, glancing to one side as Flora came to a halt beside him.

The moment that the door opened, Alistair thrust himself into the cell and strode forwards; his olive skin and burnished hair gleaming like a brand against the dull gloom. Loghain was sitting on the bunk with his back against the wall, and Flora thought privately that he looked older and more faded with each visit.

"So, you got what you wanted," Alistair said tersely, gesturing towards himself in an abrupt, angry motion. "I'm here."

"And I," added Flora, trying to keep all six pastries in hand. "The little scarlet goblin."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lolllllll so Alistair spends the entire four minutes duration (!) of their lovemaking talking about Darkspawn and Archdemons, then wonders why Flora isn't getting into it, hahaha. He def needs to get some tips from Zevran!
> 
> Little scarlet goblin is what Anora called Flora during the last visit to the Mac Tir cell, hahah


	295. Secret Tunnels and Missing Scouts

Loghain let out a wry snort as Flora used the name ascribed to her by his own angry daughter.

"I merely requested an audience with my king," he murmured dryly, extending a hand about his surroundings. "As you can see, I am in no position to ask in person."

Alistair grunted, his green-flecked eyes dark with suspicion.

"Speak," he replied flatly, as Flora surreptitiously inserted two pastries into her mouth at once.

"First," Loghain began, voice steady. "Have you decided my fate yet? I should like some prior notice, so that I may prepare adequately to meet my Maker."

Alistair let out a nondescript noise, his expression deliberately inscrutable.

"Actually, Mac Tir, we've had more  _pressing_  issues to deal with," he retorted, watching his beloved sister-warden like a hawk as she perched on the opposite end of the bunk to where Loghain was sitting. "Such as preparing the city for the impending Darkspawn attack. You know, the one that you  _denied_  for months? Think about how strong Denerim's defences could have been if we'd started building them at the turn of the year!"

Loghain tilted his head in acknowledgement: it was a fair point.

"That brings me to my second query," the former general continued, glancing sideways at Flora. She was gloomily inspecting a pastry that had not survived the fall on the stairs, flaky crumbs drifting to the floor between her fingers.

"Have you secured the tunnels? From what I understand of the Darkspawn, they often travel underground."

Alistair blinked, glancing across at Flora. She raised her chin, gaze sliding over to where Loghain was perched at the far end of the bunk. The man's expression was grim as ever, but there was no apparent deception in his blunt stare.

_Is he lying?_

_**It doesn't seem so.** _

_Oh, can't you just tell me?!_

"Tunnels? If there were tunnels under the palace, Guillaume would know," replied Alistair eventually, his brow furrowed.

The former general let out a brief grunt, shaking his head.

"Not under the palace. Underneath the city itself. Maric had them built in secret when he first became king, as another line of defence if Orlais ever attempted to invade again. The builders were Marcher-men, and I oversaw their payment personally. Nobody else knows about them."

"The Darkspawn tunnelled into the Tower of Ishal at Ostagar," Flora said suddenly, remembering with a little shiver. "They came up through the floor and caught the soldiers by surprise."

Alistair stared at Loghain for a moment, the conflict writ naked in the twist of his mouth.

"Where are these tunnels?" he said at last, wariness wreathing each word.  _"Supposed_ tunnels."

Loghain glanced down at the dusty floor of the cell as though to sketch some makeshift map, although there were no suitable implements with which to draw. Flora reached inside her tunic and withdrew a sheet of parchment and a pencil, sliding them across the bunk towards Loghain.

"Use the back of that," she mumbled, swallowing a mouthful of apple pastry.

The former general looked down, his dark gaze settling on the wide, looping words scribed on the front. They read  _florrans cusland, roal palass,_   _dennarim;_ once Loghain had deciphered the text, his greying eyebrows shot into his hairline.

"What's this?"

"I'm going to write that on the inside of my fish book," muttered Flora, slightly self-conscious. "So if it ever gets lost, someone will know where to return it."

Loghain glanced sideways at her once again, a fraction less sternly than before. Without a word, he turned over the parchment and lowered the pencil, sketching a brief map of the city's six main districts: market, noble, palace, docks, alienage, and warehouse.

"There are eight tunnels in total," began Loghain, pressing more weight into the leaded tip to create a darker line. "The majority of them intersect at four key points. If the horde is approaching from the west, then these two passages are the most likely candidates for infiltration. If you block the access points here, and  _here…_ "

The older man continued to elaborate, using the pencil to illustrate. By the time that he had finished, the parchment was an indecipherable mess of scribbles and crosses.

Alistair gazed down at the parchment for a long moment, and then ran a frustrated hand through his hair. There was silence in the cell for several beats, and Flora surreptitiously bit into the last pastry. It was filled with an exceptionally sour lemon pulp, and she almost spat her mouthful across the small, damp chamber.

_**You're not in Herring anymore.** _

_I know!_

"This is too important to get wrong," the prince murmured at last, reluctant yet resigned. "Tomorrow, I want you – under  _heavy_  escort – to show us these access points. Will you do this?"

"Maric built the tunnels to keep Denerim safe from invasion," Loghain replied, his voice so low that they both had to lean in closer to hear. "I would not see them used to an enemy's advantage."

Alistair nodded tightly, and then shot a glance across at his sister-warden. Flora rose in response to his expectant stare, pausing briefly as Loghain handed her back the sheet of parchment.

"Don't forget this," the disgraced general said quietly, and there was no condescension in his tone. "Practise makes perfect."

Flora took the parchment, almost thanked him, then realised who she was talking to and mouthed like a fish.

Once they were in the corridor, Alistair reached out for her hand. Flora hastily shoved the parchment down the front of her tunic and took it, feeling his calloused fingers winding themselves within hers. She knew that – counter to appearance – Alistair was not reaching out to guide her movements like a child. Instead, he aimed to anchor himself to her familiar presence within the Royal Palace, and the accompanying strange territory of being  _king._

_Brother and sister warden, fish-roped together._

Flora could feel his thumb circling methodically over each of her knuckles in turn as they left the dungeons, by the main stair this time.

"Do you think he's telling the truth?" Alistair asked as they made their way down the myriad passages. A pair of yawning servants were cleaning the stained glass exploits of Calenhad, stationed with ladders and buckets to the side of the corridor.

"His face didn't look like he was lying," Flora replied, sidestepping her way around a bucket before an apologetic servant could move it. "I suppose we'll find out tomorrow."

Alistair nodded, pulling his free hand over his face with a sigh. Flora gave his anchored fingers a small squeeze and he glanced down at her, then smiled.

"I suppose we will, won't we?"

They had just reached the landing with the unfortunate  _halla_ being torn apart by Mabari. The window had been left open to let in the morning air; so much of the palace had been shut up since Cailan's death that certain areas still smelt stale and ill-used.

Alistair paused beneath the large painting, and then pulled around Flora to face him. He reached down, cradling the side of her cheek in his palm and gazing at her with softened eyes. Leaning forward to broach the near-foot in height that separated them, he pressed his mouth to her ear; putting his lips right against the lobe so that his breath tickled her skin and riffled her hair.

"I'm going to take you back to bed," Alistair whispered, deliberately stepping forward so that her back was pressed against the stone balustrade.

"But it's  _morning,"_  Flora croaked back, the air stealing from her lungs at the heat of his desirous breath against her neck. Alistair let out a grunt, sucking a series of hard little kisses into the delicate skin of her throat.

"I don't care," he murmured thickly, hands dropping to her hips as he ground his pelvis against her. "I'm going to take you back to bed, and make you cry out my name. I want to watch your beautiful face when you co- "

Impatient with talking, Flora wound her fingers into her brother-warden's hair, pulling his head down to hers. Their mouths collided together and parted almost immediately, familiar now with the rhythmic dance of tongues. He drank from her sweet, apple-tasting mouth and felt his arousal surge in response; half-tempted to take her there and then beneath the unfortunate  _halla_ in the deserted corridor.

" _Ahem."_

Interruptions were not an uncommon phenomenon for the Wardens by this point, but they grew no less annoying for their frequency.

Alistair peered over the balustrade to see Teagan hovering on the landing below, frozen with his foot on the first step. His uncle looked as though he'd bitten into something unexpectedly bitter, although the bann quickly rearranged his features into an apologetic smile.

"Sorry for –  _ah_  – well, anyway. Alistair, Eamon has convened a meeting of the Council to discuss what should be done about the missing scouts," Teagan explained, feeling a bead of sweat roll down the back of his collar as Flora smiled at him. "He's requested your presence. You too, Flora."

Alistair let out a low rumble of frustration deep in his throat, but the instinct to be dutiful was too powerful to ignore. The naturally obedient Flora was already padding down the steps, running hands over dishevelled hair in an attempt to smooth it down.

"How are you, Bann Teagan?" she chirped as they headed back down the passageway and – to Alistair's chagrin – further away from the bedchamber. "Do you miss your horses?"

"Aye, poppet," replied Teagan, with a slightly rueful shrug. "Rainesfere has been evacuated, but I doubt that they had provisions to spare for the horses. Animals tend to suffer more during times of strife, especially when there's insufficient grain. All supplies have to go towards sustaining the army, now."

Flora grimaced in sympathy as they passed the newly-gleaming exploits of Calenhad, picked out in dyed and fragmented glass.

"I feel sorry for them," she said, frankly. "When I lived in Herring, sometimes the storms were too bad for the men to go out on the sea. If there wasn't enough fish preserved, we had to scrape out the insides of whale bones and make soup out of it. We were hungry  _a lot._ Poor horses."

Alistair gazed down at the top of his sister-warden's dark red head, and understood her incumbent greed a little better. He reached out for her hand, trapping her fingers tightly between his own.

The meeting lasted for two inimitable hours, and then servants came up with covered platters for lunch. The King's Council consisted of men and women who had proven their loyalty to Maric, as well as the nobles who had accompanied the Wardens on their meandering journey to Denerim. In addition, representatives from the Chantry, the Templars and the Circle were also present. As regent, Eamon led most of the discussion, pausing to allow Alistair to nod or ask the occasional question.

Despite his initial reluctance, now that the prince had committed himself to the throne, he was determined to try and make a good job of it. He was sat at the head of the table, with gold band placed firmly on top of his head and fingers steepled beneath his chin as he listened to those speaking. For those old enough to remember, it was almost as though a young Maric had returned from the Maker's side to bestow them with his presence once again.

Flora sat quietly for the majority of the meeting, knowing that her presence at his side helped to alleviate Alistair's nerves. She listened to the discussion about the missing scouts; and to her brother-warden's reluctance to send out more men and women to be – presumably – ensnared by the Darkspawn horde. At once, an idea occurred to her and she sat up a little straighter, wondering what the protocol was for participating in discussion. There seemed to be an unspoken rule for whose opinion took precedent; with bann ceding to arl and arl to teyrn, and Eamon able to override all.

Fergus was just about to open his mouth to speak when Flora cut across him with customary northern bluntness, on the assumption that her own brother would  _have_ to forgive her interruption.

"Why not ask the Dalish to send scouts?" she suggested, as two dozen pairs of eyes turned towards her. "They can travel through the Brecilian Forest faster than any horseman. And they're better at blending in. They might not get caught."

In the midst of the murmurs that sprang up in the wake of her suggestion, Flora caught sight of Leonas Bryland giving a small nod of approval.

"It's a sound idea," admitted Eamon, glancing across towards Alistair. The prince slid his hand onto Flora's knee and gave it a quick squeeze, smiling sideways at her.

"I'm going down to the encampment later," Leonas interjected, after Alistair had given his nod of approval. "I can speak to Mahariel, the leader of the Dalish, and make the request."

After the meeting had finished, Alistair – to his dismay – was requested by Eamon to add seals and signatures to a week's worth of paperwork. Duty fought with desire as he parted reluctantly with his sister-warden, kissing first her fingers and then her mouth in the middle of the entrance hall.

Obligation won, and with a final glance over his shoulder, Alistair vanished down a side passage in the company of his uncle.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OK, so this Loghain story arc needs a little more fleshing out, I don't want to have him languishing away in the dungeons forever! The stuff about the tunnels I pure just made up, lol – I'm going to incorporate it with the maleficar in the Denerim warehouses side-quest thing.
> 
> There are lots of Medieval cities and towns in England with tunnels beneath them – Northampton, Exeter – and some on the continent too, like Tallinn in Estonia, and Oppenheim in Germany. Actually, google image the Oppenheim tunnels – SO COOL. That's my kind of urban exploration! Knowing my luck, the 600 year old ceiling would immediately collapse on my head the moment I stepped inside haha
> 
> Alistair is a good boy at heart - duty will always win out over desire!


	296. Do You Still Fancy Me?

Flora stood alone in the entrance hall, smiling vaguely at the occasional noble that passed through; politely turning down the servants' hesitant offers of wine or assistance. She had just decided to spend her afternoon on the army encampment, when a sudden wave of dizziness rolled its way up from her feet to her head. The blazing hearths blurred together into a blossom of amber and smoke, and the rich blue carpeting beneath her boots rolled like a storm-tossed sea.

Taking a deep, steadying breath of air, Flora managed to make her way over to one of the stone benches at the side of the hall. She sank down and put her head in her hands, feeling the blood throbbing beneath the skin of her forehead.

"The baby is pressing up against the vessels of your body as it grows, child. It can cause such dizziness."

There was none of the usual sternness in the senior enchanter's tone; only a deep and abiding melancholy.

Flora opened her eyes to see Wynne sitting on the stone bench beside her. The senior enchanter was clad in her customary maroon robes, ivory hair swept into an elaborate pattern of swirls and braids.

"Your hair is pretty," replied Flora, reaching up to touch one of the woven strands. "This looks like a fish tail."

Wynne smiled to herself, offering the young Cousland a sip from her own ale flask.

"They say it's not good to drink ale when you're with child," the mage said, conversationally. "But I suppose it doesn't matter in your case."

Flora took several long gulps, feeling the alcohol dissolve into yeast and water on her tongue.

"Were you planning on going down to the army camp?" asked Wynne, and then clicked her tongue as Flora gave a small nod. "I wouldn't, not if you're feeling lightheaded. I'd stay here and rest for the afternoon."

The customary sternness returned to the senior enchanter's voice as Flora opened her mouth to protest.

"I'm really not in the mood to argue, child. You can obstinately do as you please, or you can listen to someone with  _experience_ in such matters."

"Experience in being… in this condition? Whaaa- "

Flora's mouth fell open once more, her eyes widening.

"When? How?  _Who?!"_

"A long time ago, in the  _usual_  way, and none of your business," retorted the senior enchanter briskly, taking back her flask. "Now, how about we go to the library and I can teach you how to write  _Denerim_  and  _Ferelden_  correctly? You ought to be able to spell the country that you're trying to save."

The library was located in a part of the castle that Flora had not yet visited, in one of the external towers that had been added in more recent ages. Wholly dissimilar to the large gallery that housed South Reach's library; the castle archives were housed on several round balconies within the tower, bookshelves reaching up towards a lofty domed ceiling. The majority of them were so tall that they required a ladder to access the top shelves. Candelabras were suspended on long chains to provide illumination for the window-less space.

A thousand years of Fereldan history had been stored within the castle library, inscribed by Chantry brothers and housed within leather-bound tomes on the highest and most secure shelves. Official correspondence was also stored within the archives, the most sensitive documents kept within locked cases.

To Flora's relief, Wynne did not suggest taking down any of the more intimidating annals from the higher shelves. Instead, after they had spent an hour practising  _Denerim, Ferelden, Thedas_ on a sheet of parchment; the senior enchanter retrieved a thin tome with an illustrated dog on the front cover. She placed it onto the reading desk before them, clearing her throat.

"What's this?" Flora asked curiously, tracing the traditional pattern scribed below the title.

"' _The Missing Mabari'"_  Wynne replied briskly, turning to the first page. "Let's warm up with this before we get onto the  _Annals of Ferelden, Volume One,_ shall we?"

"' _Where's the missing Mabari?_ '" Flora read hesitantly, her finger following the words across the page. " _Is it in the garden? No… it is not in the garden._   _Is it in the kitchen? No it is not in the kitchen._ Ha! That's where you'd find the missing  _Flora_ , in the kitchen."

"Focus!"

They spent the next few hours in the library determining the location of the missing Mabari. Servants and stewards moved quietly around them, refilling the senior enchanter's tea and bringing some fruit for a peckish Flora.

Wynne left just as the watch changed; in a tower without windows, this was the only indication that the sun was setting. Flora remained sitting at the writing desk, slightly stunned after a session of such intensive personal tutelage. In contrast, Alistair tended to lose focus quickly whenever he and Flora read together, the young man distracted by the proximity of his sister-warden's body.

Rising to her feet, Flora went to return the books to their correct places on the shelves. Although she had no understanding of the meticulous system used to archive the texts; she could remember roughly where Wynne had extracted each one from.

She went to replace _The Missing Mabari_ first, wondering at such a juvenile book's place amongst its lofty and academic peers. Opening the front cover, Flora saw a name etched there in childish hand, and the name began with a  _C._

Feeling a lurch of sadness, she slid the book into place between worthier tomes, then startled as she felt someone exhale close beside her ear.

"Peace, my Rialto lily, it is only I."

Zevran smiled widely at Flora as she rolled her eyes towards him, only needing to lift her gaze a handful of inches.

"You shouldn't sneak up on me," she retorted reproachfully, brows drawing together. "I could've sent you flying with my shield."

" _Ah,"_  whispered the elf, leaning forward to whisper conspiratorially against her ear. "But  _sneaking_ is one of several things that I do best."

Flora eyed him, slightly suspiciously. Zevran was clad from head to toe in dark leathers, their deep colour in contrast to the fading marks etched on his cheeks.

"What're the others?" she asked, reluctantly.

Zevran leaned forward to whisper directly into her ear; letting his lips brush lightly enough against the skin that he could claim innocence if she challenged him.

"Killing," he murmured, rolling his tongue around the two syllables. "And  _lovemaking_."

Flora let out a loud and unladylike honk of laughter, the sound echoing between the tall shelves and up towards the circular galleries overhead. The elf reached out and put his finger on her lips, grinning delightedly.

"Hush," he chided, pressing a soft indent into her mouth. "Or we will be ejected from the premises. Did you never spend any time in the library during your time at the Circle?"

"Noooooo, none at all."

She shook her head, very solemnly, from side to side. Zevran cackled and then grew suddenly contemplative, testing the fullness of her lower lip with his thumb.

"This is a mouth made for love,  _mi sirenita_ ," he murmured, something unreadable flickering across his expression. "Your lips look as though they have been stung by bees."

Flora crossed her eyes at the Crow, sidling out from the confines of his body and the shelf.

"It's a mouth made for  _snacking,"_  she corrected, returning to the writing desk to gather up ink pen and parchment.

The elf giggled, trotting across the room. With a little sigh, he slid his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder.

"This poor,  _neglected_ body," he crooned as Flora attempted to crane her neck like an owl to look at him. "Alistair told me about your  _tragedy_  in the bedchamber earlier."

"It's not a  _tragedy_ ," replied Flora sternly, giving up on trying to look Zevran in the eye as he hummed in her ear. "What happened at Ostagar was a tragedy."

The elf clicked his tongue reproachfully , running his hands up and down her waist.

" _Nena,_ you always take things so  _literally._  I meant only to express my sorrow at a body as fine as _this_ being so misused.  _Carina,_ I have been telling Alistair for months that you are a delicate instrument to be played with finesse, not a  _drum to be banged_. Or to be tortured with tedious dronings on about Darkspawn in the middle of erotic congress!"

Flora cackled out loud, the sound quickly muffled by Zevran's slender fingers.

"Ssh," he whispered, encircling her abdomen with his arms. "Ah, this  _body,_ though. It  _perplexes_ me why you always cover it with such loose clothing."

She shot him a deadpan look and he relented, letting out a little snort.

"Ah, I know. But, you are a lovely young woman –  _don't laugh_ – you are a lovely young woman, and I would not like you to go… unfulfilled in the bedchamber."

"Do you still fancy me then, even though I've got another man's  _creature_  growing inside me?" Flora asked curiously, and the elf let out a snicker.

" _Mi florita,_ that is an _awful_  way of putting it," he purred, smoothing the ripe curve of her belly with the flat of his palm. "But you are no less beautiful for being so  _fecund."_

Flora had no idea what  _fecund_ meant, assumed that it meant the same as  _rotund,_ and scowled. "What did you say to Alistair?"

"Well, at first I offered my  _own_ services in the bedchamber, to demonstrate certain techniques – stop laughing, mi limonita! -but your infuriating prince rejected me. Give me time to work on him,  _cara."_

"Ha!"

"However, because I am a good, albeit  _temporary_  citizen of this nation, I am volunteering my assistance anyway. It is important that you have some stress relief, given your position."

"Assistance with what?" Flora hissed, as the elf swiftly removed the parchment from her fingers and took her hand.

"Tragically not in the way that I would prefer best," he murmured, glancing from side to side before leading her towards a small, hitherto unnoticed side door. "Trust me,  _carina,_ if it were _I_  making love to you; there would be none of this talk of demons and Darkspawn."

"It's not Alistair's fault," replied Flora loyally, following in the Antivan's footsteps down a shadowed gallery. "He has a lot on his mind."

"It doesn't matter," retorted Zevran, leaning out into the juncture of a corridor to check that no one was approaching before leading her onwards. "He ought to devote his full attention to  _you, nena,_ like a starving bird on a worm. Hush, now. We do not want to attract attention."

"Am I the worm?"

" _Ssh!"_

Curiously, Flora followed in the elf's wake as he walked soundlessly down a carpeted passage; pausing before an archway to check who was in the nearby chamber before darting forwards. He then turned to beckon her forwards, pressing a finger to his lips.

"Why are we sneaking?" she whispered as he canted his head towards a pair of patrolling guards in the next hallway. "I feel like a robber."

"I am doing your brother-warden a favour and  _facilitating_ ," the elf murmured, letting something roll free from his hand that distracted the guards sufficient to allow them to sidle past. "It is always useful for a prince to owe one a boon. Besides, I can never resist that handsome face."

"Fa- falickubating what?" replied Flora, lifting her hand to summon light to her palm as they entered a pitch-black servants' stair. "Where are we  _going?"_

"A lack of interruptions or distractions," murmured the elf, reaching back to grip her elbow with long, steadying fingers. "And you'll see. Careful, now."

Zevran was a master of movement in small motions, never disturbing the environment long enough to catch attention. He flitted in and out of the shadows like something ethereal; a mere flicker in the corner of the eye.

Unfortunately, Flora was not quite so stealthy. Her foot always found the creaking floorboard, and she was entirely incapable of subtle movement. Zevran found himself having to double his efforts to keep them both unnoticed as they moved through the servants' quarters of the Royal Palace.

"I hate to say it,  _carina,"_ muttered the elf through gritted teeth as he beckoned her past a guarded archway. "But you do  _not_  have a promising future as an assassin ahead of you."

"Oh nooo!" bemoaned Flora, head swivelling in the direction of an alluring waft from the kitchens. "My post-Blight career dreams, destroyed!"

Zevran shot her a darting glance from the corner of his eye, irises very black in the shadows.

"Impudent minx," he murmured, the corner of his mouth curving wickedly upwards. "Come on, we're almost out."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So the Missing Mabari book used to belong to Cailan, hence why it's been kept among all the serious books in the library, haha. Aww that's quite sad actually! Poor Cailan!
> 
> I like this chapter, even though it's quite dialogue heavy. I always like a bit of Wynne-Flora bonding, since their relationship has always been pre-established to an extent – senior instructor and junior apprentice. I also like this chapter because you have Zevran at his flirty finest, hahaha.
> 
> Lol at Flora thinking that fecund means the same as rotund. She basically just assumed that Zevran was calling her ROUND!


	297. The Groom and the Scullery Maid

Zevran and Flora emerged into a small courtyard to the rear of the palace, lined with small apple trees just ripening into summer blossom. Greenish-white petals, plucked callously by the evening breeze, lay scattered across the cobbles like fragments of wool. Overhead, the well of encroaching night deepened; the first faint ghosts of stars appearing amidst a backdrop of navy and violet.

"Hush,  _mi florita_ ," Zevran murmured, putting a finger to Flora's lips and drawing her into the shadows behind a tree trunk. Flora bit down on her question, bemused but compliant.

A moment later, two Royal Guards hurried past, halberds strapped to their backs for ease of movement. Only once their footsteps had faded around the corner did Zevran emerge from behind the trunk, tugging Flora gently in his wake.

"Come on now,  _amor._ "

Glancing from side to side surreptitiously, Zevran led her across the courtyard and towards the dark fringe of trees that marked the edge of the woods.

The Royal hunting grounds had been devoid of game since the Blessed Age. Over the years, it had gradually shrunk to a mere half-mile wide swathe of tangled woodland to the rear of the palace. Now the only animals which dwelt amongst the trees were rabbits and foxes, making their home amidst protruding roots and mossy boulders.

Flora, brow furrowed, followed Zevran beneath the canopy of the trees. The emerging stars provided barely enough light to illuminate the roots and crumbling earth; yet the elf reached out to cover Flora's gleaming fingers as she summoned the golden mist to her hand.

"Here, hold onto me, _pececita,"_ he murmured, clutching her fingers and guiding them to his elbow. "I won't let you fall."

"But it's  _dark,"_ said Flora, now thoroughly confused.

"Yes, and we don't want anyone to spot us," replied the elf patiently, angling their route slightly as he spotted a familiar hollowed trunk. "Not now we're almost there."

"Almost  _where?"_

Five minutes later, Zevran triumphantly guided Flora into a small clearing; in the centre of which sat a moss-covered construction of Alamarri stone and plaster. It appeared to be a basic dwelling consisting of no more than a single room, a thin wisp of smoke emerging from a rudimentary chimney. An orange glow spilled forth from roughly hewn windows, the door half-rotted and hanging loose from its hinge.

"I believe this once belonged to a gamekeeper," the elf murmured, padding soundlessly across the dew-damp grass. "Yet the creatures in this forest have been hunted to extinction; and now its only occupants are those seeking  _privacy."_

"Who have  _you_ brought here before, then?" Flora asked, startling slightly as a twig snapped beneath her boot. "Finian?"

Zevran shot Flora a wicked grin, tugging at her hand as he advanced towards the broken doorway. "Perhaps,  _nena_. But tonight, I am here to deliver  _you_."

Flora blinked at him, pausing to peer inside one of the grimy windows. She saw enough to establish that the interior of the cabin was no less dilapidated than the outside, before Zevran's palm made contact with her rear in a firm, no-nonsense tap.

" _Aah!_  What was that for?" Flora blinked at the elf as he raised one chiding platinum eyebrow.

"For habitually befriending those trying to do harm to you,  _mi sirenita!_ First I, now Loghain – who next? Will you be approaching the Archdemon with a basket of Herring oysters?"

"I haven't  _befriended_ Loghain," retorted Flora, as Zevran assumed his best stern expression. "And Herring oysters are delicious enough to turn  _anything_  from the path of evil."

The elf's tone softened and he reached out to smooth a hand over the top of her indignant head.

"I don't even know whether to be pleased or frustrated that you followed I –  _I! one  once sent to kill you_ – so willingly into the woods alone. You ought to be more suspicious!"

Flora gave a little, sulky shrug and Zevran relented.

"Anyway,  _carina_ , I must reluctantly deliver you into the arms of your brother-warden. He has promised me resolutely that he will follow my guidance."

"Alistair is  _here?"_  Flora's face brightened, her pale eyes gleaming in the dusk. "Wait, what guidance?"

Zevran's face contorted into a near-semblance of a smile as he nudged her towards the broken doorway. "See for yourself _."_

Flora glanced at the elf, pausing on the broken lintel before peering tentatively around the doorframe.

The gamekeeper's hut was overgrown and decrepit, the ancient walls no longer able to prevent the intrusion of nature. Moss crawled over the bare stone, seeking foothold in the crumbling plaster; the flagstones had become displaced by the gentle shifting of soil below. The ceiling was broken in a dozen places, allowing glimpses of the star-freckled heavens. Alistair, who had spent many evenings accommodated in far worse, had made a valiant effort to revive the old hearth. A small fire smouldered in the grate, built from kindling and twigs.

Alistair himself was still bending over it, his tall broad-shouldered frame seeming too large for the diminutive surroundings. He prodded at the flames with a stick, so absorbed in the positioning of the embers that he had not noticed their arrival.

"Special delivery," announced Zevran, knocking his fingers elegantly against what remained of the doorframe.

Alistair dropped the stick without ceremony and turned around, the deceptively arrogant features lighting up in spontaneous delight as he saw them both.

"Were you seen?" he demanded of the elf, eyes settling on his sister-warden.

The Antivan Crow let out a derisive snort, giving a single shake of the head.

"Nobody knows that you're here," he purred, the firelight casting an oily sheen over his dark pupils. "And no one will interrupt you."

Flora put an arm around Zevran's neck and pressed her lips to his cheek impulsively. The elf smiled wickedly at her, teeth very white in the gloom. Swooping forward, he planted a returning kiss that was half on her mouth, and half on her chin.

"Payment for my services," he purred, releasing a cackling Flora as Alistair groaned in the background. "Now have fun, children."

Inclining his head, the elf retreated back through the broken doorway with a bow.

"You're not in your  _prince clothes,"_ Flora observed into the ensuing silence, noting her brother-warden's garb of plain tunic and breeches, and the lack of the gold band on his head.

"That's because I'm  _not_  a prince, not this evening," Alistair replied hoarsely, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on her face. "I'm just… one of Bann Teagan's grooms. Courting a pretty girl."

Flora smiled at him, stepping closer to the warmth of the fire. Despite it being a good way through Bloomingtide, Denerim's coastal location meant that it was still buffeted by chill winds from the west.

Alistair let out a low groan, crossing the uneven floorboards in a handful of strides. He came to a halt just before her, hazel eyes warmed to liquid amber by the hearth, skin gilded and hair gleaming like newly polished bronze. The raw power of his body could not be hidden by the simple garb covering it; he seemed to take up the majority of the space in the cabin by sheer presence alone.

"Your smile is – well, it's  _beyond_  beautiful," he murmured, clenching his fingers into fists to stop himself from immediately taking her in his arms. "Please, don't stop."

Flora was not proficient at receiving compliments, and immediately dropped her eyes. Alistair leaned forward and lifted her chin gently with a finger, gently forcing his sister-warden to meet his gaze.

"If you're Bann Teagan's groom, what am I?" Flora whispered, entranced by his conjuration of this alternate reality.

Alistair thought for a moment, expression pensive. The next moment, his eyes lit up.

"You once wanted to be a maidservant up at the castle in Highever, didn't you?"

Flora nodded, remembering the childish dream that her Herring-father had so firmly quashed.

"Well, you can be one of Arl Eamon's maidservants. You could be… in charge of Lady Isolde's wardrobe."

Flora shot her brother-warden a dubious look at the unlikeliness of this scenario, even in fantasy. Alistair laughed, relenting.

"Alright then," he amended, a wicked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You can work in the arl's kitchens as a scullery maid. Come on, my dear, play along."

Wrapping Flora's fingers in his, Alistair guided her towards a threadbare blanket that had been spread out before the guttering hearth. They sat down together, knees and elbows just touching; both appreciative of the fire's radiating heat. The immediate air was warm and pine-scented, strong enough to override the cabin's general odour of mildew and neglect.

" _So."_

Alistair's voice dropped further, the words emerging with quiet determination. "Let's imagine that I've accompanied Teagan on a visit to Redcliffe Castle. You came to serve us wine- "

"I wouldn't be serving  _you_ wine if you were just a groom," Flora pointed out, reasonably. Alistair rolled his eyes at her, stifling a snort before continuing.

"Fine, you were serving  _Teagan_ wine. And I… I fell in love with you the moment I saw you."

"How unrealistic!"

"Fine, I  _desired_ you the moment I saw you. So I asked you to meet me in this cabin in the back woods of Arl Eamon's estate."

Flora shot him a shy little smile, unable to help from getting caught up in the fantasy. Alistair's interpretation of events was hardly the truth – far from falling in love at first sight, Alistair and Flora had spent the majority of the journey to Ostagar engaged in childish squabbling, much to Duncan's despair. By his own later admission, Alistair had been taken utterly aback by Flora's rare looks, and vainly attempted to disguise his admiration through teasing her. 

Yet the scenario that Alistair was painting – of a Ferelden free from a Blight, and ancestry uncomplicated by pedigree – was an alluring one; and Flora found herself wanting to play along.

"Alright then," she whispered, dropping her eyes to the embers smouldering at the base of the hearth. "I've come to the cabin, even though you could be a  _murderer_  for all I know. Then… do we talk about our lives for hours? I don't know how courtship works. Ain't never done it."

Alistair shook his head, reaching out with a hand to cradle her cheek against his palm; tilting her pale eyes until they sunk into his own rich gaze.

"Ever since I first saw that mouth," he murmured, tracing the full lower lip with the tip of his calloused thumb. "I've wanted to taste it."

Flora was unable to look away, her chin held steady in his fingers. Instead, she felt her cheeks flood with a rush of pink, a slow flame beginning to curdle in the deepest part of her belly.

Alistair gave a languid, deliberate smile, and despite his pretence that he was merely a  _bann's groom;_  there was no hiding the Theirin arrogance in the confident curl of his mouth.

"Look at you, blushing for me already," he murmured, amused and yet entirely fixated on her. "What a little sweetheart. Do you think they'll be missing you in Arl Eamon's kitchens?"

"No," croaked Flora, trying in vain to claw back some semblance of composure. "I ate all the food for the… banquet, so I'm in trouble. They've  _banished_  me."

Alistair grinned down at her, fingers dropping to caress the delicate skin of her neck.

"I like a girl with an appetite," he replied quietly, pressing a gentle thumb into the hollow of her throat. "You don't look as though you've eaten six tables' worth of food."

His eyes dropped lower, and Flora hoped furiously that her brother-warden would be so distracted by the swell of her breasts that he would fail to notice the convex belly below.

However Alistair, in his guise of Teagan's groom, demonstrated great restraint and soon returned his gaze to her face.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, the question tentative and hopeful. "Please?"

Flora nodded, feeling her heartbeat surge inexplicably.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ha, a fantasy within a fantasy world! It's quite odd to write, but I think it's quite cute. We can see the result of Alistair's hardening further here – he's a lot more confident in his guise of Teagan's groom.
> 
> So Zevran has basically managed to get them alone with no distractions or interruptions – DON'T TALK ABOUT DARKSPAWN MID-COITUS, ALISTAIR


	298. Lovers

The gamekeeper's hut was bathed in firelight and filtered shadow; and all was quiet save for the intermittent crackling of the fire. For some reason, Flora found that she was holding her breath, heart beating in a rapid staccato against her ribcage.

"Can I kiss you?"

"Yes."

Alistair lifted his fingers to her face, cupping Flora's fine-boned cheek with tender desire. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips softly against her own, and she could taste the suppressed lust running just below the counterfeit restraint. Although the feel of his mouth was as familiar to Flora as her own; there was an element of wonder to the slow workings of his lips, as though this really  _was_ their first time sharing a kiss.

Alistair's mouth pressed a little harder against hers and she let out a small, involuntary gasp, hearing a groan rumble deep in his throat.

"Part your lips, sweetheart," he murmured through the kiss, one wide palm spread over the small of her back. "Let me taste you."

Flora did as instructed, feeling the flames lick higher in her belly as he deepened the kiss.

If they had been in the Royal bedchamber and conscious of impending interruption, the kisses would have been accompanied by the hasty removal of clothing. Yet  _a groom and a scullery maid_ had no need to rush; there were no urgent duties or pressing obligations for them to hasten back to.

They lay entwined before the hearth for the next half-candle, clothing dishevelled but still in place, rediscovering how especially good the other's mouth felt when there was no need to rush. Their tongues wrestled in the slow, ancient dance of mutual lust, lips tangling together and parting with small sighs.

Alistair had shown remarkable restraint in continuing their pretence, keeping his hands to the safer parts of her body. She could tell by the throbbing vein in his neck how much of an effort this was; his arousal was tented in his breeches and straining desperately for attention.

At last they parted, panting and breathless, mouths tender and lips swollen from overuse. Alistair's lust-drowned eyes, hazy with the effort of restraint, dropped to Flora's laced bodice. The nipples were standing out erect through the thin material; an outward manifestation of the arousal pulsing throughout her core.

"Can I touch them?" Alistair asked thickly, eyes riveted to the stiff little peaks. When a breathless Flora nodded, he began to fondle her though the cloth; cupping her breasts and teasing her with meticulous strokes of his thumbs. Flora squirmed beneath him, no longer caring about the dusty floorboards or the chill night breeze. When he asked, in a voice saturated with desire, whether he might be  _permitted_  to loosen the bodice-strings, she could only give a frantic little nod.

Alistair let out a soft groan as the folds of material fell away, his eyes drinking in the small, rounded breasts that were now bared for him. Unable to resist palming himself through his breeches, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the swollen flesh. His tongue curled first around her nipple, then meandered downwards; leaving the ghosts of sucking kisses on the ripe underside of her breast.

By the time that he lifted his head, Flora was squirming impatiently against the threadbare rug. She was more than ready to be taken, yet Alistair seemed determined to see the fantasy through to completion.

He brought his mouth close to her ear, the words coming out half-strangled and throaty. She could feel the hot air against her neck as he panted, erratic breaths interrupting the words.

"Could you use your hand on me, baby?"

The fantasy of restraint was over very quickly after that. After a handful of strokes – much to Flora's relief - Alistair abandoned the pretence. With a groan of desire-fuelled resignation, he had pressed her into the floorboards; fumbling with the button at the top of her breeches before yanking them impatiently down around her knees.

"Yield to me, darling," he breathed against her ear, gripping himself in a trembling fist while interspersing his words with heated kisses.  _"Yield."_

"Make me yours," she whispered and he hissed desperately between his teeth, fumbling between her thighs.

When Alistair finally sheathed himself inside his sister-warden, both of them relaxed and let out a sigh of temporary relief. The respite lasted only seconds before the relentless tidal swell of arousal rose up between them once again. Flora put her arms around his neck and he began to roll himself into her with a rhythmic, instinctual drive of the hips. She anchored herself to his hair with her fingers, encouraging him with incoherent gasps to increase his pace. Alistair was more than happy to comply, lips drawing back over his teeth as he lifted her by the hips.

Flora could feel the heat of his stare like something molten against her skin, and when she opened her eyes, he was gazing down at her with the glittering, engorged pupils of lust. His face was contorted into something primal, the desire to take all she had to offer writ stark across his features.

In a single moment of coherence, Alistair blinked down at her; her anxious, tender-hearted brother warden temporarily resurrected.

"Is this… better?" he asked, a tremor of nerves belying the handsome arrogance of his features.

"Yes. I love you," Flora said impulsively, realising how much it must have taken for him to approach Zevran and confess his worries on the bedchamber.

"Sweet Maker, I  _love_  you too, Lo," Alistair whispered, the words raw with affection. "So much."

Flora reached up, brushing the back of her hand over the stubbled jaw. Her touch was the catalyst for him to resume the momentum of his hips, thrusting into her with the raw power of his battle-honed frame. There was no need for Flora to bite back or stifle her cries, so she let herself go with an abandonment impossible to achieve in the guarded hush of the Royal Palace. Urged on by her incoherent pants, Alistair lifted his sister-warden up onto his hips, using the brute strength of his own arms to manoeuvre her as necessary. As their stolen hour wore on, each flat surface of the gamekeeper's hut served as something to provide traction; both horizontal and vertical used in equal amount.

Finally, both Wardens lay side-by-side and utterly sated on the threadbare blanket, their fingers entwined in the customary manner. Flora could feel Alistair's pulse throbbing against her palm; when she turned her head sideways to look at him, he appeared almost dazed.

"Are you alright?" she whispered, raising her voice against the noise of the rain on the remaining roof tiles.

Alistair nodded wordlessly, tilting his gaze towards her. Not yet able to form coherent sentences, he put as much strength into squeezing her fingers as he was able in his current boneless condition.

"I'm sorry for bringing up the Darkspawn and royal business when we're…. _you know_ ," he said at last, the words blurring together as he yawned. "When the only thing I should be focused on is the beautiful girl with me."

Flora smiled at him, feeling a prickle of self-conscious heat flaring on her cheeks. Alistair grinned lazily back at her, reaching out to smooth down a rumpled section of her hair.

"I ought to thank Zev for reminding me of that. And for organising this."

"You're welcome, my prince," drawled Zevran, waving at them from where he was sitting in a nearby window-frame. The glass had long since vanished, and the elf was perched neatly in the hollow space, feet propped up against the wood. A wicked grin was scrawled across his tan, tattooed features.

Alistair let out a resigned groan, clapping a hand over his sweaty face and dragging it down.

"And of  _course_ , the damned elf is there!" he announced into the damp air, handing Flora her tunic as she let out a cackle. "Have you been here the whole time? Wait, that's a silly question. Of  _course_ you have."

Zevran giggled, slithering from the window frame, lithe as a cat. He sauntered towards the remnants of the hearth, reaching down to ruffle Flora's head as it emerged through the neck of her tunic.

"My sweet boy, do not forget that we have spent many nights under the same canvas roof on our journeys. You two have never been  _discreet._  It's back to front,  _nena._ "

This was directed towards Flora, who was puzzling over why her tunic was no longer fitting correctly. Zevran reached out to swivel it around, brushing his fingers over her collarbone.

"Also." The Antivan smiled widely as Alistair muttered under his breath, retrieving his own shirt from where it had been flung across the room. "As much as I desired to give you  _privacy_ , I would not leave our Warden-Commander and future king unattended. I knew that you two would perhaps be too  _preoccupied_  with each other to detect any ill-meaning parties."

"Oh," Alistair shot Zevran a begrudging look, his tone reluctantly softening. "I suppose… that's a good excuse."

The elf led them back through the hunting grounds, his familiarity with the route indicating that he had made the journey to the hut on several occasions. The drizzle abated just as they emerged onto the cobblestones of the forecourt; now that there was no need to elude the attention of the guards, they were able to use the main entrance of the palace.

The Royal Guard standing either side of the vast doors leading to the entrance hall readied their halberds at the sight of three silhouetted figure.

"Halt!" demanded one enthusiastic young captain, blade gleaming in the flickering torchlight. "Who goes there?"

Flora hastily lifted her palm, the white-gold heatless flame springing up around her fingers to illuminate their faces. Immediately, the Royal Guard stood to attention; heads bowed dutifully towards Alistair.

"Your Highness!" bleated the captain, eyes fixed to the cobbles. "I- I apologise! We weren't sure where you were – the Steward was looking for you- "

"It's fine," replied Alistair amiably, in a good mood after the evening's activities. "Is everything well?"

The guards nodded frantically, hastening to open the smaller night-door embedded within the larger entrance. The hall beyond was still and silent, its lofty vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. The multiple hearths stationed along the walls had burnt down to ashes, their residual heat long since dissipated. As usual, Flora patted the paw of the great stone Mabari as she followed Alistair inside; there was a strong streak of Herring superstition inside her that had not diminished with the revelation of her true heritage.

Zevran accompanied them as far as the Cousland quarters, departing with a wink and a wave as he set his sights on the younger brother lodged within. Just as the door swung shut in his wake, the elf stuck his head back out with a promise to accompany the Wardens into the tunnels the next morning.

Back in the king's chamber, Alistair scowled for the entire duration of his disrobing; having temporarily forgotten that Loghain was showing them this supposed labyrinth that lay beneath Denerim's streets.

"What if it's some sort of… of  _trick?_ " he asked out loud, unbuttoning his shirt with a glower. "What if he attempts to make some sort of last-ditch attempt to seize power?"

"Like what?" Flora replied from the bed, folding the page corner of  _Exotic Fish_ and sliding it beneath the pillow.

Alistair gave a fitful shrug, stepping out of his breeches and kicking them ill-temperedly across the chamber.

"He could grab you and put a sword to your throat," he muttered darkly, and the immediacy of the reply suggested that this situation had been envisioned before. "He knows that I would agree to anything if your life was at stake."

Flora eyed her brother-warden as he pulled back the furs, clambering into bed alongside her with a scowl. Leaning back against the cushions, Alistair lifted an expectant arm; Flora rolled herself over and settled against the firm muscle of his chest. Their fingers wound together in the familiar ritual, palms clasped.

"If he tries anything, I'll launch him through the air with my shield, like one of those dwarven  _traybuckets."_

"Trebuchets."

" _Trebuchets._ But, Alistair, I don't think he will."

Alistair let out a small, suspicious grunt from somewhere above her head, his fingers tightening against her own.

"How do you know, Flo? You'd better not be making this judgement based purely on the fact that he's a northerner."

"No," replied Flora patiently, feeling the steady throb of her brother-warden's heartbeat against her cheek. "There's just - nothing to be gained from betraying us now. You do have one thing in common with him."

Alistair lifted his head from the pillows and stared down at Flora with such indignation that she almost wanted to laugh.

"What could I possibly have in common with  _Loghain?_ We're both tall? We both use a sword?"

"No," replied Flora, biting back a sudden urge to laugh. "You both love Ferelden. And would do anything to protect it."

Alistair opened his mouth to protest and then fell silent, brows drawing together. Flora closed her eyes and pulled the fur up over her shoulders, turning her face against his chest. Alistair reached out and drew his sister-warden on top of him, encasing her fiercely within strong arms.

"Don't leave my side once we get into these tunnels," he instructed, darkly. "I don't trust him."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: It's been aaaaages since I wrote some proper smut, lol. I just get too caught up in them running around palaces and gathering armies whaaahhhh!
> 
> Haha no wonder the steward was freaked out, their future king just went AWOL for two hours!


	299. The Man Who Made Her

Preparations for the journey into the tunnels started early the next morning. Eamon, who had strongly resisted the idea at first, had grudgingly agreed with the caveat that Alistair be accompanied by at least four of his companions at all times. The two Guerrin brothers had talked long into the night; reluctantly coming to the conclusion that they  _had_  heard a vague rumour of tunnels existing beneath Denerim's sprawling streets.

Zevran, as he had promised the previous night, would be accompanying them into the subterranean depths of the city. The elf was curious to meet the man who had been a former employer of sorts - after all, it had been Loghain's signature on the contract to end the Wardens' lives. Leliana and Wynne would also be joining them after an early morning service in Denerim's largest Chantry. The bard was always eager to gain insight into the city's many secrets; and the senior enchanter was tired of sitting and drinking endless cups of tea with Irving.

Alistair left the king's bedchamber early for the palace smithy, wanting to get some of the marks inflicted during the duel with Loghain knocked out of Maric's breastplate. Although they were not expecting to meet any resistance within the tunnels, Eamon had insisted that Alistair be fully armed regardless – he was taking no chances in the presence of Ferelden's most infamous traitor.

Flora had ignored Eamon's edict, reasoning that her Grey Warden ceremonial armour was more for  _show_  than for actual protection. Instead of manoeuvring herself into the constricting bodice and deeply-hated leather trousers, she had clad herself in a forest-green tunic and boots.

Knotting her hair in an untidy bundle on top of her head, she meandered her way towards the main entrance hall. After a handful of weeks spent in the Royal Palace, Flora had learnt how to navigate about a third of its labyrinthine passageways. She was reasonably confident about the route between the bedchamber and the entrance hall –  _halla portrait, minstrel's gallery, stained glass Calenhad –_ and equally so about the journey to the castle kitchens; although this was such a laborious journey that Flora could rarely justify the trek.

However, her usual route down to the entrance hall was stymied by the staircase beside the Calenhad window undergoing cleaning. A frantically apologising maid, clutching mop and bucket, pointed her towards an alternative stair.

Flora, stifling a yawn, wandered off in the direction of the pointed finger. After a brief foray into an ornate audience chamber inlaid with ebon panelling, she managed to locate the alternate staircase. Humming tunelessly to herself, she wandered down the winding steps, now able to discern the muffled noise of the entrance hall nearby. Hopping down the final stair, she began the chorus of  _Drowned Man's Anchor,_ turned a corner, and promptly came face to face with her father.

The portrait of a youthful Teyrn Cousland reared ten feet in the air, the man depicted larger than life in oil and plaster, on a vast oblong canvas. The pigmented colours were still richly lustrous, despite the layer of dust covering the frame. The man was garbed in stern Highever navy and pale green, a great-sword sheathed at his side and a Mabari bitch curled at his feet.

The water flask Flora had been clutching dropped to the flagstones, the cap loosing and spilling its contents over her boots. She barely noticed, staring wide-eyed up at the father who had made her, as opposed to the one who had  _raised_ her.

Flora had not needed to read the plaque at the base of the portrait to identify the teyrn. The hair – still vibrant at this point – was a rich, fox-fur red, the cheekbones high and prominent, the mouth full and haughty. There was a solemnity about the man that belied his youth – Bryce Cousland must have been only a handful of years older than Finian when this portrait had been commissioned.

Her eyes dropped to the dun-coloured bitch resting at the teyrn's feet, and Flora felt a sudden jolt of recognition.

_My father's favourite war-hound. The one I healed after the knight trampled it. She was named after the Orlesian emperor, I think – Flavia? Florette?_

_**Florian.** _

_I fixed what was broken, and Fergus saw me. And then everything changed._

Flora scowled at the dog, and then felt a little guilty – after all, it had not been the Mabari's fault that she had been injured. Instead, she dropped her eyes further and tried to read the lettering on the plaque. The letters were etched together in italicised cursive, and difficult to read.

"Bry- _Bryce_ Cousland… re- r-e-c- reading- reaving?  _Raving?"_

" _Receiving."_

Flora nearly fell into the canvas as a sardonic northern voice emerged from behind her. She spun around to see Loghain Mac Tir, hands cuffed at the waist, standing between two impassive guards. They had just emerged from a previously unnoticed lower stair, which presumably led to the dungeons.

The former general let out a dry bark of laughter at Flora's gobsmacked expression, shaking his head. The man was unarmoured, clad in a plain beige tunic and breeches.

"That's the same face my daughter pulled when I told her that she was going to marry Cailan."

"The same face that  _any_ woman would pull if her father tried to tell her who to marry," retorted Flora immediately, letting the scowl mature into a full-force glower.

Loghain snorted, stepping forward to inspect the plaque. Flora retreated several feet away, unnerved by the sight of the former general out of his cell.

"' _Teyrn Bryce Cousland, receiving the Medal of Valour for heroism shown at the Battle of White River',"_ the man read, the  _north_  in his voice emerging in every flat vowel and drawled syllable.

"Oh," said Flora, confused. "Arl Bryland told me about that battle when we were at South Reach. It sounded a very…  _formidable_  occasion.What did my- my _father_ do to get a medal?"

Loghain shot her a quick, unreadable glance out of the corner of his eye.

"He saved the life of Rendon Howe."

Flora flinched, unable to help herself from quailing at the hated name. She hid the cringe by quickly letting out a snort of contempt.

"Ugh! Then it should read  _Teyrn Bryce Cousland: Poor judge of character._ Or  _rejector of daughters._ "

"Sending you away was a greater mistake than saving Howe, lass."

Loghain's voice was uncharacteristically quiet, and Flora darted him a little look from the tail of her eye. The general was gazing up at his larger-than-life rival, with something close to regret writ over his lined features. When Loghain spoke next, his words were addressed to the paint and plaster figure on the canvas before him.

"You had enough influence to keep the lass out of a Circle. Maker knows Maric had a soft spot for her; he would've made her  _court enchanter in training,_ or some other ridiculous made-up title. If Anora had possessed magic, there would be no Templar in Thedas who could have taken her from my side."

Flora was silent, a sudden melancholy settling heavy in the bottom of her stomach. Loghain stared up at his dead counterpart a moment longer, and then shook his head.

"As you pointed out at the Landsmeet, girl, I have no noble blood in my veins. So perhaps I don't understand these matters of pride and prominence as well as your blue-blooded father."

"Hm. Anora is a  _formidable_  woman," said Flora instead, diplomatically. She reached out to rub her finger along the gilded picture frame one last time, before turning her face towards the entrance hall.

"Is _formidable_ your  _word of the day?"_   retorted Loghain, but there was no rancour in his tone as he went to follow her. "Aye, I have raised her in my own image. It's no wonder she approached you to offer her support, if she had a chance to preserve her own position. Clever girl."

The entrance hall opened up before them in its familiar vaulted starkness, the rich blue carpeting a proud declaration of Denerim wealth. Servants were scuttling around with firewood and pokers, partway through refuelling the vast hearths positioned in facing pairs down each wall.

Flora frowned over her shoulder at Loghain and his escort, wondering if she had heard him correctly.

"You know that she tried to betray you?"

Loghain inclined his head a fraction, ignoring the curious murmurs and whispers from those around them.

"I would have expected no less from her," he replied, evenly.

Bann Sighard, trailing retainers like a small child draped in scarves, greeted Flora effusively as he swept past. In contrast, the old bann then shot the former general a dark glare and assiduously ignored him.

"Is this what it feels like to be an elf?" Loghain muttered in an undertone, following in Flora's wake.

Flora also ignored the disgraced teyrn, having spotted the gilded figure of her brother-warden in the open doorway. Clad in Maric's armour, Alistair was easily the tallest man in the entrance hall, hair gleaming like molten bronze in the morning sun. He was laughing at something that Zevran had said; the elf was clad in dark leathers and draped lasciviously between the stone Mabari's paws.

Alistair turned around, reflexively smiling on seeing his sister-warden. The smile immediately turned into a scowl as he caught sight of Loghain, cuffed and guarded, in her wake. Abandoning Zevran mid-joke, he strode forward with a protective hand outstretched.

"I assume that's not intended for me," Loghain commented to nobody in particular, lifting his chin in preparation.

When Flora slid her fingers into those of her brother-warden, Alistair drew her against his side and shot Loghain a look of naked dislike.

"I won't hesitate to run you through," he said, bluntly. "If you give me even the _slightest_  cause. I spared you once, but I won't make a habit of it."

"It's more likely that I'll trip over my own feet and bash my brains out on the flagstones," replied Loghain with a little snort, rattling the cuffs around his wrists. "Are you going to parade me through the city in chains?"

"I would advise against it, my prince," purred Zevran with face amused, but eyes dark and watchful. "Loghain Mac Tir is not the most  _popular_ figure with the people of Denerim at the moment. Angry mobs will only impede our progress."

Flora saw Loghain flinch, as she had done earlier on the mention of Howe, a microscopic tremor of emotion fracturing the careful composure.

Alistair gritted his teeth, and then took a step closer to his father's closest friend.

"Give me  _one_ reason," he muttered, hazel eyes blazing rich with conviction. "And I'll end you gladly. Try and run; your own hired assassin will hunt you down. Guard, unlock the cuffs."

Once the metal shackles had been removed, Loghain rubbed at the chafe marks on his wrists, exhaling. The disgraced former-teyrn was barely given a moment to acclimatise himself to the sensation of walking unimpeded before Alistair demanded the location of the tunnels.

It transpired that the nearest entrance was located near the Square of the Bride. Prince, disgraced general, mage and assassin left on horseback; the first three cloaked and hooded to avoid attention.

Now that they were well into Bloomingtide, trees and hedgerows were beginning to blossom into summer fullness. Wild flowers hung in skeins from ivy-wrapped branches, pale green moss lay tangled beneath the horses' hooves as they made their way through the palace grounds. The first budding fruits could be seen swelling into life amidst the foliage; hardy Ferelden apples and pears that were still too bitter to eat raw.

It was hard to imagine the Darkspawn cutting a putrid swathe through such joyful fecundity, and Flora let out a little shudder. Alistair, who was perched at her back, nudged her gently in the ribs.

"Alright, Flo?"

"Mm," she replied distractedly, shoving a strand of hair back behind her ear. She could feel the hard, curving plate of Maric's armour, hidden beneath the wool of his cape. "Don't we look a little silly in cloaks and hoods in this weather? I know we're meant to be avoiding attention, but… I think we actually draw  _more_ attention dressed like this."

Zevran, deliberately anonymous enough to require no disguise, let out a cackle.

"The three of you look ridiculous," he informed them bluntly, shaking his braided blond head. "You're standing out like three Templars in an Orlesian brothel. Is this how you plan to avoid curious eyes?"

Flora nodded in eager agreement, for she hated her cloak. The hood was far too deep and fell halfway over her face, obscuring her vision spectacularly. Eventually she had grown tired of sliding it up her nose and just let the material be; her worldview now consisting entirely of slightly pungent brown wool.

"Who are  _you?"_ Loghain's voice drifted from somewhere behind her left ear.

"Ah, of course - we have not been  _formally_ introduced," purred Zevran, a wide and supercilious beam plastered across his tattooed cheeks. "My apologies. I am Zevran of House Arainai, the Antivan Crow whom you hired to eradicate the Grey Wardens that survived Ostagar."

There followed a long and prickly silence.

" _Awkward,"_ Flora whispered to Alistair, and received a soft snort in return.

"I assume that you were unsuccessful in your mission, then," replied Loghain at last, his voice dry as ever.

"I'm afraid so," replied Zevran with a slight roll of the eyes. "My sincerest apologies."

There was another drawn-out pause.

"Do I get a refund, then, elf?"

"What?"

"I am a man stripped of his teyrnir, position and influence," continued Loghain evenly, the slightest breath of dark humour tinting the words. "I find myself sorely in need of coin. Since you did not make good on the contract, surely I am entitled to my costs back?"

" _Ha!"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I saw the Zevran-Loghain banter on Youtube and it was hilarious so I had to incorporate it somehow!
> 
> I find it funny that Flora was so perplexed by the concept of a noble parent deciding who their daughter would marry – when of course, this would have been the norm! In fact, she herself would have been married off to Cailan at the age of fourteen or fifteen – regardless of her own personal desires – had she not manifested her magic.
> 
> I liked the concept of Flora running into this huge portrait of her father – her real father – and although she barely has any memory of Bryce Cousland, she's able to recognise him straight away. I put him in some nice subtle Highever colours, not the fcking monstrosity of a colour combo he's wearing in game – yellow and red? WTF?


	300. In The Tunnels With A Traitor

Wynne and Leliana joined their party in the Square of the Bride, having attended the early morning service in the Grand Chantry. After the senior enchanter had collected her staff from the duty Templar, Leliana paused a moment longer to divest herself swiftly of her lay sister robes. Loghain's eyebrows shot upwards as the bard revealed her battle-ready leathers, several gleaming knives strapped in carefully visible places.

"I must have been preoccupied this past six months," he muttered as Leliana shot him a wary stare. "I was not aware of this drastic new direction in Chantry fashion."

"My eyes are on your back," replied Leliana sweetly, swinging herself with ease up onto the saddle behind Loghain. "I suggest you behave yourself, Mac Tir."

After Zevran had exchanged some customary flirtation with Wynne, his saddle-mate for the journey, they set off once again. Loghain directed them towards a narrow alleyway that branched off the Square; its entrance tucked away behind a dilapidated tavern.

They left the horses and cloaks at a nearby guard post, following the disgraced general down the slender road. Wynne, who had the neatest hand, had brought along some parchment and a quill in order to sketch a map of these alleged tunnels.

The alley wove around the back of the Square of the Bride, skirting the rear of the Templar headquarters. At one point, they could see the crenelated towers of the Chantry above the rooftops, but a sharp right-hand bend took them in the opposite direction to the bustling square.

As the noises of the city grew quiet, Zevran and Leliana advanced closer to Loghain in an unspoken accord. The former general seemed not to notice their increasing proximity; he was busy counting off the grimy doorways set at intervals within the alley walls.

Alistair followed close on the assassins' heels, his face set in the same mutinous scowl that had continued uninterrupted since they left the palace. Every so often, he glanced down towards his right shoulder to ensure that Flora was still at his side.

"We appear to be somewhere between the Chantry district and the noble district," murmured Wynne, glass lenses sat low on her nose as she clutched a crude sketch of Denerim. "This alleyway doesn't seem to have been recorded by the mapmakers."

"As Maric instructed," replied Loghain, coming to a halt beside a particularly grimy door. The wood was partially rotted, its structure barely held together by corroded iron staples. "Here."

He lifted a bare hand to the decrepit boards and gave a push. The wood yielded easily, corroded from years of immersion in drizzle and sea mist. Beyond lay a set of steps that descended into the darkness, giving no indication as to where they might lead.

"So, do you believe me now,  _Your Highnes_ s?" Loghain enquired lightly, sweeping a hand forward to encompass the shadowed stair. "The proof is before your eyes."

Alistair scowled, remaining motionless on the cobblestones with one hand on the hilt of his blade.

"Those could lead to a tavern basement," he retorted, the suspicion raw in his voice. "Show us the  _tunnels."_

Loghain raised one eyebrow, surveying the gloomy steps.

"Did you bring torches?"

Nobody had, and Alistair's face fell as he realised the consequences of such a failure.

Almost able to hear her brother-warden's teeth grinding together, Flora dutifully sidled past both him and Loghain. At the top of the stairs, she lifted her hand to summon the heatless flame to her palm. Light sprung up, illuminating a nondescript set of steps and stone-clad walls.

Keeping her hand raised, she began to descend, hearing Loghain cursing immediately behind her as his foot made contact with a slick patch of mildew.

"You put a  _single_  finger on her," hissed Alistair, through gritted teeth. "And I'll brick you up in these supposed  _tunnels_ , so you can be with your fellow rats for all eternity."

"I have no interest in hurting her," Loghain retorted tautly. "Believe me, I've had  _ample_  opportunities to do her ill. I've taken none of them."

This was entirely the wrong thing to say to all four of Flora's companions, each of whom bristled and opened their mouths to respond.

" _Sto-o-op!"_  interrupted Flora tremulously, her voice echoing around the narrow space. "We have more important things to focus on!"

"Of course," replied Wynne from the rear of the party, one hand resting on Zevran's shoulder to keep her balance. "Our collective efforts to stop the Blight- "

"No," continued Flora, squinting anxiously down into the gloom beneath her feet. "Whether or not there are any GHOSTSdown here. I think a ghost could  _definitely_  get through my shield."

The steps came to an abrupt end in a passageway that branched off in opposite directions. As Loghain had intimated, the tunnels had been hollowed out from the solid Alamarri bedrock that served as the foundations of the city. The walls were rough, curving limestone, their surfaces covered with a damp layer of condensation. They were also not completely dark – narrow shafts of light penetrated the rock ceiling at sporadic intervals, from where ventilation vents had been dug to the streets above.

"I thought those grates led to the sewers," Wynne breathed, stepping forwards to squint up into one distant, barred patch of daylight. "Fascinating."

Flora was not at all interested in the air vents; she was more preoccupied with squinting suspiciously into the cavernous mouths of each gloomy passageway.

" _Boo,"_ whispered Zevran, very close to her right ear.  _"I'm a spirit of lusty intent."_

Flora squealed in alarm, spinning around and glowering at the elf.

" _Don't,"_  she entreated, poking him in the tight muscle of his gut. "I almost sent you flying. I don't like this. These are  _definitely_ haunted."

Alistair gazed along the length of the tunnel, with face taut and jaw stiff. For a few moments, the perennial distrust of Mac Tir faded away; replaced by a far more all-encompassing concern.

"These are exactly the sort of tunnels that the Darkspawn use," he said after a few moments, eyes shadowed. "Don't they remind you of the service passages in the Deep Roads, Flo?"

"Mm," Flora replied, suppressing a reflexive little shudder.  _"Ghost territory."_

"Ironic that Maric intended these as a last line of defence," murmured Wynne to Loghain, who let out a nondescript grunt. "I suppose he would never have imagined that they could be used by the enemy."

For a moment, each one of them fell silent; envisioning the Darkspawn bypassing their carefully constructed defences and spilling up from a dozen hidden locations within the city walls.

"So, the northern branch must lead towards the Chantry," Leliana said at last, her mind working swiftly to envision what lay on the streets above their heads. "And the south into the noble district. We need to map out these weak points for the dwarven engineers."

"Lead on, Mac Tir," instructed Alistair through gritted teeth. "And no tricks."

Loghain inclined his head silently, dark eyes flashing with quiet amusement.

They spent the next three hours walking the length and breadth of the labyrinth; passing beneath the bustling districts of the city unbeknownst to the residents above. The tunnels mostly seemed to be in good condition – they were fairly watertight, save for where they passed close to Denerim's branching canals. Several entrances were entirely sealed off by fallen rubble, and Wynne was sure to mark these on her hand-drawn replica.

On occasion, the grates that allowed both air and light into the subterranean passageways were also blocked. In these cases, Flora duly summoned the white-gold flame to her hand to provide illumination. If the air tasted too stale, they would backtrack and find an alternate route.

The tunnel that ran underneath the market district had clearly been constructed too close to Denerim's main canal; it was flooded with several inches of stagnant water. After everybody had thoroughly soaked their boots traipsing through it, Leliana suggested tactfully that they rest and recuperate some energy. Fortunately the next passage was merely damp, rather than drenched; lit faintly by greyish light filtering through several dusty vents.

"I believe we're somewhere near the main bridge," Wynne murmured, squinting down distractedly at the parchment map as she leaned back against the wall. "We should be coming near to the-  _patience,_ child!"

"Just getting lunch!"

Flora had squirrelled her way into the senior enchanter's pack and retrieved several pieces of cheese, to accompany the bread rolls produced by Leliana. She then crawled to sit beside her brother-warden, who was sweating and uncomfortable in his father's armour. Alistair had placed himself at the far end to where Loghain was sitting; the former general was hunched some distance apart from the rest of the group.

"I must say," murmured Zevran, managing to lounge elegantly despite the less than salubrious surroundings. "I've dined in more  _appealing_ locations."

"I remember being invited to  _dejeuner_ at Halamshiral," added a reminiscent Leliana as she handed out a selection of rye bread rolls. "The Empress had a new dessert-maker – I think he was from Minrathous – and he could craft tiny cakes no larger than a copper coin. He used to create tiny animals out of sugar-work and place them on top. They were almost too beautiful to eat."

Both Alistair and Loghain let out simultaneous snorts of derision. Alistair immediately scowled, a faint flush rising to his cheeks as he averted his gaze.

"Cakes the size of a  _coin?"_ repeated Flora, looking confused as she broke apart a bunch of grapes. "Would you eat ten at a time?"

Leliana shot her a mildly incredulous look, shaking her head.

" _Non, ma petite._ You exercise  _restraint_."

"I prefer to  _test_ restraints," piped up Zevran wickedly, unable to help himself. "Preferably in the context of the bedroom. Ha!"

There followed silence for several minutes as the majority of the party ate their lunch, to the backdrop of steadily dripping water. Eventually, Alistair roused himself sufficient from his black mood to nudge Flora gently in the ribs.

"Why aren't you eating, Lo?"

Flora glanced at him, and then slid her eyes sideways to where Loghain was sitting against the wall. The former general was so still, he could have been an unusually shaped rock formation. Nobody had brought any spare food for their guest companion.

As though sensing her gaze, Loghain looked up and raised a greying eyebrow.

"I'll draw a line in the dirt to separate myself further, if that would suit you," he stated, each word heavy and sardonic. "Shall I turn my back so you don't have to look at my traitorous face?"

Instead of replying, Flora tore her bread roll in two and hurled one half towards his head, with slightly more force than was necessary. It was followed by part of her own cheese; and both items were caught with still-sharp dexterity.

Loghain peered at her for a moment through the gloom, biting back the sharp comment he had been about to make. Instead, he gave a small nod of thanks and began to unwrap the cheese.

"He broke his fast in the dungeon this morning," Alistair hissed in his sister-warden's ear. "You didn't need to do that."

Flora shrugged, looking gloomily down at her own diminished rations.

"I can't help it," she replied, honestly. "I honestly can't."

Alistair ground his teeth, and then broke his own bread to replenish his sister-warden's lunch. She kissed him on the cheek and he let out a mildly irritated grunt; darting her a dark look from the corner of his eye. Flora, chastised, hung her head and gazed down at her own lap.

Sensing the atmosphere tauten, Leliana cleared her throat and prepared to launch into an amusing anecdote about the network of secret passages rumoured to lie beneath Val Royeaux.

"Ah, spare us another of your inimitable tales of Orlais!" interjected Zevran, the lightness in his tone now brittle. "For one who claims to be  _Fereldan_ , you spend a lot of time extolling the virtues of the Empress."

Leliana, outraged, shot the elf a glower from beneath her eyelashes. Zevran, whose retort had been fuelled by a sudden pang of homesickness for his dry, sweet-scented Antiva, licked his lips with slight abashment.

It was a quietly mutinous party that continued onwards after lunch. Alistair, irritated by Flora's compassion towards the former teyrn, showed his displeasure by snapping at her for minutiae. Leliana and Wynne shot alternate scowls at Zevran for his own disparaging comment.

The expressionless Loghain continued to lead them into the bowels of the city; speaking only to intimate their location.

They were making their way around the edge of a large, open cistern, when Wynne raised her voice above the rushing water and called for the party to halt. Everybody duly came to a pause, turning to look at the senior enchanter as she brought up the rear.

"Would you like a sit down and a cup of tea?" purred Zevran, who was tired of the old woman's glowers.

But Wynne was looking at Flora, who was staring gormlessly into space with her mouth partially open.

"Do you feel it, child?"

Flora nodded, wide-eyed.

Alistair was immediately alert, clutching the hilt of his sword as he went straight to his sister-warden's side.

"Is it Darkspawn, my darling?"

Flora shook her head, for she felt neither the crawling-insects-in-veins sensation of the horde, nor the insidious, breathy whisper of the Archdemon. Instead, there was a slightly acrid tinge to the air, a prickling sensation that tickled the inside of the throat when inhaled. When she looked down, she saw that the soft, downy hairs on the backs of her arms were standing on end.

"It's  _magic,"_  she whispered, meeting Wynne's gaze. "But we're not near the encampment, are we?"

The senior enchanter shook her head with an anxious expression, tucking the parchment map into her pocket and checking that her staff was still strapped to her back.

"Nowhere near. We're beneath the warehouse district. Anyway, this is  _more_ than just magic - can't you smell the Fade in the air? The Veil has been weakened nearby."

"There's  _illegal_ mages here?" spoke up Alistair, incredulous. "Well, Mac Tir, here's some more unwelcome individuals taking up residency in the city under  _your_  watch. Slavers, apostates… why don't we just lay out a welcome mat for the Archdemon and it's horde? Provide refreshments?"

" _Hush,_ Alistair," hissed Wynne, eyes distant as she tilted her head to one side. The older mage was listening to energy patterns in the air that nobody else was able - or experienced enough - to detect. "There's a foul scent in the air."

Everybody held their breath as the senior enchanter flinched, blinking to regain her focus.

"It's blood magic," Wynne informed them, her face grim. "There are  _maleficar_ nearby."

There came a metallic sigh as Alistair unsheathed his sword, face set in grim countenance.

"Then we rid ourselves of them," he replied, through gritted teeth. "Blood magic has no place in my city."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OK so this is my way of incorporating the quest in game with the blood mages in the warehouse! Plus I need to keep my action-writing skills (or "skills" lol) up, in preparation for the final battle. It can't all be prancing around palaces and waving at troops from horses, lol.
> 
> I like this chapter because they're all sulking at each other in the second part, and then Wynne scents out blood magic and OOOHH action stations!


	301. Blood Mages In Denerim

The prince strode forward with a face wreathed in thunderclouds. Leliana, the consummate bodyguard, sidled after him with daggers already drawn.

"I suppose I'll be fighting the blood mages with my  _fists_  then, like an Avvar war chief," said Loghain, to nobody in particular. "Perhaps I should take off my tunic, to further the illusion."

"Please, we could all do with a laugh," retorted Zevran, although a vein of excitement ran through the words. The elf had been growing tired of traipsing around in mildewed tunnels, and anticipated some action.

"Keep close and I can shield you," replied Flora, gloomily. Along with the disgraced general, she had brought neither armour nor weapon, demonstrating quite a spectacular lack of foresight.

"Flora," called Alistair over his shoulder, waving her closer. "You stay near to me, sweetheart. Unless I'm in terrible danger, in which case you stay  _far, far away_. Understand?"

Flora nodded dutifully, while thinking that she would do no such thing. Alistair, who could read her solemn countenance like a book, narrowed his eyes at her.

Before he could speak, Zevran held a finger to his lips and paused; the elf hovering in the gloom just ahead. With the feline motions of a cat, he sidled towards a nondescript door lodged within the tunnel wall. There was no discernible handle, but the wood looked fragile and partly rotted. Wynne closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling the faint acrid scent of the arcane. A moment later, she gave a faint nod, tilting her head towards the rotten doorway.

"There's something through there," she breathed, letting the constant drip-drip of seawater mask her words.

Zevran drew away from the door as Leliana began to rummage in her belt, murmuring about a clever tool she had purchased in Val Royeaux that was able to pry open a closed door.

The next moment, Alistair had barged past and rammed his shoulder into the door; using the brute strength of his powerful frame to fracture the rotten wood. It gave way immediately with a groan and the sound of splintering timbers.

" _Subtle,"_ commented Loghain, but Flora was no longer at his side. As soon as Alistair had crashed through the doorway she had scuttled forwards, her hands rising in preparation to shield her brother-warden from whatever lay beyond.

Torchlight spilled into the tunnel and those in its path covered their eyes, the flame dazzling after hours of subterranean gloom.

Once they had regained their vision, the chamber behind the broken door came into focus. It appeared to be a long storeroom, with shelving and crates stacked high against each wall. The air had the damp, earthy scent of a poorly ventilated cellar.

"Ah! Who are  _you?!"_ demanded a high-pitched, nasal voice; its owner emerging from around a corner. "You can't just  _barge_ in here!"

The voice's owner was an outraged young man, slender and dark-haired, with the beginnings of a moustache clinging to his upper lip. He was clad in a robe the colour of Antivan wine, with long sleeves that fell over his hands.

"Well, I'm the future king of Ferelden," replied Alistair bluntly, one hand resting prominently on the hilt of his sword. "So, actually, I can barge where I please."

The young man's eyes widened imperceptibly but he attempted to brazen it out, lifting his chin in challenge.

"The King is  _dead_ ," he replied, taking a step back as the others fell into place behind Alistair. "He died at Ostagar, months ago."

"Then your news is out of date," purred Zevran, sidling deftly around Alistair's gilded form and inspecting one of the crates. "What did you say this place was?"

There was a brief pause, which elongated into a fully-fledged silence.

"A trading company," replied the young man eventually, his eyes slithering across the stacked boxes and dusty shelves. "You've just broken into our storage cellar. Look around, do you see any evidence of wrongdoing? Or criminal activity?"

The man's sleeve slid down his arm as he gestured; revealing a mass of scar tissue, white and gnarled scoring against the pale flesh.

" _Maleficar!"_ breathed Wynne, as the mage's pupils shrank to tiny points. "Watch out!"

The young man gave a feral cry, withdrawing a dagger from his pocket and scoring a scarlet line down the knotted skin. The next moment, a percussive wave of force blasted through the room, splintering the crates into wooden fragments.

Alistair raised his arm, turning reflexively to shield both Flora and Wynne behind him. Loghain, clad only in a thin tunic, ducked swiftly behind the fractured doorframe.

The wooden fragments, each one jagged as a shard of glass, sliced through the air like thrown darts. They collided with a gleaming barrier, a curving sheath of light gilded like the silvered underbelly of a fish. A scowling Flora lowered her hand, remembering when Jowan had used the same spell in the Circle tower.

The young blood mage gaped, stepping backwards and colliding with the remnants of a dozen ruined crates. Alistair took advantage of the man's shock to lunge through the barrier, driving his sword into the mage's chest with a single, precisely-aimed thrust. The mage died near-instantly, mouthing silently as his fingers convulsed. Blood began to spill across the floorboards, creating indelible stains as it soaked into the wood.

Flora blinked, the shield dissipating into glimmering flecks that caught the light like flecks of foil. She could feel the thinness of the Veil as a physical sensation; the fingers of the Fade trailing against her skin and drifting over her hair.

"Can you sense any more magic, Wynne?" Leliana breathed, crouching to run her hand over the corpse in a practised gesture. She withdrew a strange construction of looped sinew and bone, covered in hardened tar, and gave a small grimace. "Ugh!"

"That's a  _maleficar_ foci," replied Wynne briskly, inclining her head in response to the bard's question. "And yes, I believe that our blood mage problem is far from over."

They made their way cautiously through the broken remains of the storeroom, stepping over the corpse of the young man and weaving around the collapsed shelving. The crates and boxes were empty, providing further confirmation that they were merely for show.

Zevran and Leliana advanced first, each able to navigate silently through the shadows. They were followed by Alistair, his teeth gritted with displeasure and sword held naked from its sheath. Flora, Wynne and Loghain brought up the rear; the latter still muttering under his breath about his lack of armour or weapon.

The storeroom led into a dimly lit corridor, the air heavy with subterranean damp. Shortly after, Zevran put a quiet hand up to halt their advance, using the flat of his dagger to angle light across a hidden tripwire.

Once the trap had been safely deactivated, they continued down the corridor. Leliana and Zevran slipped off to scout branching storerooms, only to return with confirmation that they were empty.

Just as they were about to round the corner at the end of the passage, there was a sudden piercing cry of outrage. Both assassins flattened themselves against the wall to avoid a globular mass of flame; hurled from a shadowed corner to splatter into molten fragments against the wall.

The culprit – an elven woman with hair dark as the underside of a crow's wing – emerged from a hidden arch, her face pulsing with anger.

"How did you find us?!" she demanded, lightning crackling between her fingers as she crafted another elemental missile.  _"How did you- "_

A scarlet wound blossomed in her throat, though the  _flechette_ protruding from the skin appeared little more than a dart. Yet the elf bled out with surprising rapacity; more so when Leliana reached down to retrieve her blade.

"Good aim," Loghain observed grudgingly, eyeing the bard with measured respect. "Did they teach you how to do that at the Chantry?"

Leliana gave a small sniff and ignored him, tossing her intricately braided hair.

The senior enchanter advanced beneath the archway, then stopped short with a quick inhalation of dismay.

"Poor souls," she murmured, turning away with mingled disgust and pity. "I wonder how many people fell victim to these monsters?"

Alistair stared past Wynne, taking in the various apparatus of blood mage ritual. Several discarded husks lay about the room, including a flayed skin tossed idly into a corner. A twisted crux decorated with an elongated, ridged skull had been affixed to one wall; the many protruding spikes impaled with bloody globules of flesh. His initial horror was quickly replaced by incendiary anger, rage curling the corners of his mouth and shadowing the green-flecked hazel irises.

"Maker's Breath," he said, turning away with one hand rising to his mouth. "This is  _unbelievable._  Flo, it's as bad as in the Deep Roads."

Flora had no desire to stare voyeuristically at the remnants of  _maleficar_ ritual. She hovered in the corridor unhappily, noticing that Loghain too had refrained from inspecting the carnage within.

"I can well imagine what it's like," muttered the former general, an oily sheen of disgust settling on top of his dark pupils. "I don't need to gawp at it."

Zevran delicately plucked up a slender knife that had been discarded amidst the ruined flesh, testing its edge against his leathers. Quietly impressed at the sharpness, he slid it surreptitiously beneath a fold in his tunic.

"It's enough to put one off their dinner," he murmured, wrinkling the end of his nose.

Flora grimaced, risking a small glance beneath the archway. An unidentifiable red mass caught her eye and she looked away quickly, stomach rolling like a boat on a storm-tossed sea.

_**Careful!** _

She brought up the shield before herself and Loghain; an instinctive response to the whispered warning. The next moment, a crackling bolt of lightning arced its way through the air towards them, quick as the snap of a whip. It collided with the glimmering barrier, creating ripples across its surface akin to a pebble dropped into a pond. Beside Flora, Loghain flinched, grabbing at her elbow in an attempt to pull her behind him as the lethal charge dissolved inches before their faces.

The caster of the spell – a middle-aged man with a threadbare offering of facial hair – lifted his staff and gaped at the absorption of his missile. Letting out a howl of anger, he withdrew a dagger from his sleeve and made preparation to cut.

Just as the tip of the blade made contact with his forearm, the ground beneath the mage's feet turned to solid ice; crystals of frigid blue blossoming up the length of his robes. In seconds, he was entirely encased in frost, eyes stark and staring.

Wynne lowered her own staff, with a small sniff of disgust.

" _Maleficar!"_ she spat, a single strand of greying hair falling free from her bun. "Giving the rest of us mages a bad name."

Alistair strode forward, tight-jawed and deeply unhappy at the proximity of the spell to his sister-warden. When his eyes fell on Loghain's fingers still clutching Flora's elbow, his expression curdled further.

"Get your hands off her, Mac Tir," he hissed, looking tempted to remove it forcibly. "Are you alright, Flo?"

Flora nodded, gaping at the frozen, statuesque figure posed mid-cast before them.

"Wynne is  _so_  clever," she breathed admiringly, eyes wide. "I wish I could do that. Think how much  _easier_ preserving fish for transportation to market would be!"

They made their way through the rest of the warehouse cellar, running into sporadic resistance as they did so. Between the flashing blades of Leliana and Zevran, the angry sword-thrusts of Alistair and the arcane assaults from Wynne; those opposing them quickly fell into broken pieces on the floor. As Wynne continually, and unnecessarily, reminded them – it was imperative to kill a  _maleficar_  swiftly, or else their own draining blood would become fuel for increasingly powerful spells.

Flora had hovered in the rear, in her customary position, bringing up the shield around her allies where it was needed. She did not need to over-exert herself; the blood mages had clearly been caught by surprise, and their assaults were wild and uncoordinated. Loghain, sensibly, stayed close beside her while muttering darkly at his inability to contribute.

"I'm as useless as a babe in arms," he complained at one point, eyeing the little-used sword that Leliana carried at her hip. "Could I not just- "

The practical Leliana appeared ready to relent, but then Alistair interrupted with a furious denial.

After carving a relentless swathe through the underground basement, they turned their attention to the upper storey. A single, rickety stair ascended to the higher floor of the warehouse, which presumably rested on street level.

Leliana led the way down a nondescript wood-and-plaster corridor, daggers held before her. They passed a number of doors left on the jar, but a quick glance within revealed nothing but empty storage rooms.

Once they reached a plain door partway down the passage, Wynne inhaled with sudden sharpness, her nostrils flaring.

"The Veil has been torn to shreds in that room," she breathed, canting her head towards the doorway. "What magic are they casting in there?"

"Whatever it is," snarled Alistair, dangerously close to pure, unadulterated rage. "I'm going to put an  _end_  to it."

" _Careful- "_  began Wynne, but the young prince had already shoved the door open with his boot; a shout of anger emerging from his lips as he burst his way inside.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Uh ooohhhh maleficar in Denerim! I need to get better at writing action scenes, I think. I like this chapter because it demonstrates the role that Flora was supposed to play – the back-up position! If everything had gone to plan, Flora would always have been in a supporting role. Instead, after the tragedy at Ostagar, she's found herself thrust into a leadership position. I do think I write Flo a bit more like the unlikely protagonist in a story rather than a game action hero. I get a bit jealous when I read other people's fanfictions with their combat-hardened Wardens kicking ass and taking names, lol. Oh well, Flora does get the occasional bit of badassery (though I think the last time was splitting Howe's head open – she's well overdue for some more!)


	302. The Blood Sacrifice

The chamber was wide but claustrophobic, the ceiling low and crossed with dark beams. It was devoid of furniture, save for a stone slab positioned on a raised step on the far side of the room. A twisted crux rose behind the  _maleficar_ altar, draped in what appeared to be human offal. Blood was splattered across the plaster walls, as though the room had once housed a particularly careless butcher.

Yet, even more disconcerting than the blood, was the arcane paraphernalia placed carefully about the room. Candles burning scarlet wicks had been positioned in concentric circles, interspersed with bowls of oily matter. Two chains hung from the ceiling, their rusted links coated with greasy residue.

A man, robed in maroon like a great scarlet crow, was crouched at the altar. He appeared Tevinter in origin; with a greying beard oiled into two long points. Gnarled fingers were working strands of the bleeding Veil like an old woman working wool, twisted skeins of energy coiling around the knuckles.

Alistair came to an abrupt halt in the doorway, mouth dropping. For once in his life, the prince found himself absolutely speechless. The others crowded in behind him, reacting with a mixture of shock and revulsion. The sulphuric tang of the Fade was so strong that even the non-mages grimaced at its acrid potency. Patches of arcane dissonance hovered quietly beside the ceiling beams, pale green and trembling.

"Who-  _how dare you!"_ Alistair hissed at last, fingers convulsing on the hilt of his sword. "How  _dare_  you do this!"

"Look,  _Morfran,_ we have guests," the man purred, seemingly speaking to a presence that only he could see. "What perfect timing _._ I needed a blood sacrifice to bring you fully into this realm, and now I have one."

Wynne put a hand to her eyes, shaking her head in utter disbelief.

"You have  _shredded_ the Veil in this place, fool!" she berated, drawing herself up to her full height and glowering. "All to summon-  _what?_  Some foul demon that you have no hope of controlling? You will become an abomination!"

"Do not put that blade to your skin!" Leliana added, drawing her dagger to mirror the man's own movement. "Blood magic goes against all Chantry teachings!"

Without waiting for anybody else, Alistair strode forwards with a furious yell, raising his sword. The others hastened to follow, Wynne readying her staff and Loghain – in a futile gesture of defiance – his bare fists alone.

_**Careful!** _

The blood mage drew some fuel from the inside of his forearm, then launched a crackling, bloodied missile across the chamber. It splattered in a spray of gobbets across a gleaming shield; Flora having anticipated the assault the moment that the mage raised his hands.

The Tevinter magister looked through the glinting veil of energy, past Zevran's fatalistic Crow grin and Wynne's horrified scowl; and saw Flora standing there with a single hand raised. He snarled at her with blackened teeth, and she glared back at him, keeping her eyes averted from the ritual detritus.

_**Be on your guard. You are their shield. He knows it.** _

"Give yourself up!" demanded Alistair, protected behind the shimmering barrier. "You're outnumbered!"

The maleficar swung his gaze slowly back towards the prince, then smiled very widely.

"Outnumbered? Ah, it seems that I am. Then I must  _even the odds."_

The blade glinted like the sun glancing off a bird's wing in flight, and then it was plunging into the top of the man's own thigh. There was a flicker of energy in the room; barely perceptible to the naked eye.

Alistair's sword dropped to the floor with a low thud as his fingers slackened. For a moment he swayed on the spot, paying no heed to Leliana's concerned hand on his shoulder.

"There is a dangerous apostate here," said the Tevinter mage, in a voice thick and smug as double cream. "Templar:  _do your duty."_

As though in a dream, Alistair turned and covered the space between himself and Flora in three strides. In a single, violent swing, his armoured fist came forward and crashed into his sister-warden's face. Such was the power of Alistair's brute strength that she toppled backwards immediately, knocked into unconsciousness.

Chaos erupted shortly afterwards; Zevran ineffectually restrained by Leliana, while Wynne shrieked that he was  _under blood magic, it's mind control, he's enthralled!_ In the midst of the turmoil Alistair shook off the elf as though swatting a fly, then reached down mechanically for his sword. There was a bestial scowl carved across his features, and the dark pupils were flooded with a vibrant crimson.

The mage let out a cackle and sent several bolts of lightning arcing across the room, forcing Leliana and Zevran to dive to one side to avoid being caught in the crackling electrical field. Alistair, enthralled by the blood mage's spell, raised his sword and turned towards where Flora had gone sprawling backwards.

But the target of his attentions was no longer prone and helpless on the floor. Loghain, who himself had no armour or weapon, had hauled the limp Flora over his shoulder and was striding towards the door.

When the door vanished in a maelstrom of flame, the former general let out a curse and swung around, heading instead to the far side of the chamber.

"Ha!" Leliana let something fly from her hand, her pale blue eyes ablaze with focus.

The maleficar let out a howl, clasping a hand to his shoulder. Blood sprang up from between his fingers and one of Leliana's blades dropped to the floor. The puppet Alistair, who had been advancing towards Loghain and Flora, came to a confused halt.

" _Don't!"_  Wynne called, using her staff to deflect a volley of bone fragments sharpened into lethal darts. "It gives him more power!"

It was too late. Tendrils of blistering violet energy began to snake their way upwards from between the floorboards, forcing the party to move apart.

In the far corner, Loghain was crouching over Flora, hissing urgently into her bruised and bloodied face whilst shaking her shoulder.

"Wake up, lassie," he instructed through gritted teeth, glancing towards the advancing magister. "We are in  _sore_ need of your shield. Come on, girl."

But Flora remained stubbornly lodged in the Fade, propelled there by the force of her brother-warden's own fist.

Back in the waking world, Loghain had no weapon save for his own fists; yet he faced the approaching mage as though he were clad in silverite and wielding  _Asala_ itself. Wynne, Leliana and Zevran were now trapped by separate fields of crackling energy, each bar white-hot and sparking.

With a snap of the maleficar's fingers, Alistair went to his side, scarlet-pupilled and docile. Together, magister and thrall advanced towards the far end of the room, one wielding sword and the other wielding staff.

The cursing Loghain left Flora slumped on the floorboards and faced both mage and bewitched prince.

" _Get away from her_ ," the northerner snarled, drawing himself up to his full height and raising his hands, much as though he were about to engage in a tavern brawl. "Or I'll send you back to Minrathrous, courtesy of my own fist."

Alistair lunged forward in a blind thrust with the sword, but he possessed none of his usual swift-footed dexterity. Loghain thrust out a foot and sent the prince crashing against the wall, temporarily dazed.

There followed a brief struggle between man and mage, which resulted in Loghain being knocked to the floor by a percussive wave of energy. Flora was summarily plucked into the air and transported towards the altar by a silent and utterly compliant Alistair.

"No!" bellowed Loghain, recoiling from the bars of blistering energy that had sprung up before his face. "Leave the girl be!"

" _Wake up, for the love of the Maker!"_ entreated Wynne from within her own arcane prison, and it was unclear which Warden she was referring to. "Wake up, or all is lost!"

The magister had Alistair place his unconscious sister-warden on the altar, then step back with head bowed and face slack.

Grinning, the Tevinter spellcaster turned to survey those caught in his white-hot arcane web, tongue running compulsively over blackened teeth. He dangled the dagger loosely, lovingly between his fingers, twirling it with mocking ceremony over Flora's limp body.

"It seems  _might_  is no match for magic after all," he murmured, amused by the anguish and anger of those watching. "Careful, elf, don't thrash too much or you'll scorch the tattoos from your skin. Now,  _Morfran_ , shall we have a little taste?"

The magister's tongue flickered, snakelike, over pale lips. He leaned down and trailed his finger down the edge of Flora's cheek, bloodied from where Alistair's gauntlet had scored an angular line. The next moment, he put his face besides hers and lathed his tongue along the cut, lapping up the blood in an obscene gesture.

" _Do something,_ Alistair!" yelled Zevran, the Antivan inflection emerging strong in his distress. "Don't just  _stand there."_

The magister recoiled as though he had inhaled the nectar of the gods, fluttering a hand next to his face in ecstasy.

"Such decadent blood, this one has! So rich, so  _potent. Morfran_ , it is perfect for you. Prepare yourself to cross the Veil, my friend!"

He raised the dagger, let out a wordless ululating cry, and sent it arcing downwards.

At the last moment, the blade was deflected by the solid muscle of a shoulder; a man's body surging forwards to deviate the blow. Loghain, burn-marks scorching his tunic from where he had broken free from the arcane cage, had barrelled across the room to thrust himself against the mage's arm.

The blade skidded to the side and missed its mark, scoring a line in Flora's collarbone before dropping to the floorboards. Loghain continued the tackle, ploughing into the mage and sending him crashing against the wall. The blackthorn staff went flying to one side, the crimson gem at the top shattering. Alistair, standing motionless in the centre of the room, suddenly inhaled sharply, putting a confused hand to his head.

" _Wha- "_

"You're too late!" gasped the magister gleefully, struggling in vain against Loghain's grip.  _"Morfran comes!"_

His gnarled finger trembled in triumph, gesturing towards the altar. The shoulder of Flora's tunic had been sliced apart by the blade, and blood was running in a thin but constant trickle onto the altar stone.

Alistair looked up, pupils returned to their natural darkness, and his face contorted in sheer horror.

" _Flora?!"_

He took a single step towards his prostrate sister-warden, and then a wave of percussive energy rolled off the altar, strong enough to send him stumbling backwards. The magister and Loghain also were pressed back against the wall, the Tevinter mage letting out a small, feral shriek of excitement.

" _Come to me, Morfran!"_

The entire room began to quiver in its frame; joists creaking as they shifted together, and flakes of plaster drifting down from between the ceiling beams. It began as a slight shudder, a quiet rumbling that could have been mistake for cart wheels in motion somewhere nearby. The sound escalated ominously, echoing as though it had originated in some distant chamber.

As the noise increased in volume, likewise the trembling began to rattle the room in more violent fashion. The doorframe began to bend beneath the pressure of warping walls, and the ceiling beams began to inch sideways; larger chunks of plaster now falling from between the tilted joists. The arcane cages had vanished with the Tevinter magister's fall, but the floor rolled like a storm-tossed ship and it was impossible to remain standing.

"Does Ferelden get earthquakes?" Zevran shouted over the protesting groans of the building, ducking as he was coated with a fall of white flakes. Wynne, gritting her teeth as she ducked beneath a nearby table, shook her head.

"Something  _powerful_ is crossing the Veil."

Alistair made another attempt to reach the stone altar, but fell to his hands and knees when a gust of arcane-tinged wind surged forth. The acrid scent of the Fade was now so pungent that it made the eyes water, the corners of the room shimmering and shifting with loose tendrils of energy.

The light levels in the room suddenly dropped; simultaneously, every candle – both burning and extinguished – erupted into silver-gold flame.

It was this that first alerted the Tevinter magister to the fact that something was not quite right. He clawed his way upright using the altar, staring at the flickering, gilded flames.

" _Morfran!"_ he howled, oil-black pupils wide and desperate.  _"Answer my summons! I command it!"_

The air before the altar began to consolidate into iridescent energy, drawing the candle flames towards it like some irresistible vacuum. At the same time, the room stopped shaking, and a deathly silence fell.

" _ **I am not Morfran. What have you done to my mage?"**_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Uh oh shit really hit the fan this chapter, haha! I've periodically explored how Flora's magic can be compromised – through cutting off her air (Qunari garrotte), magic-suppression collar (Howe), and now through the more insidious method of turning her own companions against her. Haha, she dropped like a rock, lol Poor Alistair is going to be shooook when he realises what he's done, lol. Even though it's not exactly his fault!
> 
> The demon Morfran, which the Tevinter magister is attempting to summon, is named after a particularly hideous/gruesome warrior from Welsh mythology!
> 
> Hmmm, I wonder what the magister has managed to summon? Using Flora's own blood, in a chamber where the Veil has been worn thin … ;)


	303. The Wrath Of The Unleashed Fade

The voice came from all corners of the room at once, with an accent that was disjointed and archaic. It was neither male nor female, nor young or old, but lay in some nebulous in-between region. With each word, the temperature rose a fraction; until the energy swelling in the centre of the room was radiating heat like the hottest part of the hearth.

"Then who  _are_ you?!" demanded the Tevinter magister, incredulous but scrabbling to regain some composure. "I  _command_ you to reveal yourself."

A shape began to coalesce before the altar, unfolding from strands of interwoven light with a faint sigh. The silhouette of an armoured figure emerged; by some odd trick of the light, it appeared silver from one angle and gold from the next. It swelled to over nine feet tall before shrinking slightly, clearly desiring to fit within the temporal confines of the chamber. A massive sword the length of a human leg hung from its waist, with faintly etched patterns swirling over the metal. A vast shield the size of a table dangled from its back as though it weighed nothing.

When it raised the visor of its helm, a face both beautiful and terrifying was revealed. It appeared almost human, except that the eyes were wide and lidless, and filled with the infinite green miasma of the Fade.

"A  _spirit,"_  breathed Wynne from beneath the table, her own blue eyes wide and staring. "I believe it's- "

" _ **You used a coward's trick to attack my mage,"**_ the spirit stated bluntly. It had not yet bothered to turn and face the maleficar, yet it was obvious who the reprimand was directed towards.  _ **"Because you knew you could not best her in fair combat."**_

"It  _is!_ It's a spirit of Valour," continued the senior enchanter, in an excited whisper. "Did it say  _my_ mage? Is this -?"

Zevran, Loghain and Leliana were barely listening, too busy gaping in disbelief at this corporal manifestation of the dreaming Fade. The anguished Alistair, equally unused to such phenomena, was entirely fixated on his unconscious sister-warden.

"You fool," Wynne breathed, who understood best what had transpired. "The girl is a  _spirit healer._ You spilt her blood to summon her _own_  spirit!"

The maleficar struggled to reclaim some control of the situation, pointing one gnarled finger towards the gleaming, armoured figure.

"Spirit! _I_ have summoned you, and you  _must_  obey me," he demanded, lifting his chin and injecting imperiousness into his tone. "Where is Morfran? It's taken me  _years_ to form a bond with such a powerful demon."

" _ **You could not command me if you sacrificed the entirety of this human city,"**_ replied the spirit, in a distinctly bored tone.  _ **"I did pass through a demon while crossing the Veil. It did not survive the encounter."**_

Realising that he was on the verge of losing control of the situation, the maleficar retrieved the discarded dagger and pressed its sharp point to his forearm. The spirit had still not bothered to turn around, but a sound of distinct exasperation now emerged from its throat.

" _ **You are not worthy of facing me in combat. I shall offer you no duel."**_

The maleficar suddenly made his blood-fuelled assault, barrelling forward with lightning arcing between clawed fingers. The spirit unsheathed its sword, and there was a flash of light so blinding that those watching looked away, with bright imprints of blades emblazoned on their stinging retinas.

When their vision had been restored, they saw the maleficar's body lying motionless on the floorboards. It had been cleaved in two perfect, bloodless halves, from skull to groin. The blade had cauterised the cut as it passed through the body, leaving behind a silver-edged burn.

" _ **There are two more floors to this structure,"**_ Valour murmured, not sparing a glance for the bisected corpse at its feet.  _ **"I will end your blood mage problem. There are greater matters you must focus on."**_

The spirit vanished, flickering out of existence in a heartbeat. There followed a brief, low rush of air; as though the building itself had let out a sigh.

Alistair took a single step towards his sister-warden, then recoiled as the spirit materialised immediately in front of him. The spirit gazed down at him, the pallid green mist of the Fade swelling and spilling over empty eye sockets.

" _ **The maleficar and their Qunari escort are all dead."**_

"Please," croaked Alistair, his voice raw with fear and naked worry. "Please, she's hurt. Can you help her?"

The spirit continued to peer at Alistair, with a long, appraising stare.

" _ **You need not defend my mage,"**_ it said, in a tone soft and warning.  _ **"She has a shield that is far more potent than that created by any temporal creature. I have spent many years crafting a weapon to challenge Urthemiel, and I would not see its edge blunted."**_

Chastised, Alistair hung his head. Valour appeared to relent somewhat, an ethereal sigh escaping its gleaming lips

" _ **I admire your courage, mortal. Stand at my mage's side; not in front of her."**_

Alistair nodded mutedly, his eyes returning to where Flora lay slumped on the bloodied stone, with blood still leaking from her shoulder.

"Please – can you help her?"

The spirit turned to look down at Flora, its miasmic gaze darkening. Both of her eyes were blackened, her lip and cheek split from the edge of Alistair's armoured glove. With meticulous gentility, it reached down and rested affectionate fingers across Flora's bruised forehead.

" _ **I cannot,"**_ it murmured, gazing down at her still, solemn face.  _ **"But there is one who can."**_

The air behind the altar flickered with strange iridescence; a moment later, a golden mist began to swell up from between the floorboards. It blossomed in billowing tendrils up towards the ceiling, brightening the room with a light that left no shadow.

The spirit of Compassion stepped from the golden mist as a skeletal figure clad in shifting, translucent veils. It held one boned hand over its eyes, obscuring the view of both bloodied ritual chamber and offal strewn within. The air around it shifted and shimmered; as though the very physical qualities of the atmosphere were warped by its presence. 

" _ **Focus,"**_ the spirit of Valour said sternly, gesturing towards the altar.  _ **"It will take but a moment and then you can return. You don't need to look."**_

Compassion nodded and drifted towards the altar, leaving tendrils of golden mist in its wake. Keeping the hand held in front of its eyes, it leaned over Flora and ducked its skull-like head. Gilded fleshless lips parted, exhaling golden mist across the bruised and bloodied surface of Flora's face. As the golden tendrils drifted downwards, the cut to the young Cousland's shoulder was sealed so perfectly that no hint of the injury remained.

The moment that this was done, Compassion vanished, leaving fragments of light drifting to the floorboards like falling leaves. The room itself seemed to  _exhale,_ and grew a little dimmer for its absence.

" _ **Compassion cannot linger in this realm,"**_ Valour explained, gaze dropping to the grimacing Flora as she began to stir.  _ **"It is far more powerful than I, and terrible things would come to pass if it became corrupted."**_

"Am I dreaming? Am I  _asleep?"_

A thoroughly confused Flora was now sitting upright on the altar, appearing none the worse for wear for her ordeal. She was gaping openly at her spirit, eyebrows lodged somewhere within her dark red hairline.

"Pinch me so I know I'm awake," she instructed Alistair, who appeared to be in a state of shock. "What are you  _doing_ here?! Is this a Fade dream? Wait, no, I'm not in my  _smallclothes."_

" _ **This is the waking world. This entire situation is your fault, little one!"**_ retorted the spirit and Flora let out a squawk of outrage.

" _My_ fault?! MY?"

" _ **My shield should easily have repelled the blood enthralment. You weren't focused enough!"**_

"I was  _distracted_ by the room filled with bones and bits of human flesh!" Flora said indignantly, flinging an arm about her to encompass the gruesome surroundings. "Anyway, I've never had to repel  _blood  en-enwallment_ before. I can't even say it properly."

" _ **Urthemiel will use many different types of magic against you. You must be able to resist each of them!"**_

Flora grumbled, reaching up to feel the torn shoulder of her tunic.

"Fine," she muttered, poking at her bare skin beneath the ripped material. "I'll ask First Enchanter Irving to throw some spells at me."

The spirit appeared to relent slightly, bowing its head.

" _ **Good girl. We will meet tonight, as usual, and I will find us some demons to practise on."**_

"See you later," Flora replied, slightly sulky from the earlier reprimand.  _"Hmph."_

The candles blew yellow flames once again as the spirit vanished. A rush of air passed through the chamber, as though something vast and unseen was exhaling.

There was silence for a long moment, during which everybody seemed frozen in place save for Alistair. He lunged towards his sister-warden and gathered her into his arms, face slack and grey with fright. A slightly confused Flora clutched his shoulder, surveying the bisected mage and general devastation.

"What happened?!"

Zevran opened his mouth and then closed it again, giving a wholly Antivan shrug.

"I believe that the senior enchanter is best suited to explain… whatever  _that_ was," the elf murmured, casting a quick side-long glance at Leliana. " _Amor,_ shall we go and verify the spirit's claim that it eradicated all other threats in the vicinity?"

Leliana nodded, having regained her composure with the skill of a consummate actress.

Before leaving, Zevran crossed the chamber to where Alistair was crouched beside his sister-warden. The elf reached out to touch Flora's cheek tenderly, tilting her head from side to side to inspect the unblemished skin.

"How many fingers am I holding up,  _carina?_ That was quite a knock to the head, and sometimes it can leave the brain rattled."

"One, two, three," replied the glum Flora and the elf smiled, brushing his fingers affectionately over her hair.

"Good. Just making sure,  _nena_."

" _What just happened?!"_  demanded Alistair, his voice edging upwards towards hysteria. "Why did Flo have a knock to the head? Why was she on the  _altar? Somebody tell me what's going on,_  Maker help me!"

"You were controlled by the magister," came a hoarse, unsteady voice from behind the altar. "Without Flora's shield, we were vulnerable. Fortunately, she had other allies to come to her aid."

Flora's head swivelled in the direction of the clearly injured Loghain, and she made to head in his direction.

"I was controlled... but  _how_ did Flo end up hurt? We were behind her shield -   _oh sweet Andraste."_

Alistair had just made the connection between the general's oblique  _you were controlled_ reference, and Flora's ensuing injury and incapacitation. The colour drained from his cheeks, one hand coming up to grab Flora's elbow as though in a dream.

"Maker, did  _I_ hurt you?" he asked, in a strange voice, entirely unlike his own. "Flora? Did- did I.. did I  _hurt_  you?"

"Dunno," replied Flora vaguely, craning her neck in Loghain's direction. "I'm alright now."

"You punched her in the face," said Wynne bluntly, going to peer down her nose at the bisected magister's corpse. "She was knocked out. But it wasn't  _your_  fault, so don't blame yourself. He was a powerful magister."

Alistair recoiled as though the mage had physically shoved him. Turning grey beneath the olive tan of his skin, he let out a strangled gasp and dropped his head into his hands.

"I  _punched_ her?" he whispered, the words breaking as they slid from between his lips. "I p- punched my sister-warden? In the  _face? Maker's Breath,_ Flora- "

The sentence ended in a choked gasp and his shoulders gave a heave. Flora, who possessed neither memory nor physical remnant of her brother-warden's unwitting assault, put her arms around his neck. He clung to her like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to the Hag's Teeth, pressing his damp face against her neck.

"I'm so sorry," he kept repeating, the words muffled as they emerged into her skin. "Please, forgive me. I'm  _so_ sorry. Maker's Breath, Flo. I can't believe it."

Flora murmured in his ear, patting Alistair's shoulder in a futile attempt to offer comfort. He clutched her hand, pressing it feverishly to his mouth while continuing to offer repeated apologies.

"It's fine," she said automatically, patting the back of his bowed head. 

"All I've ever done - ever tried to do - is  _protect_ you. To keep you safe!"

"It wasn't your fault. I let the spell through my shield."

Alistair let out a strangled groan, his eyes hollow points of remorse.

"Why me?" he asked, plaintively. "Why was I controlled? Am I so feeble minded that I could be controlled so easily?"

Wynne shook her head briskly, using percussive blasts of energy from her staff to break apart the various maleficar paraphernalia dotted about the room.

"You were the angriest. Strong emotion makes anyone vulnerable – mage or no," the senior enchanter replied, approaching the altar. The next moment she inhaled sharply, pale blue eyes widening in alarm.

" _Flora!_ Attend to Mac Tir!"

Flora extracted herself with some difficulty from Alistair's arms, scrambling around the edge of the altar.

Loghain was slumped against the wall, eyes closed, appearing several decades older than his fifty five years. His face was pale and sweaty, the veins in his neck pulsing with unnatural pressure. The scorch marks across his tunic had burnt through to the skin beneath; leaving inky violet streaks across the man's chest.

"Arcane burns," Wynne murmured to Flora, who was already kneeling at the disgraced general's side. "Have you healed these before?"

Flora nodded, glumly. Reaching out, she began to unbutton Loghain's tunic with deft and business-like fingers; seeing not the infamous traitor, but a patient in desperate need of her attention. The golden mist rose obediently in her throat, rolling over her tongue like the first shallow rush of the tide.

_**Good girl,**_ whispered Compassion in the back of her skull. 

"Please, keep still," Flora whispered as Loghain opened his eyes and let out a soft groan. "This might sting a little."

Alistair, still grey and unsteady, clawed his way upright to watch the proceedings. His lips folded together thin enough that they became little more than a taut line of dislike. Wynne glanced sideways and spotted his scowl, then cleared her throat.

"Loghain, why don't you distract yourself from the _stinging_  by telling Alistair how you  _got_ this wound?"

Loghain grunted, leaning his head back against the wall. Flora lifted her eyes curiously, pressing her lips to the sinewy muscle of his chest as she exhaled the golden mist across the burn. Her fingers then worked the mist in patterns taught by no worldly instructor, coaxing forth new skin to cover raw flesh.

"Doesn't matter," muttered the disgraced general, sensing Alistair's own gaze settling on him. "I apologise for the fact that your sister-warden is being forced to  _touch_ me."

Flora, who was now face-down against his stomach, waved a  _don't worry about it_ hand.

"It  _does_ matter, Loghain," Wynne replied gently, seeing Alistair's scowl deepen. "Alistair, stop glowering and  _listen_ for a moment. The general- "

" _Former_ general."

" _Former_ general," continued Wynne, shooting him a chiding look. "When you tried to attack Flora, he picked her up and carried her away. He put himself between your blade and her body. And he alone broke free of the arcane prison – hence the burns – to knock the maleficar's dagger to one side when it was aimed for her heart."

For a second time in the span of twenty minutes, the colour drained from Alistair's face. He stood beside the altar, still as a Tevinter statue, naked disbelief carved indelibly into his handsome features. Flora abruptly broke off her healing, swallowing a mouthful of golden miasma and peering up at the general's darkly stubbled chin.

"You saved Flora?" said Alistair at last, the words emerging raw and unformed. "You... you saved her life?"

There was a long beat of silence, after which Loghain let out an almost inaudible sigh.

"She's important for the cause," he said through gritted teeth, as a thoughtful Flora resumed her healing. "For Ferelden's future. And – as much as you would wish to believe otherwise – I am no monster, I would not see a young girl sacrificed. She's only a lass -ah. _"_

This was in response to Flora sitting back on her heels, wiping stray golden particles from the back of her mouth as she surveyed her work. The burns had evaporated into nothingness, replaced with swathes of fresh, pink skin.

"I don't believe you're a monster," Alistair said, very quietly. "Right, I think we've had… enough of this for one day. Scouts can finish plotting out the tunnels."

"I'll send a message for some Circle mages to come here and reinforce the shredded Veil," Wynne replied, her voice equally soft. "It's been a long day."

Zevran and Leliana arrived back within the chamber, the elf's pockets noticeably heavier than they had been on leaving.

Alistair let out a sigh, dragging a palm over his face.

"You're telling me, Wynne. Let's go back to the palace. Sweetheart?"

The prince held out a slightly tentative hand towards his sister-warden, hazel eyes still richly bruised with guilt.

Flora scrambled to her feet with a quiet grunt of effort – getting up was not quite as easy as it had been several months earlier, thanks to the added weight on her belly – and wrapped her fingers around his own. Feeling Alistair's palm damp and clammy, she gave his hand a tight squeeze.

"Fergus gave me a book about the _Couslands_  yesterday," she whispered, hoping that some of her natural warmth was seeping through his cold skin. "Would you read it to me later? The words are too long."

"Of course, my love," Alistair replied, in a voice hollowed by regret. "My own sweet girl."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Ooohhh this was a fun chapter to write! I've wanted to include more about the spirits that assist Flora, for ages. As a spirit healer, there are two spirits that help her – Valour, which provides her shielding, and Compassion, who provides healing (Flora heals through her mouth, like Compassion did!)
> 
> Since I'm a Medievalist historian, I've done a loooot of study on religious – specifically, Catholic – history; and I was always fascinated with how angels are depicted in late Middle Ages text. The concept of fat babies and fluffy cherubs is very Victorian – some types of angels, as described by the Bible, are actually fucking terrifying in appearance, lol! There's a reason why the typical Biblical angelic greeting is "Do not be afraid," haha.
> 
> Obviously, Dragon Age spirits are not angels! But I was inspired by that kind of scary look in my concept of Flora's spirits – Valour, which appears like some terrifying Teutonic knight with great, lidless eyes filled with Veilfire; and Compassion, who appears as a scorch-marked skeleton clad in veils, complete with grinning skull. Flora obviously doesn't think they look scary – she's known them since she was a very young girl – but I bet the others are literally just stood there, shitting themselves, haha. I don't know why I didn't just go handsome knight and pretty lady, this idea was more interesting to me.
> 
> I also love Flora just full on having an argument with this terrifying spirit, haha. She's clearly very comfortable in their presence – and why wouldn't she be? They've essentially been teaching her since she was a child.
> 
> So Alistair hasn't had a very good afternoon, lol! Since I've made the choice to defy canon (lol which I've done from the start really, oops), I wanted to further justify Alistair's decision to keep Loghain alive. So, Mac Tir has not only saved her from having to spend a night with Howe – but now, he's saved her life as well.


	304. The Orlesian School of Smallclothes

Commandeering fresh horses from a nearby barracks, they made their way back up to the Royal Palace just as the sun began to set over the coastal city. A scowling Leliana lectured Wynne about how  _vehemently_ the Maker despised blood magic, while Zevran made the occasional teasing comment, clearly trying to lighten the mood. Alistair rode in stony silence, clutching his sister-warden tight against him on the saddle. Green-flecked hazel eyes were focused unblinkingly ahead, except for when he would dart the occasional sideways glance at Loghain. The former general was riding alongside them, face set in the usual impassive disdain.

Once they had reached the forecourt of the palace, stable boys came swarming out to take their horses. The sun was just slipping below the hills of the Bannorn, giving way to a faded, star-freckled twilight.

Guillaume came out to meet them, and Wynne immediately went to murmur in his ear, gesticulating quietly as she dictated a message to be sent to the mages. The Royal Steward was accompanied by a quartet of guards, their captain clutching a set of manacles expectantly as they waited beside the entrance. Loghain dismounted with a slight grunt, before sliding up the sleeves of his tunic to reveal his wrists. The captain approached, manacles held out.

"Wait."

The captain froze in his tracks, cuffs dangling from proffered hands. A grim-faced Alistair slid down onto the cobbles, before reaching up to assist his diminutive sister-warden down from the tall mare. Flora slithered dutifully into Alistair's arms, wondering at the odd expression on his face. He peered down at her for a moment, and then swallowed, hard.

"I want Loghain to be housed within the palace," Alistair stated bluntly, face impassive as he delivered the instruction. "But not in the Mac Tir quarters. Is there a smaller chamber where he can be kept?"

"There's a chamber once used by Rendon Howe in the south wing," replied Guillaume, softly. "Not in the best condition, but it would be adequate."

Alistair gave a tight nod, ignoring the curious stares.

"He is not permitted to leave the chamber, or communicate with anyone," the stony prince continued, through gritted teeth. "And he must be kept under constant guard."

Loghain said nothing in response, only inclined his greying head an imperceptible fraction.

Once they were inside the palace, Eamon made an attempt to waylay Alistair with the day's paperwork. Alistair replied with a blunt query as to the importance of the documents – as in, could they wait until morning? – and the Arl of Redcliffe relented. Alistair thanked his uncle politely, receiving a weary, but affectionate, smile in response.

"Oh, and Alistair?"

Eamon paused at the end of the minstrel's gallery, where his own quarters lay in divergent direction from the Royal corridor. Alistair turned, Flora's hand in his, eyebrows rising.

"Uncle?"

"I'll put a spy in Loghain's chamber," continued the arl quietly, pale green Guerrin eyes rising to meet Alistair's. "I still don't trust the man. If he attempts to make contact – with Anora, or anyone else – we'll know about it. I would not have him try and escape."

Alistair exhaled, inclining his head and tightening his grip on Flora's palm.

"I don't think he's going to flee," the prince replied, with a mild shrug. "But thank you for your precaution, uncle."

A weary Wynne departed for her quarters soon after, claiming tiredness. Leliana made her excuses on the upper floor of the castle, wishing to attend the evening service in the royal chapel.

Near the portrait of the ravaged  _halla,_ Zevran gave a small bow in the Wardens' direction; his eyes sliding off towards a nearby servant passage. Two young women were lurking in the shadows, giggling and whispering to each other as their gaze settled on the tan-skinned Antivan.

"If you'll excuse me,  _queridos_ ," murmured the elf, flashing a surreptitious wink towards the blushing servants. "I have a prior appointment- "

"Zev," interrupted Alistair, voice taut and eyes bruised. "Could I speak with you quickly?"

Guillaume, the consummate servant, immediately swooped forward and smiled widely at Flora. She smiled back reflexively, slightly confused.

"Lady Florence," the Nevarran purred, eyes creasing into multiple fine lines. "I've noticed your… unusual predilection for uncooked vegetables. I took the liberty of sending for some carrots and turnips for your perusal. They're just in the chamber, if you'll follow me."

" _Raw?"_  Flora asked eagerly, following the steward down the corridor.

"Pulled straight from the earth, my lady."

With Flora vanished inside the king's chamber, Alistair let out a small sigh and rubbed his hand over his mouth. The superficial smile fell from the elf's face and he surveyed the prince curiously, holding up a hand to the two giggling servants.

"What is it, my dear Alistair?"

"I- "

Alistair started and then trailed off, a look of mild anguish writ across his handsome features. "I have a… favour to ask you."

"How  _intriguing._ I'm listening _."_

Alistair glanced towards the ajar door leading to the king's bedchamber, lowering his voice further.

"I could have killed Flo today, under that Maker-damned curse," he said, bleakly. "I know that the magister is dead, and the spell lifted… but I can't risk being alone with her until I  _know_ there's no trace of it left in me."

"Alistair," began the elf, reaching out to place slender fingers on the prince's silverite-clad elbow. "It is  _very_ unlikely- "

"I can't  _risk_ it, Zevran!" Alistair replied, his voice breaking on the Antivan's name. "If I was responsible for bringing any more harm to her – I couldn't live with it, Zev, I  _couldn't._ Please, could you stay tonight and… just keep an eye on me?"

Zevran bowed his head silently, dark gaze dropping to the ground.

"It would be a pleasure, my lord," he murmured, letting his liquidous black eyes settle on the prince's face. "But, may I ask… why  _me?_ You know I will do nothing but flirt and make lecherous observations about our  _carina._ And don't even think about getting any  _privacy_ if you wish to engage in… amorous activity. I will provide a running commentary."

"Well… because you still care for her, don't you?" said Alistair, after a brief hesitation. "I mean – you still.. _. ah…"_

"Yes." The reply was blunt and matter-of-fact; the question was redundant, and both men knew it.

Alistair nodded, swallowing. "Then… I know that you'll protect her, no matter what."

Zevran nodded, slow and solemn. There was a long beat of silence, and then the elf smiled, eyes lighting up.

"Ha! If I remember correctly, there's only one  _bed_ in your chamber. How  _exciting!"_

The Antivan assassin trailed his fingers across the prince's shoulder, darting him a wicked little smile before sauntering over to the two visibly disappointed servant girls. He crooned at them both for several moments, before pecking each one on the cheek and sending them promptly on their way.

"Sorry for sabotaging your plans," said Alistair in a slightly strangled voice as Zevran re-joined him; prince and assassin heading side by side towards the Royal bedchamber. "It looks like you had a…  _busy_ evening planned."

"They'll still be there tomorrow," replied Zevran amiably, winking at the guard as he opened the door with a bow. "I expect that they'll find some other lucky –  _ay! Qué susto!"_

The elf came to a rapid halt in the doorway, barely registering Alistair's collision with his back. His eyes expanded to the size of saucers, lower lip dropping in shock.

A vast fire had been built in the hearth, sufficient to flood the shadowed chamber with ochre light. The curtains were still open, revealing a star-studded sky and an unmatched view over the sprawling coastal city below. A large flagon of ale had been left on the dresser, along with clean tankards and several platters of food. The whole chamber radiated warmth and comfort, furs spread across the flagstones to keep in the heat.

But Zevran's gaze was not drawn to the stark grandeur of the décor, or the fine Fereldan craftsmanship. He was gazing at the royal bed, where Flora was kneeling amidst the blankets. She had clearly just ripped the leather tie from her hair with a little too much force; it had flown joyfully free and she was now looking for it.

"I lost my bobble," Flora offered in explanation, hair hanging loose around her waist. "I think it flew into the fire?"

" _Mi sirenita_ ," croaked the rigid elf, unusually lost for words as Alistair sidled around him. "When did you become an initiate of the Orlesian school of smallclothes?"

"Oh," Flora looked down at the rose-hued silk corset, the delicate undergarments edged with gold lace. Tight cinching of the waist had become necessary of late; her belly seemed to have grown an inch in the past week alone. "Leliana gave these to me. They're very impractical."

"Don't get me started," Alistair groaned, keeping his eyes deliberately averted as he headed straight for the ale. "Ever since Lo took up with all these…  _frilly underthings,_ I've been late to meet Eamon every morning. Put your pyjamas on, sweetheart, or I won't be able to focus on anything."

"It's not my fault you have _no restraint,"_ retorted Flora, pouncing on the leather hair tie triumphantly as she spotted it hidden beneath a fold of blanket. "Ha!"

"I must say, I can't blame him," purred the elf, prowling about the bed like a white-blond leopard before perching on mattress and licking his lips.  _"Nena_ , you look like a delicious little dessert. All that ripe flesh on display. I could just  _gobble you up._ "

"Starting early with the lechery, I see," called Alistair mildly from beside the dresser, preoccupied with unstrapping the various pieces of Maric's armour.

Zevran flashed a wicked smile, his teeth glinting in the gloom.

"I did give you ample warning,  _querido."_

Flora was barely listening, her fingers working deftly at the silk corset ties. Once they had been unknotted, she let out a soft groan of relief; inhaling fully for the first time that day. Dropping the hated garment to the blanket, she shoved it away sulkily with her bare foot. With dark red hair falling over her breasts, Flora peered tentatively down at her swollen stomach.

Zevran, poised to comment on her cleavage, halted abruptly as his eyes dropped to her abdomen. There were angry red marks scoring the firm mound of flesh, an unwelcome by-product of the constricting grip of the corset. They looked painful, and inadvertent tears welled in Flora's eyes as the corners of her mouth turned down.

Alistair had not yet noticed, cursing under his breath as he worked loose the strap of his gauntlet.

"This glove is dented," he said irritably to the painted Mabari above the hearth. "When did that happen?"

The elf sprung immediately to action, lunging across the furs to snatch a striped flannel nightshirt from beneath a cushion. Pulling it over Flora's head in a swift, seamless gesture, he gripped her hands and worked them hastily through the sleeves.

"This is the reverse of what I was hoping to do this evening,  _mi corazon_ ," he murmured, rolling his eyes tragically as she wiped at her damp cheeks. "Here, I have a joke for you. It is from Antiva, and it is about  _fish."_

Flora stopped looking sorry for herself and perked up, tucking her hair behind her ears.

"What is it?"

"A crab said to a fish: what does your father do? The fish says:  _nothing._ "

There was a moment of perplexed silence, broken only by the erratic crackling of the hearth. Alistair looked somewhat nonplussed, unstrapping the heavy silverite breastplate and leaning it against the dresser.

"Is that _it?"_

"Well," admitted the elf, waving his fingers idly. "It does lose something in the translation. In the Antivan tongue,  _nothing_ and  _swimming_ are the same word."

Flora cackled, enchanted by this linguistic oddity.

Alistair approached the bed, carrying three flagons of ale precariously in his arms. Passing them out, he sat down heavily beside Flora and planted a kiss on her cheek.

"Right, my dear," he murmured, injecting lightness forcibly into his tone. "Where's this book on the Couslands?"

"Ooh," Flora handed him back the flagon and crawled to the edge of the bed; bending over to peer beneath its cavernous depths. "Fergus gave it to me. I think he wants me to learn more about my…  _the_  family history, I suppose."

She wrinkled her nose to show that she didn't quite see it as  _her_  history: not yet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So Alistair asks Zevran to stay, because he suspects that the others would not act violently against him if he did lose control again. Since Alistair knows that Zevran still cares for Flo, he knows that Zevran would not hesitate to strike in her defence.
> 
> The joke is an actual Spanish joke – it's a play on words, since nadar means swim (I think), and nada means nothing – so it sounds the same, haha.
> 
> I hope that I've developed the slow, hesitant building of wary trust between Loghain and Alistair adequately – I didn't want to rush it, but since there's no canon to go off, I'm just kind of making it up lol


	305. What's In A Name

Some time later, a perfumed miasma of cedar smoke hung heavy in the air, raising the temperature within the king's bedchamber several degrees. A discreet pair of servants had slipped in to perform domestic duties; adding more wood to the hearth, drawing the heavy velvet curtains, and replacing the room-warmed ale with a fresh ewer.

Alistair lay propped up against the cushions, his tall, broad-shouldered frame taking up a significant amount of bed space. He had the  _Chronicles of House Cousland_ open on his chest, and a second flagon of ale on the table rested beside him. Flora was sitting cross-legged on the mattress beside Alistair's feet, her strapped knee just emerging from beneath the nightshirt. She was braiding strands of Zevran's platinum hair as he lay sprawled on his back at the foot of the bed.

"Ha! It says here: ' _Teyrna Elethea Cousland bitterly opposed King Calenhad Theirin's attempt to unite the divided provinces of Ferelden_ '" Alistair read, grinning to himself.  _"'She summoned an army and marched against him in an effort to maintain Highever's autonomy.'"_

"Good for her!" retorted Flora, tugging a little too ferociously on the elf's hair as he let out a yelp of protest. "Of course she didn't want to be taken over. Oh,  _sorry."_

Alistair raised an eyebrow at her, amused. "Otherwise known as committing  _treason_ , my lovely."

"Who would want to be taken over by a man named after a  _lake?"_ continued Flora, wide-eyed and earnest. "Lakes are just inferior versions of the sea."

Alistair began to laugh openly, putting the book face-down on the mattress and stretching an arm towards her.

"Come here,  _Reginalda."_

"Stop," complained Flora, whilst obediently crawling up the blankets towards him. "I  _hate_  that name."

Alistair grinned down at his sister-warden, wrapping a strong arm around her shoulders and drawing her to his chest. Flora did her best to maintain a stern expression, but was unable to uphold it in the face of his warm, desirous stare. He pressed his thumb to the middle of her lower lip, applying gentle pressure to the plump flesh. When Flora swallowed, he could feel the dampness of her mouth as her body inadvertently responded to his touch.

"Let's see if we can find the original  _Reginalda,"_ murmured Zevran, more than used to such displays from their extended journeying together. "Hm."

The elf flicked idly through the pages, scanning the small, neatly inscribed lines of text as brother and sister-warden lay with limbs entwined and mouths working leisurely together.

" _Ha!"_ he announced suddenly, eyebrows rising in triumph. "Found her!  _Reginalda Cousland."_

Alistair hastily withdrew his hand from the inside of Flora's flannel nightgown as she squirmed away, turning flushed cheeks towards Zevran.

"Who was she? A famous fisher-woman? A champion swimmer?"

"' _Little is known about the mysterious Teyrna Reginalda, apart from rumours of an inappropriate relationship with her hunting Mabari, Banestooth.'"_

The elf gave a little shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching. "That's it, I'm afraid."

Alistair let out a great belly-laugh, a grin nearly splitting his face from ear to ear. The horrified Flora elbowed him in response, eyes round as saucers.

"I'm named after someone who had an  _inappropriate relationship with a Mabari,"_ she moaned, kicking her foot out at Zevran as a giggle escaped his throat. "My entire name is a  _joke._ First Chastity, now  _this._ "

Soon afterwards, both prince and assassin lay sprawled at either end of the large royal bed, each exhausted from laughing. Every time that one would calm, the other would let out a quiet growl or canine snuffle; which would set them both off in peals of snickers once again. Flora, who was sulking, lay between them with arms folded and a scowl plastered across her face.

"Don't pout,  _mi florita,"_ Zevran entreated her as she glowered down at him. "Your mama must have thought you were very special, to give you  _four_ names. I don't know who gave me my name, but I only had the one before the Crows made me a member of House Arainai."

"You can have one of mine," replied Flora, immediately. "What about  _Chastity?_ I'll happily donate it to you. _"_

Zevran lifted her bare foot and pressed his mouth to her toes, looking up at Flora with such heated eyes that she found herself going inadvertently pink.

"That would be even more  _inappropriate_  then your great-great-great granny's relationship with the Mabari," the elf murmured; and immediately both he and Alistair collapsed into fits of giggles once again.

To Zevran's disappointment both Wardens fell asleep soon afterwards, chastely curled against each other with fingers entwined and heads sharing the same cushion. The elf, who had an excess of energy, wandered around the chamber for an hour. He tried on the princely coronet, snorting at his reflection in the mirror; then wandered to the window and peered down at the torch-lit city below. The night sky was reflected in the dark mirror of the estuary, moon and scattered stars lying submerged in the opaque water.

Finally, once he too felt tiredness creeping up on him like the proverbial thief in the night, Zevran returned to the bed and sprawled down on Flora's other side. Tucking his hands behind his head, he gazed up at the dark wooden beams crossing the ceiling, wallowing in the mire of his own thoughts.

Just after the change in watch, Flora woke with a start, fingers curled around empty air and a hollow dent in the mattress beside her. The fire had burnt down to smouldering embers, barely potent enough to illuminate the rug before the hearth. Instead, the chamber was filled with silvered moonlight from the naked window, the curtains pulled back wide.

Yawning, she looked to her other side to see Zevran sprawled on his back, mouth slightly open. The elf slept silently, like a cat; his dagger glinted from a nearby table.

A sudden shift in the light caught Flora's attention, and she propped herself up on her elbows to see her brother-warden silhouetted beside the leaded glass. He was slumped on the window seat, head in his hands and motionless.

Untangling herself from the blankets and Zevran's flung arm, Flora dropped her feet to the flagstones and grimaced at the coldness. Trying to keep to the rugs and furs spread over the floor, she made her way across to the window.

"Alistair?" she whispered, tentatively. He looked up with a small start, then grimaced and turned his head away swiftly.

"Sorry," he muttered, in strangled tones. "Did I wake you?"

Flora made no reply; she sank down onto the velvet bench beside him and lifted her fingers to his chin, tilting his face towards her. As she had suspected, her brother-warden's cheeks were damp, and his eyes bruised, hollow points of sadness. Even as she stared at him, a fresh tear ran down the end of his long Theirin nose and dropped onto his sleeve.

Alarmed, Flora reached up to embrace him, drawing his head down against her chest. Alistair rested his face in the patch of skin visible at her throat, and let out a sound not far from a sob.

"Sorry," he mumbled, the word coming out muffled against her neck. "Maker, this is ridiculous. Sorry, Lo."

Flora shushed his apologies, lifting her foot to curl a leg around his waist. He reached his arms out to hold onto her, fingers bunching the striped flannel of the night-shirt.

"You don't need to say sorry for being sad," she whispered in his ear, mouth close enough to brush against the skin. "It's alright to be sad. But  _why_ are you sad?"

Alistair exhaled unsteadily against her, resting his chin on her slight, sturdy shoulder. After several minutes, he had composed himself sufficient to speak; though the words emerged thick and teary.

"I can't believe I  _hurt_  you," he whispered, quiet and incredulous. "I... I attacked the thing I value most in the whole world. All I've ever wanted is for you to be safe."

"That wasn't  _you,"_  replied Flora, but Alistair was still submerged within his own brooding thoughts. "Alistair, it wasn't your fault."

He grimaced, hazel eyes sliding away to stare out of the window at the star-dotted estuary below.

"I hit you, Flora," he said, bleakly. "I  _struck_ you, with my own hand.  _Sweet Maker._ It's... it's worse than a nightmare."

The tears threatened to fall again, and Flora decided to correct this misguided line of thinking as quickly as possible. Just as she decided this, Alistair's eyes widened in alarm, spotting the slumbering Zevran on the bed.

"Flo," he started, making as though to scramble to his feet. "You need to stay away – in case there's some remnant of the spell still left in me!"

" _Sit."_

Flora's voice lashed out at Alistair, stern and uncompromising. In a seamless gesture, she rose up and pressed her hand to his chest, pushing him back down onto the bench. In normal circumstances, she would not have been able to move her brother-warden's frame an inch without his compliance; yet he was so taken aback by her instruction that he let her push him back down onto the window seat.

" _Flo-_ what are you- "

Flora clambered onto his lap, straddling him with the flannel nightgown riding up high on her thighs. Alistair gaped up at her as she gazed at him, her full mouth fixed obstinately.

"Stay there," she instructed in her distinctive, slightly hoarse northern accent; pale eyes fixed on his. "I don't want to hear a word more about it,  _understand?"_

Alistair nodded, transfixed. Suddenly Flora blinked at him, eyes widening as she felt his arousal swelling beneath her. Alistair met her stare, a flush rising to his cheeks. She gave an experimental roll of the hips and he let out a soft, helpless groan.

"Flora," he said thickly, desire coating her name like a thick lacquer.  _"Maker's Breath."_

Flora narrowed her eyes at him, mind working furiously behind her still, solemn features.

"Kiss me," she demanded, and Alistair's pupils grew a fraction wider at the command. He reached for her with an audible moan of  _want,_ and then a leisurely voice came drifting through the cedar-scented shadows.

"Who would have thought it?" the elf purred from the bed, propped up on an elbow as he watched them. "The future king can  _take_ as well as  _give."_

"Wha-  _take?_ Take  _what?"_ bleated Alistair as Flora almost fell off his lap in shock.

Zevran smiled wickedly, teeth very white in the gloom.

"Why, take  _instruction,_ of course. Why, what did you think I was referring to?"

A short while later, Flora woke abruptly for a second time that night, sitting bolt upright in bed. Alistair grunted as she inadvertently tugged at their entwined fingers, but was dreaming too deeply to wake. On her other side, Zevran lay curled up like a sleek platinum blond cat; his face seeming younger in its slack lassitude.

After glancing at the gap in the heavy velvet curtains, Flora realised – to her slight disbelief – that it was still very much the middle of the night. Not even a hint of sunrise permeated the obstinate veil of darkness, and she let out a quiet grown under her breath; reeling through the possible causes for her rude awakening.

_**Was it the Archdemon?** _

_No, I don't think so. It doesn't frighten me enough to wake me, not anymore._

_**Do you feel sick?** _

_No, the morning nausea is mostly past now._

_**Did you hear a noise?** _

Flora held her breath, lifting her fingers to illuminate the shadowed bedchamber. It was still and silent, and she lowered in hand in mild confusion.

_No. What is it, then?_

But her spirits had fallen stubbornly silent, providing no further explanation. Flora scowled to herself, absentmindedly running her thumb over a snoring Alistair's calloused knuckles.

_Did I forget to do something?_

…

Although the spirits remained quiet, Flora got the district sense that she was being chided.

_What,_ she thought defensively, and then the realisation struck her like a bolt from the blue.  _Oh!_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Haha Flora doesn't realise that the lake is named after King Calenhad, she thinks that he was named after the lake, lol.
> 
> Most of the more 'mature' fanfiction I've read (for RESEARCH lol) depicts Alistair as being super subby in the bedroom so I decided to incorporate an element of that, haha. I don't know how well it fits into the hardened version of Alistair I've developed oh well never mind


	306. The Kick Of Life

Extracting her fingers carefully from her brother-warden's possessive grasp, Flora slithered down to the foot of the bed to avoid waking either one of her sleeping companions. She spent a brief moment contemplating whether the flannel nightshirt she wore was decent enough to venture in beyond the confines of the bedchamber – then decided that it  _was,_ since it fell just  _below_  the knee, as opposed to just  _above_ it.

The moment that she nudged silently at the door, the guards sprung to open it the rest of the way. To Flora's surprise, Guillaume van Pylus was hovering in the passageway, a decorous smile already set in place across his features.

"Do you ever sleep?" she asked bluntly, and the Nevarran let out a soft laugh.

"As little as I can help, my lady. How may I be of service?"

Flora approached him, the flagstones cold against the soles of her bare feet.

"Do you know Wynne?" she asked, hesitantly. "She travelled with us. An  _older_ lady, grey hair…?"

"Senior Enchanter of the Kinloch Circle, Representative of the Aequitarians, once refused the title of First Enchanter in order to continue her research unimpeded?" replied Guillaume, his face carefully neutral.

Flora blinked, nonplussed.

"Yes," she said, wide-eyed. "Do you know if she's staying at the palace tonight, or down in the Circle camp?"

"Senior Enchanter Wynne currently resides within the guest quarters here," replied the steward, inclining his head graciously. "Should I have her brought to you, my lady?"

"Oh! No, no," Flora breathed, hastily. "Could you –  _would_ you mind showing me to her room, instead?"

Guillaume gave a low bow in the Nevarran style, touching the back of his hand to his silver-haired chin.

"It would be my pleasure, my lady. One moment."

Flora waited patiently as the steward disappeared inside the chamber. When he emerged, he was clutching a woollen jumper and Flora's own trusty boots; the ones she had been wearing since Duncan had first taken her from the Circle.

"Please," he murmured, holding them out while lowering his head decorously. "You ought not to catch cold in your…  _condition."_

Flora dutifully wrangled the jumper over her head and pulled on the boots one by one, clutching the extended arm of an impassive Royal Guard for support. As she returned upright, the door swung open silently behind her.

"Late night wanderings!" cooed Zevran as he slid surreptitiously from the king's chamber. "How exciting. Who are we going to visit,  _mi sirenita?"_

"Wynne," replied Flora, following Guillaume as he started down the corridor. "Sorry for waking you up."

The elf made a dismissive noise, trailing his fingers across the sculpted chest of a nearby stone bust. "It is no problem,  _carina._ If I remember correctly, Wynne's chamber is near to our lovely Leliana's – I may see whether the bard fancies a quick  _nightcap."_

Guillaume led them alone the royal passageway, down a set of steps and into a branching corridor lined with portraits depicting famous Mabari. A vast tapestry of Calenhad took pride of place at the end of the corridor; Ferelden's most renowned king posing beside his favourite hound, Cuirchan.

"Do you possess a special affection for this corridor,  _Reginalda?"_ Zevran whispered evilly as they followed in the steward's wake.

Flora shot him an dark glower and the elf gave a cackle, reaching out to squeeze her fingers.

"Ah, I'm only teasing you,  _nena._ My, this place is large, isn't it?"

She nodded gloomily, quickening her pace to keep up with the Royal Steward as he ducked beneath a high archway and into yet another passageway.

This wide, torch-lit corridor smelled strongly of sweet rushes, the cut grasses having been freshly strewn over the floor. Wooden doorways were interspersed at regular intervals, with no clear labelling as to which room belonged to whom.

"These are the Arl of Redcliffe's quarters," murmured Guillaume as they passed, gesturing towards a door set slightly apart from the rest. "Here are those belonging to Lay-Sister Leliana."

Zevran parted from them with a wink and an exaggerated bow, thin platinum braids swinging beside his ears.

Flora followed the steward further down the corridor, until they reached the last door on the end. Guillaume shot her a slightly curious look over his shoulder as he prepared to knock smartly on its wooden face.

"Is the senior enchanter expecting you, my lady?"

"No," replied Flora, hastily. "And… don't knock. I'll just look inside quickly to see if she's awake."

Guillaume inclined his head, stepping back with a  _go-ahead_ spread of the hands.

Flora nudged at the door hesitantly, and it opened into a well-appointed bedchamber swathed in shadows. A hearth glowed with the last remnants of the day's wood, casting just enough light to see by. The addition of two bookshelves and writing desk amongst the normal bedroom furniture made the room seem cramped, despite its reasonable size.

At first she could not see if the senior enchanter was present, and so stepped within the boundaries of the room. There was a lumpen shape housed beneath the four-poster bed, but it was uncertain whether this was the old mage or just a rumpling of the blankets.

Flora sidled forward, trying to be as subtle in her movements as either Leliana or Zevran; then promptly collided with the corner of a dresser, setting off a vase into a precarious wobble. She made a frantic grab, managed to secure the vase and then knocked over a chair. Mouthing to herself in alarm, Flora reached down to retrieve it.

"It's alright, child," came a resigned voice from the bed. "I wasn't asleep."

Flora peered tremulously through the shadows, towards where the senior enchanter was sitting up in bed. Wynne was wearing a prettily embroidered dressing robe, her white hair in a twisted skein down her back.

"Come here."

Ever the dutiful apprentice, Flora obeyed her senior's instruction. Clambering onto the bed, she settled back against the cushions, alongside the elderly mage. Wynne set aside the book she had been squinting at, then smiled down at her junior counterpart.

"How's the head?"

"Fine," the younger mage replied, automatically reaching up to touch the side of her skull. There was a pause, after which Wynne gave her a gentle nudge.

"So, what's the reason for this late visit, child? It's rare to find you outside Alistair's arms at this time of night."

"I…" Flora began, feeling vaguely foolish. "I wanted to make sure that you were alright. After what happened today – the blood mages, and the  _sacrifices_ … it reminded me of what happened to our Circle."

There was silence for a long moment, the senior enchanter closing her eyes briefly. An anxious Flora glanced sideways at the older mage, who suddenly appeared each one of her sixty years. For the first time, she noticed the dark rings beneath Wynne's eyes, the purple bruises marring the pale skin.

"The comparison had occurred to me, yes," murmured the senior enchanter, after a pained hesitation. "It's an awful thing, blood magic. I recall too what happened with Jowan, all those months ago. So many lives, lost in the pursuit of artificial power."

Flora gnawed guiltily at her lower lip; she had not spared a thought for Jowan - or for her many other dead- since they had left South Reach. Grimly, she resolved to ask Leliana the next morning about the location of the palace chapel.

"Can I get you some water? Or some ale?" she offered, tentatively. "I could go to the kitchens and make you a sandwich. I haven't been banned from these ones yet."

"Only a matter of time, Florence, I'm sure," replied Wynne kindly, reaching out to put a hand on the woollen sleeve of Flora's jumper. "Thank you, but I'll be fine. Elf, you might as well come in, rather than lurking in the shadows. I assume that Leliana was not interested in your  _charms._ "

Zevran sidled in from the doorway, a grin twisting his tan and tattooed face.

"Ah, my dear Wynne. You have better night vision than a  _cat_ ," he purred, crossing the bedchamber on silent feet. "I suppose you eat all your carrots, you good girl."

Wynne snorted, shooting the elf a wry smile as he clambered promptly into the bed on her other side.

"Are you  _sure_  you're alright?" Flora asked once more, wanting some further reassurance. "I'm sorry that I didn't come earlier."

She bowed her head, chastened. The senior enchanter reached out and spread elegant, ink-stained fingers over Flora's smaller, nail-bitten hand.

"I assure you, child, I'll be fine, though I appreciate you coming all the way down here to check on me."

Flora nodded, anxiously.

"These Ferelden nights are so  _chilly,"_ complained Zevran, giving a little exaggerated shiver as he cast his eyes around the cluttered chamber. Books spilled liberally from their shelves, and the floor was covered with assorted sheets of parchment; many filled with the mage's neat script. "May I join you beneath the covers, dear Wynne?"

"My days of inviting men beneath my covers are long gone, I'm afraid," replied Wynne, with a flash of the old coquetry that she must have possessed as a young woman.

The senior enchanter's amused gaze slid back to Flora, who was pleating the blanket between her fingers and musing whether to make a detour to the kitchens for her own purposes.

"Anyway, how are  _you,_ young one? You're so rarely out of Alistair's company, I've not been able to ask how you're feeling."

Wynne nodded towards Flora's abdomen, making it clear what she was referring to.

"Oh," replied Flora, feeling her heart beat a little faster within her ribcage. "I'm not sick in the morning so much, anymore. Sometimes I feel like the world is spinning around me and I have to sit down."

"That's because you're skipping meals and spending too much time on your feet," replied Wynne, with a chiding look. "You need to let the others patrol the camp and greet the soldiers."

"But I  _want_  to," protested Flora, immediately. "I summoned them. I want people to see me in the camp, with the armies."

The senior enchanter nodded slightly, in recognition of Flora's point. She made a small gesture, a half-smile curling the corner of her mouth.

"Let's see the little one, then."

Flora dutifully unbuttoned the middle buttons of the flannel nightshirt, letting the striped cloth fall open. Wynne reached out a hand, resting her palm on the firm, round curve with a wistful expression.

"Almost four months now, aren't we?" she murmured, pale blue eyes distant. "You'll begin to feel it in the next few weeks, I imagine."

Flora shot her a look of mild alarm.  _"Feel_ it? What do you mean? Feel what?"

"The  _quickening_ ," said the older woman, gently. "The baby making it's first movements _._ Trust me, you'll remember that first kick for the rest of your life."

"I'm not surprised it wants to kick me," a gloomy Flora replied. "It probably knows I'm taking it into battle."

Wynne sighed, withdrawing her hand and curling her fingers tightly against her palm.

"Well,  _I'm_ surprised that Alistair hasn't paid more heed to it. Flora, you won't be able to pass this off as  _too many pastries_ for much longer."

There was a heavy silence, during which a panicking Flora fumbled blindly with the buttons of the nightshirt. After she had fastened them incorrectly three times in a row, Zevran reached out and fastened them for her.

"I feel  _so_  guilty," Flora whispered eventually, lifting her gaze to Wynne's. "About – about not telling him _._  It keeps me awake at night, I feel so  _bad_ about it all."

"What's more important, your conscience or the fate of Ferelden?" retorted Wynne sharply, pale blue eyes flashing like a summer storm. "If Alistair and Fergus discover that you're with child, you will not be fighting in the final battle. And you  _must_ be there, Flora. The Archdemon is going to be a greater threat than any we've faced before. Look at how vulnerable we were to the maleficar without your shield."

Flora dropped her gaze to her lap, miserably.

"Ferelden is more important," she whispered, numbly. "Everything I've ever done has been for Ferelden."

Relenting, Wynne reached out and put her hand on Flora's knee, catching the younger mage's eye.

"I know, child. Don't fret about it – go back to bed, get some sleep. Irving wants to see you tomorrow, I believe."

"Oh," replied Flora, in a small voice. "Alright."

She swung her feet off the bed and Zevran mirrored the movement, stifling a yawn with his fingers.

"Flora?"

Her name drifted across the room just as Flora reached the door, and she turned around dutifully. Wynne smiled at her through the shadow, reaching up to pin the loose skein of hair to the back of her head.

"I can see why the spirit of  _Compassion_ is drawn to you, child. Thank you for coming to see me."

Elf and mage made their way back up through the corridors, her lost in thought and he equally silent. Once they had passed the portrait of the stained glass Calenhad _,_ Zevran reached out and squeezed Flora's hand, comfortingly.

"I wish that I could do more,  _mi sirenita,"_ he murmured, a thread of regret running through each word. "The pressure upon you and Alistair is immense, and you must bear the brunt of it."

"It's alright," replied Flora, with northern stoicism. "I can bear it."

"I know,  _carina,_ yet it seems unfair that such a burden should be placed on you. You have not had an easy life, and now you have this too to cope with."

Flora was quiet for a moment, turning his words over in her mind as she contemplated them. Finally, she gave a small shrug, the corner of her mouth twisting upwards.

"I'll be fine," she said again, decisively. "I know what I have to do. And my life hasn't been all  _that_ hard, compared to yours. I think you must have had the hardest life of all, although you never complain about it."

"What makes you say that,  _carina?"_ the elf asked lightly, his coal-dark eyes unreadable as they settled on her. "Neither you nor Alistair had an  _idyllic_ childhood, from the sound of it."

Flora peered up at the sad face of the cringing canvas  _halla,_ surrounded by snarling Mabari as it struck out with a terrified hoof.

"I don't know," she replied, honestly. "You never really talk about your past. I think it must have been difficult."

Zevran was silent as they entered the royal passageway, the men of the ubiquitous Royal Guard standing in motionless intervals alongside the walls. Flora glanced at her companion, wondering if she had caused offence with her presumption.

"I'm sorry," she said, for a second time that evening.

"No need to be sorry,  _nena_ ," the elf murmured, as they approached the king's bedchamber. "Your observation was… correct. It's just rare that anyone acknowledges it. People tend not to feel sympathy for a cold-blooded assassin such as myself."

"Fish are cold-blooded," replied Flora immediately, having learnt this morsel of information from  _Exotic Fish of Thedas._ "So you can't be  _all_ bad."

Zevran stifled a cackle, dark eyes flashing as he cast another rueful look towards her.

" _Mi amor,_ you must stop making this so difficult for me."

"Making what difficult?"

But the elf made no reply, nudging her inside the king's bedchamber. Alistair was still snoring away in the centre of the bed, his long limbs and broad frame taking up the majority of the space. The moonlight silvered his hair and cast his handsome features in pale ivory, like a statue from some ethereal Tevinter temple.

"Go on,  _carina_ ," Zevran murmured, nudging Flora gently in the ribs. "Your brother-warden looks lonely. I will sit in the armchair and turn my face to the hearth."

Flora approached the bed, reaching out to pull back the blankets as surreptitiously as possible. Just before her hand made contact with the embroidered wool, she turned around and scuttled across the flagstones like a crab; intercepting the elf before he could sit down. Impulsively, she threw her arms around his narrow waist and hugged him.

"Thank you for…"

She trailed off, not quite knowing how to articulate what she was grateful _for_. Zevran let out an imperceptible sigh, returning the embrace as a shadow settled over his tattooed countenance.

"Of course,  _carina_."

Flora smiled at the elf as she withdrew, loose strands of hair falling around her waist as she bowed her head.

Approaching the royal bed for a second time, Flora paused for a moment, gazing down at her slumbering brother-warden. Alistair was curved around the hollow dent in the mattress where she had been, his face still and far more peaceful than she had ever seen it during the day.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Flora pulled off her boots one at a time, letting them drop onto the flagstones. Conscious of Wynne's comment about her burgeoning stomach, she kept the woollen jumper on over her nightshirt.

Trying to disturb the furs and blankets as little as possible, she leaned back against the cushions and swung her legs up onto the bed.

"'Lo?"

Flora grimaced, peering apologetically down at Alistair as he gazed up at her; stubbled-edged jaw resting against the embroidered cushion.

"Alistair," she whispered back, slithering down until they were parallel and face to face, their difference in height negated by lying prone. "I woke you, I'm sorry."

Alistair reached out and touched his sister-warden's cheek, sliding his thumb reverently across the high, angular bone that had set her apart from the other inhabitants of Herring.

"You're the best thing in my life," he said softly, with a voice still mired in sleep. "After all this is over – the Blight ended, the Archdemon killed – I want to spend the rest of my years making you happy."

Flora swallowed, reaching up to entwine his fingers within her own and clamping them to her breast.

"Well, I'm easily pleased," she said, honestly. "So you'll have lots of time to focus on mending Ferelden."

Alistair nodded wordlessly, hazel eyes boring deep into her own.

"I can do anything with my sister-warden beside me," he replied, with a faint smile. "Maker's Breath, how fortunate I am."

He reached out a sleepy arm and Flora folded herself into his chest, settling against the hard line of muscle that was somehow more comfortable than any overstuffed cushion.

"I love you," she said into Alistair's collarbone, the words muffled against his skin. "Alistair."

"And I love you, Lola."

Sitting beside the hearth, Zevran let an imperceptible sigh escape his throat. Shaking his head resolutely, he reached towards a half-drunk bottle of ale.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I think these chapters – where Flo is kind – are just as important as the actiony ones! I like exploring her kindness as a quality; it's the most fundamental facet of her character. She's not very intelligent – in an academic way, anyway – she takes things far too literally, and she's not witty or sassy – but she is kind.
> 
> Hmmm I wonder how long it's going to take before she's banned from the palace kitchens, too? Lol well it happened in Redcliffe and South Reach, so it's definitely only a matter of time!


	307. Fishing Nets and Forging Swords

The next morning dawned bright, clear, and unseasonably cold for midway through Bloomingtide. The sky was the same aqueous watercolour blue as Leliana's eyes, the slightest wisps of cloud scudding far above the estuary. The encampment was relatively peaceful – it was a holy day, and so many human soldiers had descended in flocks to the various temporary Chantries that had been constructed within its boundaries. Although neither dwarves nor Dalish followed Andraste's teachings; to maintain accord within the camp, they kept noisy activity to a minimum.

Unbeknownst yet to the Wardens, another straggling group of refugees had arrived in the city overnight. There were no more than two dozen of them, from a village near the Brecilian Forest that was too small to be found on any map. They were in sorry condition: several of their number had been injured in their flight from the Darkspawn, and a handful had succumbed to the taint before they had even reached the city.

Both Wardens had spent the morning within the encampment, as usual. They had also attended an early Chantry service, alongside the grim-faced people of Herring. It was conducted out on the riverbank, with the priestess preaching from a boulder and her congregation gathered on the damp estuary sand.

Afterwards, Alistair kissed his sister-warden on the cheek – not quite daring to kiss Flora on the mouth before her Herring-father – and parted from her. He went to take another patrol around the camp on horseback; while Flora spent an hour assisting her father with the morning's catch.

In this way, she found herself in a small boat in the middle of the estuary, nets trailing behind them in the milky green water. Her father was leaning over the edge, gazing at the mottled surface of the river with a suspicious eye.

"What's wrong, pa?" Flora asked, seeing the creases on his forehead deepen as he frowned.

Pel let out a grunt, but made no other form of reply. It was several minutes before he vocalised a response; but this reticence was entirely normal behaviour for a Herring local.

"Fish taste different here," he muttered eventually, reaching down to tug at the net's lead-rope to test its resistance.

"Is it the seawater mixing with the fresh?" Flora replied, eyeing the brackish mingling of tan river-water with the salty green of the Amaranthine Ocean.

Pel shook his head, and then didn't say another word until they were pulling the boat up onto the riverbank, beneath the impassive gaze of the Royal Guard assigned to watch Flora.

"Meat's leaner," the Herring native said abruptly as they let the burgeoning net spill out over the sand. "Lacks flavour. Falls 'part afore it's cooked."

Flora nodded, watching the fish writhe their last gasps of life on the damp sand. Her father stood beside her, expression unreadable as he wiped briny hands on the tattered hem of his jumper.

"I miss the fish from home," she said eventually, in a small voice. "I can't remember what the Waking Sea tastes like anymore."

"It tastes like salt, girl," growled her father, shooting Flora a disapproving look from the corner of his lined eye. "Don't go gettin' mawkish on me."

"Sorry, papa."

After Flora had helped to descale, gut and clean the catch, she – and her clothing - were so covered in fish entrails that she decided she had to wash and change. This notion was met with some incredulity by her fellow villagers, who were long inured to the scent and residue of the sea.

Thus, to the slight alarm of the Royal Guard sent to watch her, Flora ventured fully clothed into the estuary. Since neither of the guards could swim, they watched with baited breath until she emerged, soaked to the skin and teeth chattering.

She had no change of clothing, and so one guard managed to procure a spare sister's robe from one of the nearby temporary Chantries. Taking it gratefully, Flora changed behind a large boulder embedded in the riverbank.

Wishing that there was a mirror nearby so that she could see her reflection, Flora ventured into the main body of the encampment. Despite her unusual attire, the tangled mass of dark red hair down her back was enough for the troops to identify her at a distance. Many of them called out greetings as she passed by, and Flora returned each one with a little nod or a wave; too shy to smile.

She ventured next through the Dalish camp, weaving her way between the large, tented structures of the elven  _aravels_. There were a large number of them parked haphazardly upon the gentle slope, and Flora could see how their nickname of  _land ships_ had come about. At a distance, their angular canvas roofs did resemble the billowing sails of a fleet at sea.

Although the Dalish were more reserved in their acknowledgement of Flora's presence, they were still coolly respectful. Many of them were at least vaguely aware that she had had some involvement in the ending of the  _lycanthropy_ curse that had recently plagued their people.

To Flora's mild alarm, she could no longer locate her brother-warden through their shared blood. She could vaguely sense Riordan's presence as a soft hum just behind her right ear; but when she reached out for any trace of Alistair, there was nothing but hollow emptiness in return. With a nauseating lurch that had nothing to do with the creature inhabiting her stomach, she recalled how she had used the familiar pull in the Deep Roads to navigate her way correctly through a maze of service tunnels towards her brother-warden.

_I've barely spared any thought to what I've done to Alistair,_ she thought miserably to herself, raising a mindless hand in response to a shout of greeting.  _How much of the taint have I accidentally purged from him?_

_Unlike the other mistake, this one is all my fault._

Fortunately, Flora had become rather adept at the practise of  _denial._ Firmly swallowing the guilt as it settled sour beneath her tongue, she decided to use a more conventional method of locating her companion. The third person whom she asked - the Dalish commander, Lyna Mahariel, informed her that Alistair had been last seen heading towards the makeshift armoury.

Thanking the statuesque elf, Flora set out towards where a series of hasty timber sheds had been constructed. Located away from the main tents, this unassuming structure housed the weapons that would be doled out amongst those who had brought only farm implements and garden tools to fight with.

Sure enough, Flora soon spotted the scarlet livery of the royal escort that accompanied Alistair whenever he left the confines of the palace. The guards were standing at either side of the doorway, still and stern as Chantry effigies.

"Lady Cousland," murmured one lieutenant as Flora approached, voice muffled by her full-face helmet. "His Highness is inspecting the newly forged weaponry stored within. Will you wait, or should we announce you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Alistair said irritably, peering around the open doorway. "You don't need to  _announce_ Flo. Hello, sweetheart. Want to come and look at some swords with me?"

Flora nodded, reaching out to take her brother-warden's hand as he led her inside the temporary armoury.

The interior of the shed was crowded with a tangle of shelving and sword racks. Weapons were piled on every surface, from swords, to pike-heads, to great dual-handed axes. Crates overflowing with arrow heads were scattered haphazardly across the woven rush matting. The armoury's hasty construction had resulted in a myriad of gaps in the roof; allowing thin fingers of sunlight to penetrate the gloom. Dust drifted through the slender beams, disturbed by their presence within the makeshift structure.

"What do you think of this, Flo?" Alistair asked, holding up a crude but effective iron short-sword. "The smiths are making them as fast as they can get ore. I won't have men go against the Darkspawn armed with scythes and pitchforks."

Flora swallowed, picturing her dad facing a horde of charging Hurlocks armed only with a descaling knife.

"It looks very...  _stabby_ ," she replied dutifully, knowing next to nothing about weaponry.

Alistair smiled at her, placing the sword back with the others. The next moment, his brow furrowed and he blinked down at her unusual attire.

"Wait, what are you wearing? Are you  _wet?"_

He reached out to finger a thick, damp rope of hair as it hung against her shoulder.

"Lo, you're  _soaked._ "

"I washed in the estuary," replied Flora, gazing up at the dust dancing in the sunlight above Alistair's head. Her brother-warden was so tall and broad-shouldered, that he seemed to take up disproportionate space within the narrow confines of the shed. Ironically - considering that she was the one capable of exuding  _light_  - Alistair's olive and gold colouring was far warmer than her own milky complexion and dark red hair.

_He does look like a king from a storybook,_ she thought to herself, distantly hearing Alistair bemoan the dangers of putting wet clothes on.  _Not that I ever had any. Wouldn't have been able to read them if I did._

"It's alright," Flora replied vaguely, reaching out to brush some dust from the collar of his tunic. "I'm not wearing anything under this."

Alistair stopped abruptly, the words hovering on his tongue. He stared down at her, eyes moving over the thin white linen of the robe and the faint hint of flesh beneath it. His hazel eyes darkened and he took a step forward, voice thickening.

" _Nothing?"_

Flora shook her head mutely, feeling the first coils of desire twist deep in her belly in response to her brother-warden's desirous gaze.

Alistair dropped to his knees, careless of the damp rush matting, and reached to grip the hem of the Chantry robe. He lifted the skirt higher, inch by inch, pressing slow kisses in the material's wake. He left damp swirls of his ghosting tongue up the inside of her calf, lips working leisurely over the firm, ripe flesh of her inner thigh. Flora had to put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself, feeling the strength in her legs rapidly dissolving.

"You taste like the sea," he murmured into the skin, clutching the crumpled linen with one hand. " _Mm_ , baby. Hold this up; let me see you."

Flora did as she was told, holding her skirts up around her waist as a flush blossomed on her cheeks. Alistair stared at her, a slight groan escaping his throat.

" _So_ lovely, Flo," he breathed, made hoarse with wanting.

The next moment Alistair had risen in a smooth, seamless motion, lowered Flora onto the surface of a leather war-chest, and then knelt back down at the juncture of her legs. Before she had time to process what was happening; his face was buried between her thighs, lips and tongue working her with joyful desire.

Some time later, a grinning Alistair was pulling his breeches back up while Flora still lay sprawled before him on the war chest, trying to catch her breath.

"Right, we'd better get back up to the castle before they start worrying that we've run away together," he said lightly, fastening his belt and smiling down at his sister-warden.

"But I can't  _walk_ ," whispered Flora, wide-eyed and stunned. "I don't think I can  _move."_

" _Really?"_ Pride flashed briefly across Alistair's handsome face, before he quickly rearranged his features into an expression of concern. "Let me help you, my dear."

He reached down solicitously as Flora scrambled unsteadily to her feet, letting the Chantry robes fall back down around her knees. She made a vain attempt to flatten her hair from where it trailed in exuberant disarray, ultimately giving up and winding it into a bundle.

They exited the tent hand in hand, noticing with some small surprise that the sun was low in the sky. A mellow afternoon haze hung over the tents, and the smell of damp canvas permeated throughout the Alamarri plains. The dwarves – who had been stubbornly lodged inside their tents for the duration of the morning's drizzle – had finally emerged, and the sounds of raucous laughter drifted from their camp.

"It's nearly sunset," Alistair commented, in some surprise. "How long were we in there for?"

"You spent nearly two hours…  _inspecting swords,_ Your Highness," provided one of the junior guards helpfully, and was promptly elbowed by a nearby officer.

"Ah, I was meant to meet Eamon before dinner," recalled Alistair suddenly, with a slight grimace. "We'd better get back up to the palace."

Almost before he had finished speaking, a dutiful retainer in Theirin scarlet ventured forward with head bowed, leading a bay mare by the reins. The journey back up to the castle was uneventful, and they made good time. Many of Denerim's residents were occupied with the afternoon service in their local Chantries, and the streets were relatively quiet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Haha, Herring folk are so grim-faced and gritty! I wanted to show a bit where Flora developed her backbone from – she starts getting a bit homesick for Herring fish, and her dad basically tells her to man up, lol.
> 
> Went to a Zumba class yesterday and my entire body hurts now lol. I always thought I was pretty fit because I do a lot of running, but I guess you use a different set of muscles? Owwww it even hurts to type!
> 
> Is it weird that I find minutiae so interesting to write about? Like the (probably boring) logistics of assembling a Medieval-ish era army?


	308. Candles For The Dead

Once they were back at the Royal Palace, Alistair parted reluctantly from his sister-warden to meet with the Guerrin brothers; plastering her face with feathery kisses and promising to meet her later.

Flora deliberately avoided these daily briefings in order to encourage Alistair's own confidence; although, in truth, she found herself a little mournful every time that they had to part. Both Wardens had lived in each other's pockets since Duncan had first assigned them together at Ostagar, and Flora had grown used to her brother-warden's constant presence. They had grown so accustomed to doing everything with one another – eating together, sleeping together, scrubbing the detritus of battle from each other's backs – that to do anything alone felt somewhat alien.

_**You're never truly alone.** _

_It's not the same!_

Telling herself sternly not to be so  _co-dependent,_  Flora made the long journey back up to the royal quarters in order to change. Hanging the Chantry sister's robe over an elaborate set of ceremonial armour, she retrieved a knee-length tunic from the dresser. The wool was dyed a soft, rose madder hue, and Flora assumed that it must have once belonged to Habren Bryland. Now adept at belting her garments to disguise the swell of her abdomen, she let her hair loose around her waist to dry. The dark red, curling mass was so thick and dense that it was still damp from her wash in the estuary hours prior.

Biting into a peach to stave off the rumbling of her stomach, Flora made purposefully down the corridor. She passed the wounded  _halla_ and the stained glass Calenhad; a small flicker of surprise flaring in her mind as she realised that the layout of the sprawling Theirin seat was becoming almost  _familiar_  to her.

She also passed a number of servants on her journey through the labyrinthine passages, each one bowing their head respectfully towards her. She was growing accustomed to it, although their deference still made her feel uncomfortable and slightly fraudulent.

Once Flora had reached the entrance hall, she was waylaid by the Bann of Calon. He kept her before one of the vast hearths embedded in the wall for nearly half an hour, rambling in excruciating detail about a group of trained bowmen that he had brought from his bannorn.

Flora nodded away like a puppet, shifting from foot to foot and feeling her face slowly heating to match the soft blush colour of her tunic. Their proximity to the blazing hearth was exacerbated by one of the hot flushes that Flora was experiencing with increased frequency.

At long last, the enthusiastic bann - who had once been so suspicious of Flora that he could not bear to look her in the eye – kissed her hand and wandered off towards the tantalising smells of the banquet hall. Determinedly ignoring the plaintive rumbles of her stomach, a sweating Flora asked a nearby servant for directions to the castle's private Chantry.

After a slight misadventure into a startled clerk's office, she found herself in a secluded corner of the palace. The noise from the rest of the castle was muffled by heavy tapestries hanging over the stone walls; each an embroidered masterpiece depicting a scene from Andraste's life. They were lit by flaming sconces on the wall, the once vibrant colours faded with age.

Flora liked the one best depicting Andraste at the head of an army, sword raised and expression determined. She lingered at its foot for several moments, staring up at the Bride's stern face, intricately woven in silken thread.

_Did You ever feel guilty about the men and women who died in Your service?_ Flora thought to herself, the parallels in their situation not lost on her.  _There must have been a lot of dead when You marched against Tevinter._

_**They knew what they were risking when they chose to follow. As do those who have answered your summons, child. They believed the cause to be worth the danger.** _

Flora hastened past the final tapestry, which depicted the bonfire consuming Andraste's mortal body as Her soul escaped to the heavens. There was a door left ajar at the end of the passageway, and the familiar smell of incense crept out between wood and stone.

The doorway opened into a space hollowed out within the bedrock of the castle; with vaulted ceilings and a dual row of pillars leading towards the altar. The limestone was warmed by several braziers, as well as the flickering eternal flame set at the forefront of the chapel. It possessed a stark, shadowed majesty; the stone imbued with several centuries' worth of reverence.

A dark haired woman clad in Chantry robes was humming quietly to herself, refilling the incense holders hanging from iron brackets embedded in the stone. Despite the acoustics of the chapel, she moved with remarkable subtlety; her feet barely making a whisper as they trod the uneven floor tiles.

Nobody else was present, and Flora hesitated at the doorway, wondering if she should come back later.

The woman looked up and smiled, gesturing Flora forward.

"Ah, Lady Cousland. Please, may I assist you?"

Her accent was carefully refined Ferelden, but there was a slight Orlesian inflection present that reminded Flora of their own lay-sister, Leliana.

"I just wanted to pray," she replied, lowering her voice instinctively as her own words came echoing back at her. "Is it a good time?"

"The Maker is always ready to listen, my lady," replied the dark-haired woman, inclining her head. "You will find everything you need at the altar. Please let me know if you require assistance."

Flora whispered a  _thank-you_ , and advanced down the aisle. There were no pews, only pairs of crude wooden benches set at regular intervals.

As promised, there were dozens of small votive candles and splints prepared on a stand near the altar. Flora took a splint, clenching it awkwardly between her teeth as she grasped as many votive candles as she could carry in both hands.

Kneeling down on the stone, she placed two concentric semi-circles of candles; silently counting out her dead as she lit each one.

_Daveth, Jory, Duncan, Cailan. One for the Wardens. One for poor, lost Lothering. Niall, Jowan. One for Ruck, though he might still live. Caridin. Zathrian, the Lady. Symon. Mother, Father. One for Oriana and Oren. One for the victims of the maleficar in the warehouse._

Unfortunately, Flora's sporadic bursts of eloquence did not extend to prayer. She pressed her hands together and bowed her head, feeling a sudden throb of melancholy deep in her belly.

_I hope you've all found some measure of peace,_  she thought, hoping fiercely that the Maker was listening.  _I hope it makes up for the terrible ways in which you died._

_Please wish me luck. And… Mother, Father? I hope I can still make you proud, even though I'm a mage. I'll try not to bring shame to the Cousland name._

There was a sound from behind her, footsteps coming to an abrupt halt against the stone. Startled from her reverie, Flora peered over her shoulder to see Loghain framed in the doorway, escorted by a pair of armed guards.

"I'll come back later," the former general muttered, turning to leave. "I won't disturb you."

"It's fine," replied Flora, the chill of the flagstones creeping through the thin pink wool of her tunic. "I'm finished, now."

The greying northerner gazed at her for a long moment, and then inclined his head. The guards followed close at Loghain's heels as he advanced down the aisle, covering the distance in a handful of strides.

"That's quite the inferno," he commented roughly, tilting his head at Flora's twin arcs of votive candles. "You have a lot of dead."

"Yes," Flora mumbled, just about resisting the urge to retort  _several of them, thanks to you._ She watched the man approach the votive stand, gait impaired by an almost imperceptible limp, and take a single candle.

"Does Alistair know you're out?"

"Aye, lass."

"Who's that candle for?"

"Are you  _always_  this nosy?" Loghain retorted, lighting the splint on Andraste's eternal flame and using the smouldering taper to light his lone votive.

There was a drawn out moment of silence. Flora let her solemn stare settle on him, and the man finally relented.

"It's for my wife, Celia. I lost her several years ago."

"Arl Bryland's wife died several years ago, too," Flora said, remembering Leonas' melancholy face in the courtyard of South Reach. It seemed an age ago that she had rejuvenated the dead arlessa's walled garden; yanking up weeds with her bare hands and prodding life into newly-planted seeds.

"Aye, Leonas wrote me a letter of sympathy when Celia passed."

The disgraced teyrn snorted at Flora's poorly disguised surprise, dark Mac Tir eyes focused on the small flame of his votive.

"Don't look so startled, girl. I'm aware that you know me only as the  _villain,_  but there was once a time when I was respected amongst the men of this land."

One of the guards went to close the door of the small chapel. The slight shift in air current caused Celia's candle to flicker and extinguish itself, leaving a thin tendril of smoke in its wake.

Flora lifted one of her own candles – the one assigned to Jory – and reached across to touch its flame against the smouldering wick of Loghain's votive. The candle sprung back to life, and the man standing before it let out a quiet grunt of acknowledgement.

Clambering slightly awkwardly to her feet, not yet used to carrying extra weight on her stomach, Flora pulled her tunic down over her thighs and turned towards the exit.

As she had risen, Loghain had lowered himself awkwardly to the flagstones; gripping one of the pillars for support. The old injury in his knee – almost undetectable when standing – showed itself far more when he went to kneel.

"Thank you for yesterday," Flora muttered, shifting from foot to foot. "Wynne told me that you… saved my life. Alistair is thankful, too."

Loghain nodded, without turning around.

"I know," the man replied, in the voice that inadvertently reminded Flora of the northern coast. "His gratitude is the only reason I'm permitted to be here. Scowled like he was eating Mabari crunch as he thanked me, but thanked me he did."

Flora stared at Loghain's greying braids, realising that Alistair must have gone to see his former enemy before meeting with Eamon.

"Thank you," she repeated begrudgingly, then made a hasty retreat towards the doorway.

As Flora emerged into the corridor, she almost collided with the woman clad in Chantry robes.

"Oh! Sorry," Flora bleated, eyes wide and apologetic. "I'm so clumsy."

_Thanks to you, creature._

_**Don't blame the child for your own ungainliness.** _

"No need to apologise, my lady," replied the dark-haired woman kindly in her Orlesian-tinged accent. "But, may I ask you a question before you go?"

Flora nodded, silently willing her stomach to stop rumbling.

"You're known to keep the company of a lay sister," the woman continued, absentmindedly fiddling with the hinge of her metal censor. "I wonder if I've ever met her in the course of my Chantry service? Was her name…  _Leliana?"_

"Yes," replied Flora, oblivious to the sudden hardening of the woman's gaze. "She joined us in Lothering."

"And her hair – it's red too, is it not?"

"Mm. It's brighter than mine, though. Like a goldfish."

"I see. That's very…  _enlightening_. Thank you."

Thinking no more of the questions, Flora made her way back down the tapestry lined corridor; feeling a little lighter in spirit than she had done previously.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: I like this chapter, I think it's an important part of Flora's character to be reflective and remember her dead. The design of the palace Chantry is based off the Norman chapel in Durham – I really recommend google image searching it, it's so beautiful!


	309. Crafting A New Weapon

In bed that evening, Flora lay in Alistair's arms and listened to her brother-warden recanting the details of his meeting with Eamon. The hearth had died down to embers, but now that they were nearing the month of Justinian, the nights were not quite as chill as they had been a week prior. The curtains lining the vast picture-window were open, and the suspended stars were framed like the work of some prodigious celestial painter. The great constellations revolved slowly around Thedas; while the star-studded arrangement known as  _Judex_ smouldered in the heavens high above Denerim.

Nestled against Alistair's chest, Flora gazed idly towards the downwards-turned sword. It reminded her of the symbol adopted by the Templar Order, and she wondered how Connor Guerrin was faring in his northern Circle.

"So the people have been instructed to turn out anything crafted from iron that they can spare," Alistair was saying, absentmindedly stroking his palm along the pale length of her forearm. "They're to bring their goods to the market square tomorrow. Hopefully, we'll be able to arm a few more men once the smiths have finished their smelting. Did you know, I saw several men arriving today armed only with sticks.  _Sticks,_ against a charging Hurlock, can you imagine?"

Flora shivered, preferring  _not_  to. She reached for Alistair's hand and brought his fingers to settle on her sternum; careful to keep them clear of her swollen stomach. He let out a soft sound of satisfaction, tracing the underside of her breast with a thumb as he continued.

"Anyway, Eamon thinks it'll be a good idea if we go down there when the people are bringing their goods. Might prompt a few more donations if you flash your pretty smile at them, darling."

Flora tilted her gaze appraisingly towards Alistair's strong, stubbled jaw, able to see the logic behind Eamon's suggestion.

"I think the housewives of Denerim will be more interested in  _you,"_  she replied, honestly. "I never smile in public; everyone thinks I'm in a bad mood all the time. I can't  _help_ it, it's just the way my face looks."

Alistair snorted, propping himself up against the cushions and adjusting the furs over Flora's thigh. Once resettled, he slid his fingers higher to leisurely cup her breast through the thin linen of the nightshirt.

"Anyway, I feel guilty about going to the people and asking them to give up their own goods," he continued, brow furrowing as he nudged at her collarbone with his thumb. "We should be protecting them, not taking their few possessions."

"I think they'd be happy to help with the war effort," replied Flora, making a valiant attempt to stay focused. "At least then they can contribute to the defence of their own home, in a small way."

"Mm," Alistair mumbled against her hair, sliding his fingers deftly between the buttons of her nightshirt.

" _Aieee_ , your fingers are  _freezing!"_

"Then let me warm them on you, my love."

Flora let out a half-squawk, half-giggle as he gripped her breast, squeezing it delightedly like a fruit at market.

_**Raise the issue now.** _

"Speaking of  _contributing in some way,_ " she continued, pressing forwards despite a lurch of trepidation.

Alistair let his hand fall still within Flora's nightshirt and peered down at her, solicitously.

"Hm?"

"Have you… thought what you're going to do about Loghain? I think… I think he wants to help, and he could be useful. He's a good fighter, and he's experienced."

Alistair fell silent for a long moment, handsome face creasing.

"I don't know," he replied eventually, a thin vein of frustration running through the words. "He's saved you  _twice_ now, Flo. The man is so damned hard to predict."

"I think I can predict him," replied Flora, prompting raised eyebrows from her brother-warden.

"Oh? How's that?"

"He always does what he feels to be best for Ferelden," she said, with tentative confidence. "Alistair, I have an idea."

Several moments later, Alistair's jaw dropped.

" _A Warden?!"_  he bleated, shocked. "Flo, I know you're full of  _northern practicality,_ but- "

_**He must agree.** _

"We need Wardens to kill the Archdemon," she whispered, her lips brushing against his ear. "And he's a skilled fighter."

"But – Flora – he  _betrayed_ the Wardens and left them to die!" Alistair murmured in a constricted voice as she began to kiss her way across his jaw. "Duncan- "

"Duncan wants us to kill the Archdemon, no matter what," replied Flora, letting her fingers trail down his chest. "Besides, don't the Wardens take  _anyone?_  Criminals, traitors - "

"Ye-es," croaked Alistair, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.

"Will you at least think about it?"

"Yes –  _Maker's Breath."_

A short while later, Alistair lay sprawled contentedly against the cushions while Flora curled beside him, feeling rather pleased with herself.

"So, you'll consider making Loghain a Warden?" she sought to clarify, twisting her head upwards to peer at Alistair's stubbled jaw.

The corner of her brother-warden's mouth twisted in a wry grin, fingers moving in idle patterns over Flora's bare shoulder.

"To be entirely honest with you, Lo, I'd already thought about the possibility myself," he replied, smiling against her hair as she let out a grunt of surprise. "But I quite enjoyed you trying to convince me _."_

Flora's mouth contorted into a small  _O_  of outrage and she prodded a finger into his ribs.

"You never  _said!"_

"I was too preoccupied with your  _methods of persuasion_ , my dear," he murmured, then rolled on top of her in a sudden, swift gesture, resting his weight on strong forearms.

"Were you trying to tell the  _king of Ferelden_ what to do?" he breathed in Flora's ear, keeping her trapped effortlessly beneath him as she tried to look indignant. "Trying to distract me with…  _feminine wiles?"_

Flora blinked innocently up at him from the cushions, and then yelped as he bit gently at her earlobe.

"We'll see  _who's_ in charge here, sister-warden."

The next morning, as Eamon had suggested, both Wardens rode down to the main market square to oversee the donation of metal goods. It was the last day of Bloomingtide, and the sun was shining merrily overhead as though in anticipation of the upcoming change of month. Although the start of Bloomingtide marked the official beginning of summer; in reality, it was a changeable month that often delivered more showers than sunshine. Justinian was seen as the true start of summer by many, and for the Fereldan people – who typically experienced dreary autumns, freezing winters and damp springs – it was a season eagerly welcomed.

Unfortunately, the cloudless blue skies and balmy temperatures were not appreciated by either Warden. Since this was an 'official appearance', such as it were, they had both donned their most formal of attire. Alistair was sweating away in a quilted tan tunic edged with a fur collar, the not-quite-a-crown pressing down on his ears.

Flora was in her Warden uniform, having spent fifteen torturous minutes wrangling the navy leather trousers into position. Now she felt a little like a fish being roasted in a tin, the heavy weave of the silver and blue overcoat layered on top of her tunic. She had tied her hair up into the obligatory high ponytail, which had lashed Alistair in the face every time she turned her head on the journey down from the palace.

Now they were both standing on the auctioneers' platform in the centre of the market square, as Chantry officials managed the collection of sundry metal items from the people of Denerim. Leliana, naturally, was overseeing their efforts; the sleeves of her robes rolled up as she called for another wagonload to be taken down to the encampment. Teagan was also present, making a mental note of the quantities of goods collected.

The city folk had not let down their Theirin prince: they had come out in droves, thronging on the cobbles and gossiping as they clutched their donations. Most had brought spare cooking utensils or buildings tools to contribute to the war effort, but there was the occasional old breastplate or rusting shield among the offerings.

They queued up at the foot of the wooden platform with items cradled in their arms or carted in wheelbarrows, eyeing the impassive row of Royal Guard and whispering excitedly. When beckoned by a harassed looking Chantry cleric, they would sidle forward with pot or poker in hand. After stooping into a reverent bow before Alistair, they would deposit their offering in a crate beneath his feet. Then curious eyes invariably turned towards Flora, wanting to put a face to the  _Warden-Commander's_ name.

Once their spare iron had been donated, the city folk would meander slowly back to their homes, hovels or taverns; the calibre of discussion varying wildly.

Two housewives, who had each brought a spare cooking pot, returned to their dwellings in the merchant district gossiping excitedly.

"He's a handsome lad, isn't it? Looks older than his years."

"Aye, and you're new  _married,_  Bess! You get your lusty eyes off our new king and back onto your husband."

"Ah, no harm in lookin'. Remind you of our Maric, don't he?"

"Mm. And she's a bonny lass, eh? Can't really see her on the battlefield, though. Quite  _short."_

Meanwhile, the exchange between two off-duty labourers wandering back to the docks was quite different.

"Lovely set o' legs on that redhead."

"Aye."

"Reckon Theirin's beddin' her?"

"Oh,  _aye."_

Meanwhile, Flora was growing slowly hotter and thirstier on the platform beside Alistair. They had now been overseeing the donation of metal goods for over two hours without pause, and the sun had almost reached its noonday peak. She could feel beads of sweat running down the back of her neck, hidden beneath the heavy weight of her hair.

"Good thing I didn't have that extra flagon of ale this morning," Alistair muttered beside her. He shifted his weight surreptitiously onto the other leg and inclined his head to acknowledge a beaming tavern-keeper as she let an armful of silver tankards drop into the crate.

Beside him, Flora nodded mutedly, gritting her teeth. To her horror, she was beginning to feel the tell-tale symptoms of an impending loss of consciousness – her legs felt rubbery beneath her, her vision was blurring and the crowd below had disappeared in a faceless sea of humanity. She took several deep gulps of air, willing herself to remain steady on her feet.

_**You can't faint in front of the crowds.** _

_I know. I'm trying!_

_**Nor in front of him.** _

_I'm doing my best._

Blinking, Flora forced herself to focus on a merchant's stall on the far side of the square. A full spectrum of cloth was on display, and she gazed determinedly at the bright patches of colour in the hope that they would anchor her to the waking world.

Another half hour dragged past, the sun now blazing directly overhead. Alistair lifted the coronet to run fingers through his sweaty hair, forcing a smile onto his face as a shy child dropped a toy sword into the chest.

"Thank you," he said kindly, and there was a ripple of excitement from the crowd. The boy went bright red from the unexpected attention, looking determinedly down at his feet.

Flora barely heard her brother-warden's words; the sounds of the market square were muffled as she expended all her remaining energy on staying upright. Her mouth was so dry that her tongue was sticking to her gums.

At last, a flushed Leliana climbed the steps to the auctioneers' platform, delighted at the number of city folk that had answered their plea for metal goods.

It was a measure of the bard's consummate skill that she did not flinch at the sight of Flora's pallid, clammy face and dazed expression. Instead, Leliana elbowed Teagan while simultaneously stepping forward to reach for Alistair's hand.

"Alistair, come and look at the  _huge_  pile of pots that the tavern-keepers' guild has donated! Their guild master would be  _ecstatic_ if you were to thank him personally."

"Steady on, Lel," Alistair muttered in alarm, startled by the bard's apparent haste. "What's the rush?"

The prince allowed himself to be led away, after glancing back to check that his uncle was still on the platform. The crowd's attention went with the prince, murmuring excitedly as their heads turned.

Teagan, meanwhile, had realised the latent meaning of Leliana's swift distraction. Inhaling sharply, grateful that the people were distracted by Alistair's movement, he reached out to steady a swaying Flora.

"Maker's Breath," he muttered, wrapping his hand around her elbow. "Come on, poppet. Let's get out of this sun."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Flora has a northerner's brutal practicality – Wardens are needed to kill the Archdemon, there are only three Wardens remaining, why not increase the odds? Except that she wouldn't be able to actually calculate the odds as she's not very good at maths, lol.
> 
> Alistair has also been considering the possibility of making Loghain a Warden – I know that in game, it's an impossibility, but in my story, Loghain has already saved Flora on two separate occasions. Alistair doesn't want to inflict the Joining on any of their companions – it's a premature death sentence, one way or the other – but he does see the need for more Wardens.
> 
> Ho ho here I go with more army-gathering logistics! In this case, the donation of metal goods to melt down and craft into weaponry. I think I'm quite a visual writer – in that I come up with an image in my head that I think looks cool, and then try and incorporate it into my story? Like in the last chapter, I had the idea of this stark, stone-pillared chapel with Flora sitting down surrounded by her two concentric semi-circles of candles, and I wanted to try and reflect that in my writing.
> 
> Anyway, I liked the idea of the people of Denerim participating in the defence of their city through the donation of metal goods, getting a sneaky look at their new king-to-be at the same time! Flora is not taking care of herself very well - she's not used to being out in the sun, and she's not brought anything to drink with her. Moroooon!
> 
> Did you get the double meaning of the chapter title? Crafting a new weapon, referring to both Warden Loghain and the metal donations!


	310. The Scarlet Banner

A sweating Flora barely registered the bann guiding her down the steps and into a quiet spot behind the wagons, away from the prying eyes of the crowd. Here, it was shadowed and marginally cooler than the rest of the exposed market square.

"Here, sit down. Drink this."

She slumped onto a low chest, hanging her head as the bann crouched down before her, offering up his own water-pouch. When Flora reached out her fingers, they closed around thin air as her vision blurred.

"Hold on, one moment- "

Teagan dug through the assorted metalwork in a nearby crate, finally managing to produce a small pewter cup. Pouring half of his water-pouch's contents into it, he guided the container carefully to her lips.

"Sip this, slowly."

The liquid was luke-warm, but refreshing enough to revive Flora somewhat. She took an unsteady breath, swallowing down the rest of the cup.

"Sorry, pet," Teagan murmured, emptying the rest of his water-pouch out over a handkerchief and folding it in half. "Here, let this sit on your forehead – aye, just like that. I should have realised that you were out in that heat for too long. You shouldn't be standing in the sun for hours without a drink in your condition."

Flora swallowed, her stomach giving a little roll of dread.

"How am I supposed to fight in a  _battle_  if I can't even stand still in the heat?" she entreated him miserably, feeling unwanted tears prickling at her lower lashes.

For want of anything else to say, the bann reached out and took her hand. Although doing so was not a  _conventional_  means of reassurance for Ferelden's upper classes; Teagan was aware that the young Cousland had been raised on simpler, more physical forms of comfort.

_**Breathe. Settle yourself.** _

Flora clutched Teagan's lined fingers, inhaling deeply. He had guessed correctly that the gesture would calm her – after all, he had seen Alistair do it often enough, and vice versa. After a few moments, Flora closed her eyes; the urgent pace of her heart gradually slowing.

"I'll just have to wear a big sunhat when I fight the Archdemon," she said eventually, flashing a wan smile. "Or request that we battle in the shade?"

"They might attack at night," Teagan offered, and Flora perked up a little, nodding.

"They might do! Oh, though that wouldn't be good for anyone else but me. I'll just have to cross my fingers that the Darkspawn choose a  _rainy_  day to attack."

Flora squeezed Teagan's hand once more gratefully before clambering to her feet, testing the steadiness of her legs. Once she was reasonably certain that her balance had returned, she took a deep breath and smiled up at the bann.

"Alright, I'm fine now. Thank you."

Teagan shook his head, feeling the residual warmth of her fingers fading away.

"Don't mention it, sweetheart," he muttered, gruffly.

They stepped back onto the platform just as Leliana and Alistair returned from visiting the tavern-keepers. The stockpile of donated metal had indeed been impressive, but Alistair was impatient to get out onto the Alamarri plains.

"Let's go down to the encampment now," he declared, smiling down at his sister-warden. "We can have some lunch in the mess area. Sound alright to you, Flo?"

Flora nodded, returning the smile.

"Yes, please," she replied, turning her face away from the glaring sun. "I'm  _starving."_

The encampment was now so busy that, despite the best efforts of those in their path to  _make way,_ the Wardens still found themselves weaving around soldiers and tents alike. Leliana had ridden down with them, smiling radiantly at those who ventured nervously forward to get a blessing from the Chantry lay-sister.

To Flora's relief, the sun seemed to have expended the majority of its heat during the morning. Exhausted, it withdrew behind a veil of filmy cloud, casting only a filtered and muted light over the sea-grass plains. She sat before Alistair on the saddle, leaning back against his chest and taking occasional sips from a spare water-flask that Leliana had produced.

" _Chérie,_  do you notice something?" the lay-sister murmured, pulling her grey mare back alongside them.

"How crowded it is?" Alistair offered, clearly delighted. "Maker's Breath, there must be nearly ten thousand here. It's more than we could have ever hoped for."

"No, although that  _is_ remarkable," replied Leliana, gesturing with a hand to encompass the troops and tents scattered in vague cohesion around them. "Look,  _ma crevette._ Do you see?"

Sure enough, bright splashes of scarlet amongst the drab olive and tan of the tents had caught Flora's attention. After a moment, she realised that they belonged to skeins of dark red cloth; tied to tent poles and weapon stands, to the tops of halberds and even affixed to the bridles of horses. Fluttering in the breeze, they dominated in the camp of the Royal Army – although there was also a not-inconsiderable amount in the dwarven quarter, and even a handful amidst the  _aravels_  of the Dalish.

"Do you see them?" Leliana murmured, and Flora gave a slight nod, confused.

"Mm. What do they mean?"

Keeping one steadying hand on the reins, the bard leaned across and flicked the end of Flora's ponytail, a smile creeping across her features.

"My  _hair?"_ breathed Flora, eyebrows rising. "Whaa- why?"

"To show that they're fighting in  _your_ name,  _ma petite_ ," replied Leliana, laughing at the suspicious look on Flora's face. "It is not unheard of for troops to bear symbols of their leaders, and your hair is distinctive."

Flora swung her head experimentally, lashing Alistair in the face once again with the high ponytail.

"Well, then," she said, taking another long gulp of water as her brother-warden flinched. "I can't let them down then, can I?"

Bard and Wardens both joined Arl Bryland for lunch, sitting amidst the troops at the long tables in the mess area. The Royal Guard sat a discreet distance away, removing their closed-face helms in order to eat.

Leonas, conscious of Flora's aversion to meat, had ordered a vegetable pottage to be offered alongside the meat stew. This was served with hunks of freshly baked bread, and – to Alistair's transparent delight – hunks of sharp Ferelden cheddar. He immediately devoured nearly a quarter of a wheel, dipping each piece in the stew as he gesticulated enthusiastically. The dwarven commander, Duran Aeducan, had joined them for lunch, and Alistair was quizzing him on the various types of siege weaponry constructed below the city walls.

"Most o' the trebuchets can launch up to a two hundred weight," the dwarven  _deshyr_ was saying, as Alistair listened in fascination. "Our biggest –  _Paragon –_ can handle loads up to an  _eight hundred weight."_

"Maker, that's incredible!"

Meanwhile Flora sat next to Leonas, anxious about the dark shadows beneath his eyes and the new lines creasing his forehead. She was aware that the pressure of commanding the Royal Army must be immense, and that she was responsible for placing this burden upon the arl's shoulders.

"Are you sleeping enough hours every night?" she demanded in an undertone, spoon hovering before her mouth. "And eating sufficient?"

The weary-eyed Leonas smiled at her concern, swallowing the last chunk of bread.

"You sound like my daughter," he murmured with a wry smile, reaching for his tankard. "Don't worry, I'm coping adequately. I might not be in my prime any more, but I can still lead troops."

Flora gnawed at her lip anxiously, taking another sip from her water pouch. Before the arl could excuse himself and rise to his feet, she reached out to grip a handful of his tunic. The rejuvenative energy was already rising in her throat, tasting and feeling slightly different to the healing mist.

"Sorry," Flora mumbled, leaning forward on the bench. "'Scuse me. Oops."

She planted her mouth firmly against the arl's own, recalling when she had done similar after the attempting poisoning at South Reach. Except that this time, there was no toxin to inhale – only her own invigorating magic to impart.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," muttered Aeducan, raising bristled eyebrows. "But I thought that the redheaded lass was  _your_  mistress, Theirin?"

"She is," replied the nonchalant Alistair, surreptitiously reaching for the last bit of cheese. "This is just how her magic works."

Flora continued to clutch the front of Arl Bryland's tunic, exhaling until the very last breath of rejuvenative energy had passed from her mouth to his. Finally, she sat back on the bench and surveyed his face, appraising the results of her efforts. The dark circles had vanished from beneath Leonas' eyes, his cheeks were ruddy and the careworn, creased skin appeared somewhat smoother.

"Sorry," Flora apologised, bowing her head. "I knew you'd never ask."

Leonas coughed, then let out a rueful laugh; shaking his grizzled head from side to side as he rose to his feet.

"No need to be sorry, Florence. Thank you. I can better face the stack of reports on my desk now."

"Would you like some assistance?" offered Leliana, dabbing the corner of her mouth delicately with a handkerchief. "Four eyes are faster than two when it comes to processing paperwork."

"I'd appreciate it, sister."

Flora watched the arl and bard depart from the mess area anxiously, bringing her bitten fingernails to her mouth.

Once the dwarven commander had excused himself, Alistair slid along the bench until he was sitting beside his sister-warden. Flora smiled sideways at him, idly tearing apart a small piece of bread and nibbling at the fragments.

" _Lola,"_ he murmured, wielding the pet name used only when they were alone. "What you can do – it's so clever. I'm  _ridiculously_ proud of you."

Flora could still remember a time when a mistrusting, fearful Alistair had built up a barrier between his own bedroll and that belonging to the  _inexperienced mage_. She flushed from her neck to her ears, and dropped her eyes to her lap.

"You are?" she replied in a small voice, peering up at him from beneath her eyelashes.  _"Really?"_

"Maker's Breath," exclaimed Alistair, giving an incredulous shake of the head. "More than words can express, sweetheart."

Flora put her arm about his neck and he kissed her; careless of the soldiers seated at the surrounding tables.

When they parted, a pink-faced messenger boy was hovering nearby, clutching a handful of parchment. He dropped into a deep bow as soon as he had their attention, nearly losing his balance.

"What is it?" Alistair asked in his most reassuring tones, in an attempt to soothe the flustered youth. "Speak up, lad."

"The chief smith requests a consultation with Your Highness before the metal goods are smelted, about the design of the blade," the messenger boy breathed, sweaty fingers leaving damp ovals on the parchment. "And, Lady Cousland, First Enchanter Irving politely requests that you remain in the mess area until he can join you."

Flora shrugged slightly as Alistair glanced towards her with a question in his eyes.

"No idea."

"Right," he said eventually, his reluctance to leave her obvious. "I'll see you later then, Flo. We'll go back up to the palace together."

Flora nodded, smiling at her brother-warden as he made off in the direction of the temporary smithies.

To her relief, the sun had finally submerged itself behind the clouds; plunging the Alamarri plains into shadow. Flora wondered if her Herring-father, a half-mile away on the riverbank, was also appreciating the dullness of the sky. She took the time alone to divest herself of the more uncomfortable pieces of her formal attire – the silver and navy striped tunic lay folded on the bench beside her, along with the leather gloves.

Wondering if she could surreptitiously loosen the top few buttons of her leather trousers, Flora pulled the tunic further over her stomach. Despite a few spots of drizzle landing on her bare forearms, she was inordinately grateful to be free of the weighty battle-mage armour.

While waiting for the First Enchanter's arrival, Flora decided to occupy herself by practising her neglected numeracy. Counting the various whorls and knots in the wood, she had just reached  _twoty-two_ when a soft, amused voice drifted from somewhere above her.

"Flora?"

Deference towards the First Enchanter of Ferelden was so ingrained in Flora that she shot upwards and bowed, faster than she had ever done for any noble.

Irving held out an entreating hand, shaking his head.

"Please, there's really no need."

The First Enchanter lowered himself with some difficulty onto the wooden bench, clearly more used to padded armchairs and velvet chaises. Once seated, he turned to face Flora, then laughed out loud at her expression.

"There's no need to look so anxious, apprentice. Nothing is amiss, I merely came to discuss your training."

"Training?"

"Aye. Both Wynne and Telathin Surana have suggested that the demands of your shield be tested prior to battle."

"Tested?" repeated Flora inanely, knowing that she sounded foolish but unable to stop herself. "What  _kind_ of tests?"

Irving leaned back on the wooden bench with an infinitesimal grimace at its unforgiving firmness. The First Enchanter looked entirely incongruous in the middle of the army encampment; clearly more used to the relative luxury of his quarters at the Circle.

"There are fundamentally  _two_  types of magical assault," he began, as Flora continued to stare at him with slight trepidation. "Those that use percussive force, and those that use elemental or arcane energy…"

A short while later, a gloomy Flora found herself making her way through a muddied section of the Alamarri plains. Far away from the tents, temporary buildings and earthworks; the ground beneath her feet had been hammered into pulpy hollows. The surface was mottled with indentations, the grass churned up to reveal the ochre mud below.

Pausing some distance away from those watching, Flora turned around expectantly. The chief of dwarven engineering, perched on a wagon alongside a selection of his most fearsome siege engines, gave a nod and a wave.

_How did I get here?_ Flora mused glumly to herself, squinting off towards the crowd gathering on the edge of the siege engine practise range. As usual, whenever their slender young Warden-Commander set out to demonstrate the capability of her unassuming frame, an audience had gathered.

_**There's nothing wrong with training. Everybody else trains.** _

_Do you need the practise, then?_ Flora thought back, obstinately.

_**Ha! No, but it's reassuring for them.** _

_Good, I'm glad that they feel reassured! I don't feel very reassured, with all those massive weapons pointed at my face._

_**Don't worry.** _

_Wait, isn't that the Paragon? The huge tre-tray- traybucket Duran Aeducan was boasting about at lunch?_

_**It would appear so.** _

_Ohh, unfair!_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Can't you just picture Flo fighting the Archdemon clad in some massive sunhat? Lol.
> 
> Flora has quite a selective memory – she's good at remembering details about people, but vocabulary is a lot more difficult for her. Hence twoty-two instead of twenty two, and traybucket instead of trebuchet.
> 
> How do you train someone who can literally do nothing in battle apart from a shield? Probe the capability of that shield by firing off your siege weapons towards it, hahaha


	311. Spirit Healer Versus Siege Weapons

There was a ripple of excitement as the dwarves brought out their first missile, a five foot long wooden bolt hewn from a single tree trunk. They loaded it into the ballista, before the chief engineer made some final adjustments to the angle of fire. Flora could see Irving standing nearby, the First Enchanter's willowy frame towering amidst the crowd of dwarves. The distinct sound of a metal crank being turned echoed across the firing range.

Flora sighed, shifting from foot to foot on the churned earth. She was armed only with a water pouch in case of a repeat of the morning's light-headedness. Idly, she wondered if Alistair was still meeting with the smiths.

_Probably, or else there'd be another little figure across there jumping up and down, waving it's arms and screeching._

The dwarven engineer gave a shout of warning, and Flora abruptly stopped daydreaming. She brought up the shield before her, the projectile-scarred ground immediately taking on a gilded hue.

The engineer raised an arm to her and Flora waved her hand back, feeling her stomach grumble.

_Really?! You just had lunch! Greedy creature._

There was a heavy metal clunk, and then the bolt was launched from the ballista with surprising velocity; the log rotating in mid-air as it travelled two hundred yards in seconds.

Flora flinched reflexively, but the spirits fuelling her magic did not flicker. There was a great clang like a shield being struck by a sword-blow, followed immediately by a thud. She opened her eyes to see the log lying in the grass at her feet, having felt the impact as only a slight nudge against her barrier.

_**Did you close your eyes, child?!** _

_I can't help it!_ she thought back, defensively.  _You try having a tree trunk shot at your face._

There was a collective inhalation from the crowd, followed by a swell of animated murmurs. The dwarven engineer gave an questioning shout and she nodded, taking a gulp of water.

The next bolt loaded into the ballista was six foot long and tipped with a vicious metal point. Flora eyed it with mild trepidation, hoping very much that Alistair was still preoccupied with the smiths.

_Would a bolt that big just impale me, or actually cut me in half?_

_**Cut you in half. At best.** _

Flora scowled, putting a protective hand on her stomach as an additional barrier for the creature nestled within.

_It had better not._

She brought up the shield once more, the deceptively slender fibres of the Fade weaving themselves around her in a filmy golden mesh. The dwarven engineer raised his hand and Flora waved at him, gritting her teeth.

The bolt came tearing through the air like a predator's lunge, the vicious metal spike carving the air in twain before it. It collided with her barrier with a horrible screech of twisting metal; so unpleasant that Flora grimaced, her palms flaring in sudden pain. The wooden bolt splintered into several pieces, the iron point now mangled beyond recognition.

_**Stop closing your eyes!** _

_Sorry. Ouch._

Flora turned her hands over and stared down at her palms, blinking in dismay. The skin was taut and scarlet, as though she had grasped a cooking pot straight from the flames. It had been a long time –  _months –_ since she had experienced such arcane burns; and only then did she realise the quantity of energy from the Fade that she must have been channelling in order to maintain the shield's integrity.

_It hurts! I can't heal it, can I? Ow!_

_**Not this type of burn, no.** _

Flora looked up, wondering if her training session was over for the afternoon. Although her eyesight was not as sharp as Leliana's, she could just about see Irving's cloaked figure conversing with the chief engineer. The First Enchanter was nodding and gesturing, and then the dwarven engineer gave a delighted nod.

Flora narrowed her eyes, her jaw dropping as she realised what they were gesticulating towards.

_Oh, really!?_

_**It would seem so.** _

_Can I… shield against that? Or should I just start running away?_

_**You can't run away with your army watching you. We can stop it. Just focus.** _

Flora took a deep breath, remembering how the domed ceiling of the Brecilian temple had fallen onto her shield, and broken like waves on the shore. Her palms stung as though she had passed them through flame, but she forced her discomfort to the back of her mind and took a deep breath.

The  _Paragon_ trebuchet had already been loaded with a boulder the size of a warhorse. Flora eyed it with deep misgivings, flexing her fingers to keep her sore palms from stiffening. There was a crowd several rows deep gathered about the siege engines now; mostly dwarves and humans, although she could see a handful of Dalish lurking at the edges.

The dwarven engineer lifted his hand in a wave, and the gloomy Flora returned his gesture. Her hands were beginning to cramp, and she gave a little grimace in anticipation of the upcoming pain. The shield blossomed around her once more, filmy as the surface of a gilded soap bubble.

There was a whip-like crack, and in a graceful, balletic movement, the firing arm of the trebuchet swung upwards. The boulder soared through the air in a graceful arc, dull and angular; and there came a collective inhalation from the crowd.

Flora watched the grey speck through her barrier, small at first and then expanding until it filled her field of vision. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to keep her eyes open; right up to the moment when the boulder crashed into the curve of her shield.

Her palms flared with pain and Flora inhaled sharply, unable to stop herself from letting out a little cry. So occupied was she with her burnt hands, that she barely noticed the two halves of the boulder settle into the mud on either side of her shield; the missile cracked in half like an egg.

_**Well done.** _

Flora barely registered the praise of her spirits, tears springing to her eyes as she inspected the blisters rapidly forming across her palms in a puckered constellation.

Deciding that the training was now over, Flora let the shield fall and began to pick her way back over the muddy field towards the edge of the siege engine target range. The terrain was so mottled with craters and bolt-holes that it was slow going, and she almost tripped over her own feet twice.

To Flora's dismay, the crowd that had gathered to watch their commander demonstrate her skills had not yet dispersed. The soldiers murmured between themselves, eyes resting on the lady-mage Cousland with new respect. Since many had seen their slight young Warden as merely a pretty figurehead – a symbolic commander rather than a literal one – this display of unexpected prowess had clearly made an impact.

As Flora neared the trebuchet, expecting either the chief engineer or the First Enchanter to come forward; an entirely different figure came striding out from the row of observers. Standing a head taller than any other man in the crowd, the distinctive form of her broad-shouldered brother-warden approached her at rapid pace.

Alistair's expression was carefully neutral for the benefit of the crowd, but Flora knew his face better than her own. She could see the fear pulling the corners of his mouth taut, the enlarged pupils and slight greyish tinge to the olive skin all indicators of barely-disguised distress.

"Are you alright?" he demanded in an undertone, reaching out to grip onto his sister-warden in a vain search for reassurance. "Flora?"

"I'm fine," breathed Flora, gazing up at him in mild trepidation as he exhaled unsteadily. "How much of that did you...?"

"Just in time to see them launch the spiked bolt," muttered back Alistair, paying no heed to anybody else. Both First Enchanter and chief engineer lurked in the background, knowing that the prince took precedent.

"You saw them do that? And you still let them launch the tre-  _traybucket_?"

"I trust you, Lo," replied Alistair through gritted teeth, a low undercurrent of strain running through the words. "And although I'll be seeing that boulder fly towards you in my nightmares for the next few weeks, I… I  _knew_  you'd be alright. You're a clever girl."

Flora knew how much it must have pained her brother-warden to stand silently by as the trebuchet was aimed in her direction. She went to embrace him and then let out a little yelp of pain, her hands giving a simultaneous twinge. Alistair inhaled sharply, reaching for her wrists and turning her palms over. A muted curse escaped his lips as he saw the angry scarlet flesh and accompanying blisters, nostrils flaring.

" _Bandages!"_ he snapped seemingly to thin air, and Flora looked around in confusion.

"Who are you talking to…?"

She could see the First Enchanter hovering on the periphery of her vision, anxious to speak with her and yet aware of the protocol that gave Alistair priority.

"Come and sit, sweetheart," Alistair replied instead, leading Flora carefully by the elbow to the base of the trebuchet. Nudging her to sit on its low, wooden platform, he glanced about the crowd impatiently.  _"Where- "_

"Here, Your Highness!"

An overeager retainer pushed their way through the spectators, clutching several items in their hands. Meanwhile, the Royal Guard began to quietly yet efficiently disperse the curious onlookers, the crowd gradually thinning out as men and dwarves reluctantly returned to their own tents.

Alistair took the linen bandages and a small tin of salve, then knelt in the soft, muddy soil before Flora; entirely careless of his own fine garments.

"Hands," he instructed, and she offered them dutifully.

The salve was pale green and pungent but in Alistair's experience, the more generally odorous the concoction, the more effective it was. Caking his thumb in the waxy substance, he reached for one of Flora's palms and daubed the ointment in a swathe across the burnt skin.

It hurt so much that she let out a little strangled gasp of pain, and reflexively put her hands behind her back.

Alistair blinked up at her, his expression creasing apologetically.

"I'm sorry, my love, but I have to do this. Please, give me your hands."

"But- "

" _Flora…"_

"Go on,  _ma chérie._ "

The lay sister manifested seemingly out of nowhere, lowering herself in an elegant motion to sit on the trebuchet base. Leliana put an arm around Flora's waist and kissed her cheek, placing comforting fingers on her elbow.

"You need to mend as soon as possible," the bard chided, without rancour. "We need you back at full capability."

A miserable Flora provided her palms for Alistair's attention. Gritting his teeth – for he did not like inflicting pain on his sister-warden any more than she liked to receive it – he meticulously slathered each one in the ointment. Once that was done, he wound bandages tightly around each palm, knotting the trailing ends in a bow on the back of her hand.

Once Alistair had finished, he ducked his head and pressed his lips against Flora's slender, curling fingers; before moving to sit beside her on the low trebuchet base. Only then did Irving advance, unable to stop a perplexed smile from creeping through his grey beard.

"Apprentice, you surely could not cast a barrier of that strength in the Circle? It would have come to my attention sooner. I was aware that you were a gifted healer, but  _this…?"_

Flora shook her head, letting her hands sit gingerly on her thighs.

"No," she replied, thinking on the study little shields that she used to conjure for her peers to fling their amateurish spells against. "It's got stronger since I left Kinloch. I suppose I got more practice."

_**And it mattered more.** _

"And it mattered more," Flora added, after the silent prompt. "My spirits have never let me down."

Irving nodded, pulling thoughtful fingers through his beard as he gazed down at her.

"We'll have to continue resume this testing – once your hands have healed, of course," the First Enchanter added hastily, in response to Alistair's glower.

"Interesting," murmured Leliana, as the three of them watched the elderly mage pick his way delicately across the mud. "That he now uses the word  _testing_ instead of  _training._ I suppose it's become a case of seeing how strong your magic  _is,_ rather than trying to develop it further."

Flora let out a noncommittal grunt, staring sadly down at her bandaged palms. Alistair gritted his teeth, glancing around for a horse.

"Let's go back to the palace," he replied, putting a protective arm around Flora's shoulders. "You look exhausted, sweetheart."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Since Flora is so limited in her magic, I like to show how her narrow range of abilities have developed – when the Darkspawn fired a medium-sized ballista towards her in the Deep Roads, the force of the blow against her shield knocked her over. Also, the testing thing is because Irving wants to see if Flora's barrier is strong enough to resist dragonfire – since the Archdemon is a huge dragon, lol. Flo really doesn't handle pain well at all, it turns her into a total wimp.
> 
> Speaking of protection, Flora is getting reluctantly defensive over the unborn child – although not enough to refuse to have siege weaponry targeted at her, lol. And Alistair is also trying to let Flora do her thing, despite being terrified for her!
> 
> This is the third chapter with Spirit Healer versus something… we've have versus blood mage, versus arcane warrior etc! What Flora really wants is Spirit Healer Versus Banquet Table, lol.


	312. Menders Make The Worst Patients

A retainer brought forward several horses, his head bowed deferentially. Rather than clambering up and hauling his sister-warden in his wake like a sack of potatoes; Alistair lifted Flora up onto the saddle first, conscious of her bandaged hands. After swinging himself up behind her, he reached his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck very softly.

The sun began to descend as the Wardens made their way through the encampment and towards the newly reinforced city walls. Sandbags had been stacked ten feet high at their base, and fresh cement plastered over the more significant fractures.

Flora paid little mind to the journey back up to the castle, unable to tear her attention from her sore, stinging palms. Although she knew that her body was naturally fast-healing and would mend the burn itself over the course of a few days; she was still frustrated by her inability to mend the wounds immediately with her own magic.

The throbbing of Flora's burned palms only increased as they passed through the noble district towards the palace; the wide cobbled boulevard relatively quiet as the great and good of Ferelden settled down to dinner. By the time that they had reached the edge of the castle grounds, she could not move her fingers without an accompanying stab of pain. Flora, who had rarely experienced hurt that she could not heal, was not coping well with the sensation. Tears were soon welling at the corners of her eyes that she was not able to brush away.

Flora could also feel Alistair breathing shallow and restless behind her, her brother-warden distressed both by his lover's suffering and his inability to do anything to alleviate it. He held her against him with an arm around her waist, his head bowed and miserable.

As soon as they reached the palace forecourt, the stable boys came scampering out to meet them. After some fierce, silent competition to take Alistair's horse; they then vied for the honour of assisting Leliana with her own grey mare. The bard bestowed a charming smile on the lucky winner, who blushed and almost tripped over the mare's hooves as he led it away over the gravel.

Guillaume materialised from the palace entrance, bowing before them with the usual accompanying Nevarran flourish.

"Where would Your Highness like to dine?" he enquired quietly, clever eyes having already appraised the situation as a scowling Alistair stood with an arm around his sister-warden's narrow shoulders. "In the great hall, or…"

"In my bedchamber, thanks," muttered Alistair, distractedly. He was staring down at Flora as she hung her head, holding her burnt and bandaged hands out before her as though she did not recognise them. "Could you apologise to Arl Eamon, and let him know that I'll seal the letters in the meeting tomorrow?"

"It will be done, Your Highness," murmured the Nevarran, with another deferential bob. "Lady Cousland, may I do anything for you?"

Flora shook her head miserably, too pained even to thank the steward for his consideration, as she would customarily do.

The journey up to the room passed in a blur; Flora's hands now emitting jagged waves of pain that seemed to emanate through her entire body. She was only aware of Alistair's arm resting around her shoulders, and the low, urgent conversation between prince and bard as they headed back towards the royal bedchamber.

_This is the worst I've been hurt by my own magic. I didn't realise so much energy was passing through me._

_**The Archdemon is armed with natural weapons that are a thousand times more potent than any mortal-crafted blade. You will need a shield that can withstand such a vicious assault.** _

_It's.... it's going to hurt me a lot then, isn't it? When I shield against its magic? I might get hurt?_

There was no reply. Flora could feel her fingers seizing in place, curling reflexively as the muscles contracted. To her dismay, more unwanted tears were starting to prickle at the corners of her eyes. Not since her ordeal at the hands of Arl Howe had she experienced such prolonged and uninterrupted pain.

They had just passed the stained glass Calenhad, the coloured fragments dull without the sun to provide any background illumination. Alistair and Leliana were talking quietly between themselves, their voices distant and muffled; Flora, preoccupied with her hands, nearly collided with a wall column. The next moment, she felt herself being hoisted into the air, lifted by her brother-warden with relative ease. Alistair carried her as he had once done at Ostagar, whenever she had exhausted herself shielding his well-intentioned, reckless brother in the mire of the Korcari Wilds.

Flora did not pay heed to much of the evening after that, her palms aching as though someone had scored a knife repeatedly into them. Pain blossomed in her mind like a scarlet flower, and she could focus on nothing else. She was vaguely aware of sitting on the bed in the king's chamber as Alistair and Leliana moved about her like ghosts; loosening her hair and removing her boots. After a brief glance at Flora's swollen abdomen, Leliana sent Alistair to fetch some more ale before wrestling the leather trousers loose and quickly replacing the tunic with a loose-fitting nightshirt.

Then Flora was on her back on the pillows, and Leliana was still murmuring to Alistair; the bard's voice echoing as though she were underwater.

_**Sleep.** _

_I can't go to sleep! My hands hurt too much._

_**Just close your eyes for a moment then, little one. Let us help.** _

When Flora next opened her eyes, the chamber was lost in a dark well of shadow. The only illumination came from a shaft of moonlight, stealing in through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains. The embers in the hearth had died down to muted amber coals, casting a weak glow across the rug spread over the flagstones.

Unable to use her aching hands to change her position, Flora twisted her neck and saw Alistair stationed beside the bed. He had brought the small, three-legged stool from the fireplace, and was perched at her side, hunched over with his head bowed.

As she shifted, he startled and looked up, reaching out to touch the sleeve of her nightshirt.

"Darling," he murmured, in a voice muddied by tiredness. "Are you alright?"

"What time is it?" Flora whispered back, using her feet to shove herself up higher against the cushions.

"They rang the midnight watch some hours ago," Alistair replied, stifling a yawn as he leaned forward on the mattress with his elbows. "Can I get you anything, Lo?"

Flora shook her head mutedly, touched that her brother-warden had sat in vigil at her side for the entire evening and half the night.

"Come to bed," she whispered, lifting one of her bandaged hands to brush Alistair's cheek lightly with the back of her fingers. "It's so late. You have that meeting in the morning."

Alistair gnawed on his lip, anxiety flickering across his handsome, careworn face.

"But you're tired, sweetheart," he muttered, turning a stubbled jaw into her affectionate caress. "I know that mages are more vulnerable when they're tired, I remember from my Templar training."

"My spirits will look after me in the Fade," Flora replied, stubbornly. "They always have. Come and sleep next to me."

She shifted herself slightly awkwardly across the mattress, leaving a warm indentation ready for him. Alistair blinked, conflicted, for several moments and then smiled wanly at her.

"Ah, I can't say no to that face."

After removing his tunic and breeches in a few swift motions the prince clambered into bed beside Flora, while taking excruciating care not to touch her. Rolling over, he met her pale, solemn gaze and let out a small sigh.

"Flora?"

She peered at his face, inches away on the same pillow, made wary by the use of her un-abbreviated name.

"Mm?"

"I love you, more than anything."

At a loss for how to touch him, Flora stretched out a foot and let the warm sole settle against his calf.

"I love you too," she replied, wishing she could embrace him. "Thank you for taking care of me. I'm very grateful."

Alistair groaned softly, reaching across to caress the hollow of her throat.

"I would take care of you every day for the rest of your life if you needed me," he murmured, brushing a stray feather from her cheek. "But you're so strong, my love. You showed that on the field today."

Flora returned his smile, feeling slightly guilty.

_It's not me that's strong,_ she thought, glumly.  _It's the spirits that help me; I'm just a vessel for them._

_Without them, I'm nothing._

_**Hush, child.** _

The painful throb of her hands woke Flora three more times before dawn; the raw ache seeming to permeate right through to her bones. Each time she would wake with a start, palms burning as though she had stumbled into the hearth and sunk her hands into the coals. Flora did not cope well with such overt pain, and was terrified by injuries that her own prodigious skill could not heal.

In order not to dwell on her bandaged palms, she recited the  _Kingstongue_ alphabet both forwards and backwards; then whispered the spellings of  _Denerim, Ferelden, Thedas_ quietly into the darkness.

As a result of both injury and interrupted sleep, Flora was subdued the following morning. To Alistair's increasing alarm, she professed to have no appetite; and not even a series of baked goods presented by a procession of servants could sway her.

"Look, Flo," Alistair pleaded, striding across the chamber half-dressed while wielding a pastry. "You like these ones, don't you?"

"I've seen you stuff about six in your mouth at once," added Leliana, hovering beside the hearth. The bard had arrived as usual to strap Flora into her bodice; the ribbons needing to be pulled tighter with each week that passed. "I've seen you practically plant your  _face_ into a plate of them."

Flora shook her head glumly, inhaling the smell of fresh baked pastry. The pain in her hands was all-consuming, and she could turn her attention to nothing else.

"You ought to eat  _something,"_ chided Leliana gently, shooting Flora a meaningful stare as Alistair turned to retrieve the coronet from the dresser. "It's not good for you to go without."

_You have more than just your own belly to fill, remember?_ her pale blue eyes added silently, one plucked eyebrow rising.

Flora, in response to this perfectly reasonable admonition, hunched her shoulders and dropped her gaze to her feet. Leliana gave a little huff of exasperation, tossing up her hands and muttering in Orlesian.

In the end, Flora ended up accompanying Alistair to the morning meeting of the King's Council, only because she suspected that Alistair might also  _not_ go if she had elected to remain in the chamber.

There were several empty chairs around the table – Fergus had returned to Highever to oversee the last summons of troops, and Leonas was down on the encampment. Finian had risen to welcome his sister, and blinked in astonishment as she returned his enthusiastic greeting with a sulky, Herring-worthy grunt.

Eamon, as incumbent regent, went quickly through the day's business. The metal collection of the previous day had gone well; the chief smith estimated that they should be able to craft sufficient weaponry that no man would find himself fighting the Darkspawn with farming tools.

They had also retrieved word from the Dalish scout, who had come across a swathe of tainted land in the Brecilian Forest. The corruption was old and stale, and there had been no hint as to which direction the horde had taken before returning underground. A frond of blackened, corrupt fern had been included with the report; so foul-smelling that those sitting around the table immediately recoiled as it was unwrapped.

"Blessed Andraste," croaked Eamon eventually, eyes watering as he gestured hastily for a servant to remove the offensive delivery. "What a stench."

"We'll have to issue the men with cloth to plug their noses," added Teagan, only half joking.

Alistair, who was used to the pungent reek of the Darkspawn, gave a slight nod. His eyes slid sideways to his sister-warden, who was sitting miserably in the seat next to him. Her melancholy had been noted by the others in the room; who all knew Flora well enough to differentiate between her usual solemnity, and this new dejection. Wanting to avoid their attention, she had pulled the sleeves of her tunic down over her hands; settling them surreptitiously in her lap.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: You know the old saying, doctors make the worst patients? That's definitely the case with Flora, lol. She's not used to being in pain, and she's outraged that she can't just heal herself. She's also a complete wimp haha, hence the overdramatizing of a relatively minor wound.
> 
> Also, note Alistair referring to the royal bedchamber as "my bedchamber" – I want to gradually introduce the concept of him growing accustomed to the life of a king.


	313. Rest and Recuperation

When the meeting came to an end, those nobles not in the inner circle left with respectful bows towards Alistair. Both Guerrin brothers, Finian and the Wardens were left sitting around the polished table; a shaft of sunlight streaming in through one of the high windows. Servants came in with platters of fresh fruit and flagons of wine, placing them on the table before exiting quietly.

"Lo,  _please,"_ protested Alistair entreatingly, turning in his chair and offering a cluster of grapes in the centre of his palm. "Just have a few. You can't eat  _nothing_ , sweetheart."

Flora, preoccupied with her own throbbing palms, shook her head mutedly. Teagan shot Eamon a quick glance; both Guerrin brothers had noticed Alistair's anxiety and Flora's dejection.

"Are you feeling unwell, Florence?" Eamon asked, raising bristled grey eyebrows.

"No," she replied, knowing that no small part of his concern was for Ferelden's unformed heir in her belly. "I'm fine."

"Flossie?" Finish asked suddenly, his sharp eyes having caught sight of a flash of white at her sleeve. "Is that a  _bandage?"_

Realising that she could no longer hide her injury, Flora let her sleeves fall away with some resignation, showing her linen-wrapped palms. Finian immediately rose to his feet, rounding the table in a few strides. Taking the recently vacated seat beside his sister, he stared down at her hands in alarm.

"What did you  _do_  to yourself, Floss?"

Flora scowled at the inadvertent accuracy of his words.

"It's nothing," she muttered as her brother fussed over her, touching the ends of her curled fingers gently. "It happens when too much energy passes through me. I can't mend it, but it'll heal on its own."

She flinched, knowing that the concept of  _energy passing through one_ was utterly foreign to every other person in the room.

"Is it a burn?"

Teagan rose to his feet, striding around the table and crouching near Flora's chair. Carefully, he pushed at the edge of the bandage with a thumb; just enough to see the taut, reddened skin below.

"I have a salve that's effective for burns," the bann continued, letting the bandage slip back into place. "It's from the Marches, contains some special herb from the Anderfels."

Rising to his feet, Teagan patted Flora's knee in his continued efforts to act fatherly.

"I'll have it brought down from my chamber, poppet."

"Thank you," said Alistair and Flora both, their voices tangling together as they replied.

"I'll go down the encampment today," offered Finian, running a hand self-consciously through his own russet hair. "I know this isn't a long banner, but it's still Cousland red. Then you can stay up here, Flossie."

When Flora opened her mouth to protest, Eamon interrupted her gently.

"I would say you've bought yourself a day's amnesty with yesterday's display," he murmured, voice kind. "Your bard informed me earlier. If the troops ever doubted the strength of their leader, they do so no longer."

"If Flo is staying, I am too," Alistair interjected, in a voice that brokered no argument. "They saw me yesterday. I don't want them to get fed up of my face before I'm even king."

After the Guerrin brothers took their leave and Finian departed for the encampment; both Wardens sat alone in the council chamber. The mid-morning sun streamed through the windows, specks of dust dancing through the filtered light as it warmed patches on the table. Two quiet servants, bobbing deferentially to Alistair, came in to clear away the trays and flagons. Before they could take them away, the prince retrieved a bunch of black grapes; plump and swollen as ripe cherries.

Flora eyed him suspiciously and Alistair shot her a glance of feigned innocence.

"Just in case I get hungry later," he replied, wrapping the fruit in a thin muslin cloth and tucking it inside his tunic. "Right, then."

"Where are we going?"

"To get some fresh air," Alistair explained cheerfully, rising to his feet. "Come on, my love."

Flora followed her brother-warden curiously through the chambers and down into the bowels of the palace. They passed through the sprawling subterranean kitchens; a quartet of Royal Guard following at a discreet distance behind.

He led her through a small wooden door tucked away in a distant pantry, and out into the open at the top of the cliff stair. The sun was bright and unclouded, a slight breeze rippling the surface of the pea-green estuary. The castle's cove below was deserted, the beach a mottled patchwork of sand and shingle. The tide was gradually easing its way out, leaving fragments of driftwood and clumps of seaweed in its wake.

As soon as Flora inhaled a lungful of the salt-edged air, her face brightened and she stood a little straighter. Alistair felt a small surge of pride at the soundness of his own idea, unable to help from grinning.

"I thought you might like to come here, rather than sit up in the bedchamber," he offered, and she beamed at him with a rapid nod of confirmation.

They made their way down the steps hewn into the cliff face; conscious of Flora's injury, Alistair ventured down first in case she lost her balance. Seagulls cried as they wheeled overhead, darting in and out of hidden crevices in the rock.

Once they had reached the shingle at the foot of the cliff, Flora immediately began to shuffle around impatiently.

" _Boots,"_ she begged, and Alistair dropped to his knees to slide her boots off one at a time. "Please. Thank you."

Bare toes sinking into the sand, Flora took a deep breath of fresh sea air; a salty, playful breeze tugging loose strands of her ponytail. The first proper smile that Alistair had seen for nearly a day crept across his sister-warden's solemn face, and he felt his own heart give a little skip of relief.

"Thank you for bringing me here," Flora whispered, turning her face up to his. "It's  _exactly_  what I needed."

If she had had the use of her hands, she would have reached up to draw his head down to hers. As it stood, she could only press a kiss against the centre of his chest, hoping that her gratitude could somehow permeate the layers of leather and linen.

"Of course, sweetheart," Alistair replied, feeling a hard lump of affection rise in his throat as he gazed down at the top of his sister-warden's dark red head. "Your desire is my command."

Flora tilted her face up to him expectantly, and Alistair lowered his mouth to hers; feet shifting slightly on the sand as he gripped her by the elbows.

The two Wardens spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach, beneath the benevolent gaze of a hazy sun. The tide eased its way out as the Amaranthine Ocean contracted; leaving behind a swathe of damp sand and marine detritus in its wake.

Two hours were spent sitting against a boulder, which granted some semblance of privacy from the guardsmen stationed discreetly beneath the cliff face. Alistair leaned back against the seaweed-covered stone, arms wrapped loosely around his sister-warden. By mutual agreement, they did not speak of the impending Darkspawn horde, nor of the Archdemon that they were still not quite sure  _how_  to defeat.

Instead, Alistair spoke more of his decade spent in the monastery at Bournshire; making Flora cackle at his impression of the stern Chantry mother who ruled over the dormitories with an iron fist. Eventually, with a lightness that could not disguise the melancholy underlying his words, Alistair spoke of the strange contradiction of experiencing perennial loneliness, despite never actually _being_ alone. Flora listened, and understood a little more why her brother-warden kept reaching out to grasp her hand.

In an effort to raise his spirits, she told him one of her more embarrassing Circle stories. This involved her sixteen year old self sneaking into the kitchens after curfew and getting locked within the dairy larder; inadvertently sparking a full lock-down of Kinloch Hold when the Templars discovered that she had gone 'missing'.

"They didn't find me for  _hours,"_  Flora confessed gloomily, unable to stop herself from flushing with residual shame. "I ate an entire block of butter because I was so hungry. Then I was sick on the Templar captain's boots when they let me out."

Alistair let out an incredulous guffaw of disbelief, his chest shuddering against Flora's back as he laughed.

"Maker's Breath!"

Flora smiled evilly to herself; temporarily distracted from the pain in her hands by her own reminiscing. As though on cue, her stomach gave a loud rumble.

"Oh," she said gloomily, recalling her earlier stubbornness in refusing to break her fast. "Oh, no, now I'm  _hungry."_

When Alistair triumphantly produced the bunch of grapes secreted earlier, Flora let out a trembling breath of wide-eyed delight.

Unfortunately, Flora's bandaged hands and pain-contracted fingers were utterly ineffectual at lifting the grapes to her mouth. Alistair had to assist, feeding his sister-warden one grape at a time.

"At dinner tonight," Flora mumbled, swallowing a mouthful of crushed grape. "I should have my food put in a  _trough._ Then I could just kneel down, put my face in it, and eat."

"A trough?" replied Alistair, incredulously. "Like a  _pig?"_

"Mm! We could put it under the table. Then I wouldn't need to inconvenience you."

Alistair began to laugh in disbelief once more, a grape falling from his fingers onto the sand.

"What would people say? The king's mistress, kneeling on the floor with her face in her food?"

"They'd say:  _how practical_ ," retorted Flora, who – now she had overcome her sulk – was genuinely concerned about how to eat without the use of her hands. "They'd say:  _there's_  a girl who knows how to overcome a problem. A TRUE northerner."

"My love," said her brother-warden, stifling another laugh as he pressed his lips to the back of her neck. "I'll make sure you get enough to eat, Lola. I helped you in Orzammar, didn't I? When they bound your hands."

"Mm, I suppose so."

Sometime later, Alistair fell asleep beneath the balmy afternoon sun; dozing in the shade behind the boulder. Flora lay curled against him for an hour, but her hands throbbed too much to allow for idle dozing. Gazing out at the retreating mass of water, now a hundred yards away across the damp, ridged sand, she had an idea.

With some difficulty, Flora used her teeth to pull loose the knots fixing the bandages around her palms. A minor effort later, and the bandages were in a crumpled heap on the sand. The burns across her palms were still pink and shiny; the fingers curled stiffly inwards as the flesh had contracted.

Now that her hands were free, Flora squirmed out of a snoring Alistair's arms and managed to contort her way out of her breeches. Fortunately they were relatively loose, and soon she was lying slightly out-of-breath in the sand, clad only in her shirt and smalls. Using her sound knee to propel herself upwards, Flora squinted towards the green line of the sea.

She began to wander down the beach, the sand becoming damp and ridged beneath her feet as she crossed the tidemark. Clumps of seaweed, ranging in colour from pale Highever olive to the rich oxblood of her own hair, lay strewn in the water's wake. Seabirds circled overhead, their sharp eyes sweeping the sands for crabs left exposed and vulnerable.

Out on the estuary, a flotilla of ships with Marcher flags were sailing east with the tide, headed for open waters. Flora watched them depart, recalling an earlier comment from Eamon about thousands of Blight refugees leaving Ferelden to seek better fortunes elsewhere.

She had a sudden, impractical urge to yell  _come back!_ across the water; her heart giving a painful throb as she envisioned the despair of those on board.

_I'm trying my best. Just give me a bit more time._

_**They may return in the future, if we succeed in defeating the Blight.** _

_Well, that's a- what's that term that Leliana uses? Non… non-_

_**Non-negotiable.** _

_That's it. Ending the Blight is non-negotiable. It's going to happen, whatever it takes._

Jaw set in determination, Flora splashed her way into the frothy shallows. Sea-foam clung to her ankles; the water was chilly, but nowhere near as frigid as the Waking Sea in winter.

"Lady Cousland?"

Flora turned around, seeing the incongruous figure of a fully armoured Royal Guard standing in the sand at the water's edge. Reaching up, the man pushed the visor back on his helm to reveal a careworn, bearded face.

"Mm?" Flora replied, watching a fish nip curiously at her ankle. "Don't get the water on your boots, it'll stain them."

"Are you… going swimming?" the guard asked, hesitantly. "Except that – none of us can swim. And His Highness has ordered that we ensure nothing happens to you. I'll be strung from the ramparts by my entrails if you get swept out to sea."

"Ooh, he wouldn't do that," replied Flora hastily, seeking to reassure the anxious guard. "But I'm not going swimming, I'm just bathing my hands. Saltwater cleans things."

The guard shifted from foot to foot, clearly unhappy. Flora turned her back on him and waded out to her waist, planting her feet squarely in the sand as the bottom of her shirt floated around her hips. Carefully, she lowered her hands into the water and inhaled sharply as the salt made contact with the inflamed flesh. However, as a healer whose own magic stung as it mended; she knew that such a sensation meant that the wound was being cleansed.

Flora kept her wrists underwater for several minutes, the goose-bumps on her bare skin slowly fading away as she grew acclimatised to the cold. The water was greenish blue in colour and lit by filtered sunlight, clear enough for her to see the pale outlines of her own bare legs. She could see the dark leather strapping wrapped around her weak knee, one end trailing loose in the gentle current.

"Flo?"

She turned around to see Alistair on the water's edge, squinting anxiously across the shallows. He was clutching her discarded bandages in one hand, forlornly.

"Sweetheart, you took these off?"

Flora began to wade back towards the shore, the wet sand shifting beneath her feet.

"Mm, the water is good for my hands," she explained, holding up her reddened palms for inspection. Alistair gazed at the burnt flesh for a moment, and then ducked his head to press his lips to the inside of her wrists.

"I thought you were going swimming," he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Here, I've got Teagan's ointment. And your trousers."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liked this chapter for showing that her injuries take some time to mend – and it's nice to see Alistair stepping up and doing his bit. The 'your desire is my command' thing is of course taken from in game!
> 
> It's a bit late now since I've been using it for ages, but poppet is a British term of endearment, a bit like honey. It's from the Latin pupa, which means 'doll'. Ironically, it can also refer to a little figure of a person allegedly used in witchcraft (from Medieval folklore) – the origin of voodoo dolls. Teagan doesn't mean it in the witchcraft way haha but it's a little coincidence considering that Flora is a mage.
> 
> As someone raised by the coast, Flora knows that saltwater cleans things – fishing hooks, dirty bowls – and so in order to clean her own wounds, she decides that washing them in the sea is probably a pretty good shout!


	314. Ring, Rut or Ruin

Alistair wrapped his sister-warden's burnt palms back up, then crouched in the sand and tightened the strapping around her knee. Prince and teyrn's daughter could not hold hands so they linked elbows, walking the length of the stone jetty that curved out into the bay. There were mooring points at regular intervals, yet no boat bobbed gently at anchor beside them.

Alistair gazed into the clear, green water, expression pensive. His brow creased as he spoke, eyes lifting towards the horizon.

"This is the last place that anyone saw my father alive."

Flora looked sideways at him, startled. Although Alistair was slowly becoming accustomed to the mantle of kingship; he rarely spoke of Maric, whose royal blood he had inherited.

"Guillaume told me. The old king went off on a ship with a small crew, headed to one of the Marcher territories. There was a summer storm and the ship was lost – or, so they believe. Nobody knows what happened."

"How long ago?" asked Flora, solemnly. Her Herring heritage meant that she was familiar with the sea, and its customary tithe of human life.

"Five years."

Alistair's reply came abruptly, his face clouding over. "Do you… do you think it's possible for Maric to still be  _alive?_  He could've been shipwrecked – injured, possibly. He could have hit his head… lost his memory."

In Flora's experience, the sea gave up few of its chosen victims. She knew that Alistair was thinking of her own circumstances – a Cousland daughter, hidden for fifteen years before making a public reappearance.

"From what I understand," she said quietly, not wanting to fuel his wistful fantasy. "The old king loved this city. If he was alive, I think he would have tried to make his way back here before now."

Alistair nodded, jaw tightening. He let out an almost imperceptible sigh, the tall and broad-shouldered frame hunching in on itself.

Flora wished that she could reach for her brother-warden's hand; instead, she rubbed her head against his sleeve like a concerned Mabari. Alistair put his arm around his best friend's shoulders, giving her a gentle squeeze.

"Thank you for not lying to me," he murmured, and Flora felt his gratitude like a punch to the sternum.

_But I am lying to you. Every moment of every day._

The guilt swelled up as a wave of nausea inside her belly, and she suddenly thought that she might be sick. Tears sprang without warning and began to roll in parallel rivulets down her cheeks.

Alistair glanced sideways at her face and immediately looked horrified, turning Flora to face him.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong? Why are you  _crying?_ Is it your hands?"

Feeling both guilty and grateful for the convenient excuse, Flora gave a tearful nod. Alistair hissed between his teeth, head spinning about.

"If only that  _blasted_  witch was here," he snarled, scanning the horizon as though Morrigan's winged form might be found amidst the wheeling gulls. "She made a salve that worked wonders last time."

_**Compose yourself.** _

Flora took a deep breath, and forced herself to smile up at her brother-warden.

"I'm fine," she said, blinking back the next swell of tears before they could escape her eyelids. "I want to see if there are any cockles on the beach, come on."

They spent the next hour wandering around the damp, mottled sand left in the wake of the tide. Flora managed to find several clusters of cockles nestled in shallow rock pools, and despite Alistair's dubiousness over them actually being  _edible,_ he duly collected them for her.

Alistair also found a rusting silver figurine hidden in a clump of seaweed, and spent the next little while scraping away the oxidised fragments with a shard of driftwood.

"Look at this, Lola," he murmured, holding it out to show Flora as she lay sprawled in the sand beside him. "It looks old, doesn't it?"

Flora gave an incoherent yawn in response, the previous night's lack of sleep finally catching up with her. Alistair's eyes softened as he gazed down at his sister-warden; shrugging off his outer tunic to fold into a makeshift pillow.

"Here, sweetheart, put your head on this."

She rested her cheek against it and smiled up at him, more hair now out of the leather tie than within it. Alistair reached down to brush a smear of sand from Flora's cheek, thumb lingering against her face.

"I love you," she yawned, letting her hands rest awkwardly before her.

"I love you too, Flo."

She awoke some time later to deft fingers running up and down her bare calf, teasing the smooth skin with artful caresses.

"I'd wager that  _these_  are the best legs in Ferelden," came an Antivan-tinged pronouncement, the voice muffled as though through a blanket. "I'd stake coin on it."

"Stop teasing the girl, you're  _incorrigible,"_ chided a familiar Orlesian voice in return, stern and reprimanding. "She needs rest. Look, now you've woken her up."

A yawning Flora reflexively went to rub at her eyes with her fists, and a soft whisper of warning echoed at the back of her skull.

_**Careful.** _

Remembering her bound hands, Flora instead blinked the tiredness from her eyes and looked around in mild confusion. The sky was a watercolour blend of violet-streaked apricot, the sun already lowered below the battlements of the castle above. Across the shadowed estuary, flecks of light sprang up amidst the crowded buildings; as the lamp-boys made their nightly rounds to each brazier and lantern in the city.

Warmth pooled down one side of her body, and Flora rolled over to see a campfire sending sparks towards the heavens. Several of her companions – Leliana, Oghren, and even Sten - were seated around its circumference. Alistair seemed to have claimed responsibility for the maintenance of the fire, and was busy inserting more driftwood into its base. Zevran lay sprawled at Flora's feet, his forefinger tracing idle patterns on her bare calf.

" _Carina,_ " he murmured, as Flora yawned and pushed herself upright on her elbows. "How are your hands?"

"They're alright," she replied distractedly, delighted to see both the Qunari and the dwarf. Alistair smiled at her through the flames, a piece of driftwood cracking in two and sending a rush of sparks into the massing twilight.

"I was gratified to see that you have taken up my suggestion of training," Sten informed Flora, bluntly. "Your shield has grown stronger over the months."

"Aye," added Oghren, wiping some ale froth from his moustachioed upper lip with a burp. "Loved seeing them  _war machines_  in action. That iron-spike ballista'll take out a dozen sods, easy."

Alistair grimaced at the reminder, flinching inwardly as he recalled standing helpless at the edge of the target range while six dwarves manhandled a boulder into position on the trebuchet. Having shoved the last piece of wood into the flames, he strode around the base of the fire and sat down in the sand beside Flora.

"It's all the troops can talk about," murmured Leliana, who was – as usual – up to date with the latest news and gossip from the camp. "If anyone had doubted the skill of their Warden-Commander, they certainly don't anymore."

Flora opened her mouth, about to explain for a thousandth time that it was not  _her_ skill; but the power of the spirits manifesting  _through_  her.

_**There's no point to it, child. They'll never understand what we share.** _

So instead Flora just smiled at Leliana and bowed her head, a self-conscious flush rising to her cheeks.

The evening deepened into a rich, velvety darkness. Zevran, who had grown up in the coastal Antiva City and was adept with marine cuisine, prepared Flora's gathered cockles. They took only minutes to cook, and the elf doled them out between himself, Flora and Leliana. The dwarf and the Qunari had both flatly refused; Alistair gamely tried one and was almost sick down his shirt.

"Maker's Breath," he exclaimed, dabbing frantically at his mouth as a greenish pallor rose to his cheeks. "Flo, these are  _disgusting."_

"They're not as nice as Waking Sea cockles," agreed Flora, accepting several glugs from Oghren's flagon of ale.

"They're  _vile!"_

Fortunately for Alistair, several servants arrived from the kitchens laden down with cooked meats; having precariously descended the cliff steps while balancing trays in both hands. Flora surreptitiously inched away from the meat, focusing her attention on Oghren as he monologued enthusiastically about various types of dwarven siege weaponry.

After they had eaten, Leliana drew a lute from her back and began to sing in her high, clear voice; each word emerging like the chime of a bell. Sten closed his eyes and appeared to immerse himself in some sort of native meditation. Flora settled back down in the sand with her head resting in Alistair's lap, his thumb running idly over the protruding line of her collarbone.

Once Leliana had finished the last refrains of a folk song extolling the virtues of pastoral life; Oghren let out a burp and cleared his throat.

"I vote we play a game," he suggested, dark eyes sparkling in the fire-lit shadow. "Anyone got a pack o' cards for Wicked Grace?"

When it turned out that nobody had, the dwarf was not dissuaded.

"Fine then," he drawled, drooping ginger moustache quivering with mischievous intent. "Let's play  _Rut, Ring, or Ruin_. Alistair, would you do the honours of going first?"

Alistair groaned, stroking the ball of his thumb down the side of Flora's face.

"At least this doesn't involve removing any items of clothing," he muttered, shaking his head ruefully as he recalled their infamous card game on the road back from Orzammar. "Fine, go on then."

Oghren grinned, splashing half a flagon of ale down his chest in excitement.  _"Right!_  Let's start closer to home – Wynne, myself, and our lovely bard."

Alistair snorted, thinking for a moment as he stroked the top of his sister-warden's head.

"I'd  _rut_  Leliana- sorry, Leli,"- the bard waved a hand at him in a  _no apologies needed_ gesture, - " _Ring_ Wynne, because she does a good job of darning my socks, and  _ruin_ you, you blasted dwarf, for not giving me Flo as an option!"

Both Oghren and Zevran snickered in simultaneous mirth.

"You poor, neglected little flower," the elf murmured, flashing Flora a white-toothed grin in the darkness. "Never fear: I will comfort you."

"Flower, yeh can go next," declared Oghren delightedly. "Myself, the Qunari, and Zevran. Rut, ring or ruin?"

Sten scowled at being inadvertently brought into something that he viewed as a frivolous waste of time. Oghren, meanwhile, was grinning widely; predicting that Flora would have no choice but to either  _rut_ or  _ring_ himself.

Flora sat upright, chewing on her fingernail absentmindedly as she gazed around at the faces of her respective options.

"I'd  _rut_ Sten,  _ring_ Zevran, and  _ruin_ YOU!" she declared after a moment, sticking her tongue out at the flabbergasted dwarf. "Ha!"

There was a moment of stunned silence. Zevran plastered a grin across his face to hide how touched he was at being chosen for the  _ring_ rather than the  _rut,_ and slung an arm around Flora's shoulders.

"Let's consummate our marriage tonight,  _mi amor,"_ he murmured in her ear, and she cackled.

Everyone else was gazing at the vast Qunari, who had lifted his head at the mention of his name. Sten looked Flora up and down for a moment, nostrils flaring.

"I would  _break_ you," he stated, coolly. "Unless you had some sort of protective gear. A helmet. Gauntlets. Do you have these items?"

There was silence for a full ten seconds, during which the air throbbed with disbelief.

Flora's jaw fell, and the elf let out a sudden scream of laughter. Oghren joined in, roaring away in a guffaw that echoed around the rocky curvature of the cove. Alistair, stunned, reached for his sister-warden's hand protectively. She took it, slightly pink in the face.

"Right," declared Leliana, still mildly annoyed at being chosen for a  _rut_ rather than a  _ring_ by Alistair. "Zevran, here are your choices: Bann Teagan, Arl Eamon, Teyrn Fergus."

"You'd better not  _ruin_  my brother," hissed Flora warningly, nudging the elf's booted calf with her bare toe.

Zevran leaned back on his elbows and thought for a moment, gazing at the silhouette of the royal palace perched on the cliffs overhead.

"I'd  _rut_  Teagan – that wasn't a hard choice, have you seen those  _thighs?_ You can tell he's a horse-rider –  _ring_ Fergus, and – unfortunately –  _ruin_ Arl Eamon. Nothing against our regent, but I always fancied being a  _teyrna."_

The choices gradually grew wilder and more absurd as the evening drew on. Zevran, gloating at being named Flora's  _ring_ option, eventually pointed his finger at Leliana.

" _Rut, ring or ruin:_ Loghain Mac Tir, the Archdemon and our own  _florita_!"

Flora scowled at the elf, not pleased at being ranked alongside Ferelden's most infamous traitor and worst enemy. Leliana, however, barely hesitated in her response.

"I'd  _rut_ Mac Tir,  _ring_ Florence, and  _ruin_ the Archdemon.  _Clearly."_

Flora's glower transformed into a beam, and she blew Leliana an appreciative kiss.

" _Mercy bucket,_ wife _!"_

" _Merci beaucoup, ma chérie,"_ corrected Leliana, with a little wink.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: OK so the Sten remark about the protective gear is inspired by an actual conversation I heard in game, lol!
> 
> Of course Ring, Rut or Ruin is inspired by the old classic, fuck-marry-kill. I seriously don't know any grown adults who haven't played this game at some point in their lives, lol. It's a great game to play in the car to pass the time! 
> 
> Also note Alistair's growth in confidence and laid-backness (not a word) in talking about more mature subjects. He'd never have been able to play this game six months ago, hahaha


	315. The Blighted Scout

Later that night, Flora was woken by the sound of muffled voices in the corridor. The royal bedchamber was dark, the hearth burnt down to cedar-scented embers; and for a moment she blinked, disorientated. Her burnt hands gave an insistent jolt of pain, which served to clear her sleep-muddled thoughts.

The timbre of the voices shifted, one rising in clear consternation through the wooden door.

Un-entangling herself from Alistair's arms, Flora sat up with some difficulty and tried to hear what the pair were actually  _saying._ The thickness of the stone walls and heavy door – built as a last line of defence against enemy assault – managed to obscure the majority of the words.

"…  _middle of the night... cannot disturb the lady… injured…"_

"…  _scout… information… Darkspawn…"_

Flora did not need to hear anything more. She nudged her snoring brother-warden, who was sprawled naked on his back beside her with his limbs tangled in the blankets.

"Alistair," she whispered, nudging him with an elbow.  _"Alistair."_

Alistair groaned, one hand reaching out for her drowsily.

"Mm, come here, baby."

He slid a hand around the curvature of her breast, cupping it as he drew her closer to him.

" _Alistair!"_ Flora hissed, channelling her best Wynne-like sternness as his fingers sought her nipple. "Alistair, LISTEN."

Detecting some measure of urgency in her tone, Alistair paused in his ministrations and listened to the muffled argument in the corridor.

"Can you hear what they're saying?"

Alistair shook his head, sitting upright and squinting through the gloom in the direction of the passageway. The next moment, there came a tense, apologetic rap on the door. Alistair hastily drew a fur over his naked sister-warden as the Royal Steward entered.

"My most sincere apologies, Your Highness, my lady," murmured Guillaume, the silver point of his beard quivering. "Go on then, deliver your message."

A man clad in the olive garb of a messenger bowed deeply, hands trembling. He risked a glance up, saw his future king sprawled yawning in bed alongside his naked Cousland mage-mistress, and looked hastily down again with cheeks flaring.

"A scout has returned from the wilds," the messenger muttered to his own boots, then yelped as the steward elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"You are addressing the prince!  _Speak up!"_

The messenger cleared his throat, attempting to inject some confidence into his voice.

"They think that he came across the Darkspawn and was bitten. He's… something's  _happening_ to him."

Flora's stomach gave a little lurch of trepidation, and she heard Alistair inhale sharply beside her. Both Wardens were only too familiar with the terrible consequences of a Blight-tainted injury on a mortal body.

_The corruption of the blood and flesh. The rot spreading in the mind._

_The exponential transformation into a monster._

"Maker's Breath," murmured Alistair, passing a regret-filled hand over his eyes. "How far gone is he?"

"When I left the camp, he weren't speaking the King's Tongue no more," muttered the messenger, eyes downcast. "But the General believes that he has information on the whereabouts of the horde.  _Had_ information, anyway."

Alistair let out a groan, glancing sideways at his sister-warden. Flora looked at him, her pale eyes wide and very solemn in the darkness. She had been initially confused at the messenger's mention of the  _General,_ then realised that he was referring to Leonas Bryland.

"If he's too far gone, I won't be able to draw out the taint," she whispered, pleating the blankets anxiously between her stiffened fingers. "If it's infected his heart. But I can try."

"Sweetheart, you're _still recovering._ Your hands…"

Yet Alistair's protest lacked vehemence; the young prince was miserably aware of how vital it was to glean any information about the horde's current whereabouts.

"I don't need my hands to heal."

Flora was already swinging her legs from the bed; causing both Guillaume and the messenger to hastily avert their eyes as she reached for the nearest item of clothing.

A short while later, both Wardens were waiting on the palace forecourt for horses to be brought out from the stables. Servants clutched lanterns and torches, sending dizzying beams of light scattering over the cobblestones. The moon was shrouded in cloud overhead, and the tangled trees of the hunting grounds seemed far more sinister than their daytime counterparts.

Both Guerrin brothers had joined the Wardens outside the palace. Eamon was still rumpled from sleep, his clothing hastily retrieved and donned. Teagan, conversely, seemed unhurried in appearance; the implication being that he had only just returned to his own quarters when the message arrived.

Alistair had managed to find a relatively clean tunic, a full day and night's worth of stubble coursing over his jaw. Despite the dark shadows blossoming beneath his eyes, the prince appeared to be fully alert. When the yawning stable-hand brought out a bay mare, Alistair lifted his sister-warden up onto the saddle before clambering up agilely behind her.

Flora, meanwhile, was trying to squash the trepidation in her stomach. It had been nearly two months since they had last encountered Darkspawn in the flesh; when their party had been attacked in the marshes on the way to Denerim. If it had not been for the slight rotten-sweet tinge of decay she occasionally felt on her tongue after kissing Alistair, she would have almost forgotten what the taint tasted like.

_I'm sorry, little creature,_ she thought gloomily to her own swollen abdomen, safely nestled beneath both nightshirt and woollen jumper.  _I hope you don't feel too sick because of this._

They rode down in silence through the palace grounds, past the sentries and down the wide boulevard of the noble district. The night was as still as a painting, the air clear and crisp. Nobody else was on the streets, and the great manor houses loomed up on either side like vast mausoleums. Teagan's horse shied as a rat scuttled across its path, but the bann was experienced enough to keep his seat in the saddle.

Flora could feel Alistair sitting rigid in the saddle behind her, tense as an amateur rider. She knew that the cause of his nerves was not being on horseback – Alistair was as comfortable in the saddle as he was on his own two feet – but the looming spectre of what they were about to face. She knew exactly what thoughts were running through his head:  _the information is vital. If the scout can tell us where the horde is, we'll be better prepared to meet them when they come. The information is worth it. It's worth the danger._

She reached out and put her bandaged hand gently over his, feeling the pressure as a sting in her palm. Alistair let out a soft grunt behind her, tightening his grip on her waist.

With the streets deserted, they made it through the city walls and down to the army encampment in record time. A dozing sentry shone a flaming torch in their faces, then quailed as he realised that he was face to face with a selection of Ferelden's most prominent nobility.

The camp was quiet, the majority of troops snoring away in a variety of sleeping accommodations. The dwarves and men preferred to sleep beneath canvas, in vast tents that each housed two dozen cots. The Dalish had retreated to their unique  _aravels;_ the land-ships silhouetted against the estuary as they clustered together on the riverbank. A distant red glow shone from the makeshift forges at the foot of the city wall, the smiths working deep into the night to craft weapons from the donated metal-work.

A woman clad in the pale yellow robes of a Circle healer came to meet them, her face pale and frightened.

"Follow me, please," she requested, speaking through the requisite bow. "He's been taken to a tent away from the main camp, so not to…  _alarm_ the others. General Bryland is there."

Dismounting, Alistair reached up to assist his sister-warden from the saddle as several grooms came rushing out to take their horses. They followed the healer through regimented rows of tents, aware of the need to be discreet.

"How is the man's condition?" requested Eamon in a low voice, deftly stepping over a guy rope.

"Deteriorating rapidly," murmured the Circle mage, a stiff tremor of fear thrumming through her words. "He is no longer able to make sense of his surroundings, and we've had to chain him up."

" _Chain_  him up?" repeated Alistair in disbelief. "Like a rabid Mabari?"

The woman shot the prince a quick, darting glance over her shoulder as she led them towards a discreet tent on the far edge of the encampment.

"He broke through the ropes."

Alistair reflexively reached out for his sister-warden's hand; then remembered her injuries and paused himself just before grabbing her fingers.

The closer they came to the tent, the louder the noises from behind the heavy canvas. There was the sound of anxious, murmured conversation, and a woman making a futile attempt to curb her sobs. Beneath the recognisable human voices, there came another odd noise; a low, strangled groaning. Every so often, there came a hoarse cough, which petered out into a growl.

Flora swallowed, deliberately tamping down her anxiety like she was pressing out fish oil in a barrel.

_I've done this before, lots of times. I can do it._

_**Unless?** _

_Unless the taint has taken hold too deeply. Unless he's turned._

The sentry posted outside the tent was clearly nervous, letting them through the canvas flap with trembling fingers. Eamon went inside first, followed by both Wardens. Teagan brought up the rear, his countenance grim.

The inside of the tent was dazzling compared to the shadowed gloom of the encampment. A dozen candles burned, throwing flickering light against the damp-stained canvas. Although the tent was long and rectangular in shape, the occupants – save for one – were gathered near the entrance.

Arl Leonas was there, jaw stiff and eyes alert within a careworn face. Despite the late hour, he was clad in full armour; apparently more comfortable in chainmail than in velvet. A middle-aged woman with a stained apron cringed to one side, her face made blotchy by spent tears. First Enchanter Irving was also there, a long dressing robe pulled on hastily over his own nightclothes, the ubiquitous staff in hand.

A single cot stood at the far end of the tent, a figure manacled to its wooden frame by wrists and ankles. They were clad in the remnants of a scout's leathers, the sleeves tattered and trailing. Every so often, the figure would convulse against the manacles and the chains would rattle; a guttural, scraping gasp escaping from his throat.

Yet despite the man's desperate appearance and inhuman gurgling, it was the  _smell_  that first seized their attention. The unmistakeable sweet-putrid rot of the taint hung in the air like a miasma, the odour coagulating at the back of the throat like a mouthful of mouldering meat. Both Flora and Alistair were accustomed to the scent of Blight, yet it was no less foul in its familiarity.

"Thank the Maker," Leonas murmured as he saw them, although his eyes were fixed on Flora. "The poor sod's condition worsens by the half-candle."

The woman, who was presumably the scout's wife, let out a choked sob and made an attempt to wipe frantically at her face with her apron.

"Can you help him?" Leonas continued, dark Bryland eyes fixed on their young healer.

"Maybe," Flora whispered, listening in mild alarm to the guttural snarls coming from the half-turned man. "If it's taken too deep, there's nothing I can do."

Alistair, worry pulling at the corners of his mouth, reached out to touch her elbow. Flora turned to face him and his stare met hers, hazel irises shadowed.

"Please, be careful," was all he said, despite the volumes of unspoken fears swelling on the tip of his tongue. Flora nodded, her gaze briefly sweeping past the thoughtful countenance of First Enchanter Irving.

"It's taken too deeply," the elderly mage murmured, all too familiar with the signs of growing corruption within the body. "Look at him."

Flora turned her eyes on the man chained to the bed. His face was sallow and sweating, and black veins of rot had formed beneath the papery skin; running down the length of his arms and curling up his neck. His mouth was wide open, tongue quivering helplessly as the foul miasma slowly pooled within his lungs. The ends of his convulsing fingers had begun to take on the greyish sheen of a Darkspawn thrall.

The woman saw the doubt flicker on Flora's face, and let out a little sob.

_Has the Blight taken too deep?_

_**Only one way to find out, child.** _

_What if he… turns… while I'm healing him? I don't know how well I can shield with my hands like this._

_**We are with you.** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: So this is tying up the loose end of all the scouts going missing, from several chapters ago. One has returned with information on the horde's whereabouts, but he suffered a tainted injury while escaping.
> 
> This was inspired by the opening of Dragon Age 2! You know, the bit when your character meets the ginger Templar (is she a Templar? Wait maybe not) and her husband escaping in Ferelden, and the man is Blighted?
> 
> Anyway, it's been a minute since Flo has had to heal someone so she needs the practise, haha


	316. I Claim This Man!

Flora inhaled deeply to calm herself, and took one tentative step across the matting. The Blighted scout stopped quivering, the rattling of his manacles falling silent. One desperate eyeball, covered with an oily scarlet sheen, rolled down towards her like a rabid Mabari, and Flora could not help but flinch.

_That's just like a Hurlock. Is there even anything left to save?_

_**You look into the eye of the Blight and quail? Come on, child. We raised you better than this.** _

Abashed, Flora lifted her chin and took another deep breath; feeling the golden energy blossom into existence within her lungs. She looked the man direct in his crimson eye, and saw both the devastation that the Blight had brought on her homeland, and the terrible death it had brought to so many helpless Fereldans.

_You want to wage war against me?_ she thought fiercely, feeling her own resolve harden.  _This man's body is just another battlefield. And you may have taken the early advantage, but my weapons are superior!_

Flora lifted her chin and strode forward across the rushes. The man let out a choked gurgle, and the sound had a distinctly raw and unformed edge. He began to shift against the metal fetters once more, as though testing the strength of the restraints. Beside the entrance, Leonas drew his sword in quiet readiness as Alistair gritted his teeth.

Flora could feel the energy rising in her throat even before she had reached the cot. In a single movement, she clambered up onto the narrow bed and straddled the man's hips; leaning forward to bring their faces closer together.

" _Don't_  bite me," she told the scout sternly, propping her weight on an elbow. "I need to focus."

Flora had been mending the sick and the diseased since she was six years old, and there was no putrescence produced by the human body that could dissuade her. The man's lips were slick with the greasy residue of the Blight, webbed with coagulated taint; and yet Flora pressed her mouth to his without hesitation.

_I claim this man,_ she thought fiercely at the corruption lurking within his twitching frame.  _You may have taken him temporarily, but I am going to lay siege to you! Come on: try and resist me!_

For all Flora's bravado, when she did inhale her first lungful of the advanced-stage taint, it almost made her vomit. As she recoiled, the aroma of rotting meat filled her mouth, and she felt her stomach give a rumble of protest. Her eyes began to stream at its unceasing foulness, and the tent walls blurred together into a mass of olive and tan canvas.

_It's too strong. I've never withdrawn taint this ingrained before. This is worse than the recruit at Ostagar. It's worse than the soldier with the arrow wound at Lothering._

_**You're not the same healer as you were then. You're stronger, too.** _

Just as Flora thought that she might actually  _be_  sick down her woollen jumper, she felt the golden energy surge upwards within her own belly; prickling almost painfully as it enveloped the taint. A moment later, her stomach settled with a small sigh of relief as her magic neutralised the Blight corruption.

_**See: we will help you.** _

Flora took a deep breath, and returned her mouth to the scout's oily lips.

_Inhale Blight, exhale._

Before long, Flora had lost all sense of time's passage. She had no idea whether the others were still in the tent – she assumed that they must be, but her senses had closed themselves off to the rest of the world. All that existed was the man beneath her, his body a battlefield upon which her own glimmering magic waged war against the taint. She had let her healer's gaze slip beneath the surface of his skin, just long enough to see the Blight tendrils entwined around his organs; and it was these vulnerable places that she directed her magic first.

_Inhale, exhale._

She was sick on several occasions. Afterwards, she would wipe her mouth impatiently with her sleeve and immediately return her attentions to her patient. There was no visible improvement to his condition that the others could see; yet Flora was not focusing on the external manifestation of his corruption, but on the polluted flesh below. The man himself lay stunned and silent, lulled into artificial rest through the natural anaesthetic properties of her magic.

_Inhale, exhale. Ouch, my tongue hurts. Is it swollen?_

_**Keep going.** _

For Flora, this one man had become a symbol for their entire cause. In her mind's eye, she could envision the great bat-like shape of the Archdemon wheeling in the sky above the tent; performing its own grotesque machinations to keep the taint running strong in the man's flesh. With increased determination, she pressed her mouth to the man's trembling lips, swallowing the urge to be sick once again.

_Inhale, exhale._

_I claim this man. Yield to me!_

_Owwww._

Shafts of sunlight began to penetrate through gaps in the canvas. Flora was oblivious to them, as she was to all measure of passing time. Her mouth was now sore, her lips aching and her throat irritated from the quantity of energy passing through it. Yet her own discomfort was laughably inconsequential, and she did not spare it a thought.

_Inhale, exhale._

Suddenly, there came a gasp from someone behind her, loud enough to break through Flora's haze of concentration. She blinked, her vision clearing, and then understood the cause of the onlooker's shock.

_When you heal a deep-seated disease,_ her spirits had taught her, a long time ago.  _Do not seek to heal its external manifestation. Look deeper, to its root, and mend it there first. Once you have eradicated the heart of the illness, the rest will follow._

The black veins of corruption on the man's limbs were fading, chased away by threads of iridescent light that ran beneath the skin like gilded water. Flora sat back and watched the golden energy surge in glorious abundance throughout the man's body, washing away the surface residue of the Blight like a purifying tide. It restored colour to the man's face and strength to his drained limbs; gleaming droplets drained out through his fingertips and vaporised before they could reach the canvas matting.

_Ha! I claim this man._

_**Good girl.** _

The scout opened his eyes and looked up at her, with a bewildered but unclouded gaze. Flora blinked down at him, suddenly too weary even to smile. The man's wife almost lost her balance; dizzy with relief, she clutched at Teagan's shoulder and let out a moan.

"Lady Cousland?" the scout whispered, his stare sliding past her to the men gathered at the tent entrance. "General Bryland, I've got some urgent information to relay to you on the whereabouts of the horde. Wait, why am I chained up?"

The man frowned in confusion, and Flora reached down to touch the back of her hand to his head, very lightly.

When she went to speak, however, nothing came out but a hoarse croak. In slight disbelief, she realised that - akin to her burnt palms - her own channelled energy had scorched the inside of her throat. She swallowed, and flinched at the resulting pain.

Then the others came hurrying forward, Arl Bryland wielding the key to the manacles and the man's grateful wife dropping to her knees beside her husband. First Enchanter Irving, his eyes wide with shock, was whispering urgently to Eamon; making the occasional astounded gesture towards the girl who had been so overlooked at the Circle.

A dizzy Flora felt a strong arm wrapping around her waist, lifting her off the cot and keeping her upright. Alistair gazed down at his sister-warden, face alight with a fierce, burning wonder.

"Sweet Maker," he breathed, eyes searching her weary countenance. "I'm  _so_  proud of you, Flo. Here, have something to drink."

Alistair went to pass Flora his water flask, then both realised that her hands were still incapacitated. Instead, he lifted the neck to his best friend's lips and tilted it gently.

Even a thin trickle of water was painful to ingest, the throat contortions caused by swallowing only provoking the aggravated flesh further. Flora blinked and gazed sadly down at her feet; exhausted, in pain and miserably aware that she had been sick down her shirt.

Alistair put an arm around her waist, head swivelling. Leonas, who had just unfastened the scout's manacles, returned to the Wardens and cleared his throat.

"There's no need for you to return to the palace tonight – wait, this  _morning_ ," he amended, as the joyful, relieved sobbing of wife reunited with husband echoed in the background. "Stay in my tent. It's the least I can do, child."

The arl's voice softened slightly, though retaining its customary gruffness.

"I wish that Bryce could see what his daughter is capable of," Leonas muttered, putting a brief hand on Flora's shoulder. "Well done."

Flora almost wished that the arl had  _not_ made such comment about her father; ever since the creature had wedged itself more firmly into the lining of her belly, she found it increasingly hard to control her emotions. She felt tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, and blinked them back fiercely.

" _Thanks,"_  she croaked, the word emerging scraped and raw.

"Leonas' tent is nearby," murmured Teagan, issuing a quiet instruction to a hovering retainer. "I'll show you."

Alistair, an arm around his stumbling sister-warden's waist, guided her carefully towards the tent entrance. First Enchanter Irving made as though to halt them, then reconsidered on seeing the hard resolution on Alistair's face.

Teagan led them from the tent, and past a makeshift stables. The sun had finished broaching the horizon, the peachy apricot of dawn slowly giving way to streaks of clouded blue. The encampment was just beginning to rouse itself; a low rustle of activity filling the air.

Fortunately, nobody else stepped forward to impede their journey. Teagan wound his way between the tents, glancing over his shoulder occasionally to check that they were keeping up. Flora, not wanting anyone in the camp to see her being carried like a sack of potatoes, had insisted on staying on her own unsteady feet. The Royal Guard – Alistair's perpetual shadow – followed at a discreet distance.

Arl Bryland's tent was unassuming and drab, its increased size the only indication of the owner's lofty station. Just like the décor of Leonas' seat at South Reach, the interior of the tent was purely utilitarian. A smaller version of the map table from the main command tent stood in one corner, while a narrow pallet bunk rested against the opposite wall. A suit of steel armour - desperately in need of a polishing cloth - was arranged on a stand, but the arl's great-sword was propped carelessly against a dresser.

The canvas was thick enough to obscure both noise and daylight from the surrounding encampment; several candelabras were positioned on flat surfaces to provide some small illumination. Teagan let the entrance flap drop behind him, turning to face the Wardens as they stood together on the rush matting.

"I've called for water to be brought up," he said quietly, eyes moving from the exhausted Flora to her grim-faced brother-warden. "Once you've rested – and make sure you get  _sufficient_ rest, poppet- "

Teagan paused, shooting Flora a significant look. "Well, we'll let you know what news the scout has for us. Well done."

"Hopefully that the horde has turned west and travelled across the border to Orlais," murmured Alistair, trying to inject some levity into his tone to make his sister-warden laugh.

Flora could not see the humour in the continued existence of the Blight, even in the domain of Ferelden's arch-rival. Still, she appreciated Alistair's attempt to cheer her up, and flashed him a weak smile in return.

"They'd turn back," she croaked, the words emerging thin and hollow from her constricted throat.  _"Orlesian-fashion-too-scary."_

The effort of getting these short sentences out caused Flora's tongue to burn, and she closed her mouth. Alistair tightened his grip around her waist, pressing fierce, affectionate lips to the top of her head.

Two servants arrived shortly afterwards, carrying a full copper bathtub between them. Water sloshed over its rim as they manhandled it to the matting; grimacing, they waited for a reprimand, but neither Teagan, Alistair nor Flora cared about water spilt on the rushes.

"Do you want anyone to help you with bathing?" Teagan asked quietly, his eyes settling on the yawning Flora once again. "I can call one of the women."

Flora shook her head, glancing towards Alistair with a mournful expression.

" _I'm_  helping," Alistair replied without hesitation, surprised that Teagan had even needed to ask."Flo is my sister-warden. We look after each other; we _always_  have."

She smiled at him, and then stopped abruptly as the motion put more pressure on her painful lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Oops so now Flora has non-functional hands and a non-functional mouth, lol. At least they'll find out how far away the horde is now!
> 
> I do love a good healing scene, haha!


	317. The Whereabouts Of The Horde

Once Teagan had taken his leave and the Royal Guard had been banished to the outside of the tent, Alistair helped to remove his sister-warden's stained woollen jumper and sweaty nightshirt. Flora stood unclothed beside the bathtub, miserably aware of her own physical deficiency – especially compared to her brother-warden's insurmountable muscle-hewn bulk. The strapping had loosened around her weak knee, bandages trailed from both palms; and her tongue was now too swollen for her to speak. Fortunately, her companion seemed too preoccupied with Flora's self-inflicted injuries to notice the undeniable swell of her abdomen.

Alistair, aware that she was feeling forlorn, did his best to cheer her up. After manoeuvring Flora carefully into the bathtub, he scrubbed ineffectually at her hair with the bar of soap whilst simultaneously chattering away.

"I saw that Surana earlier," he told her, sliding a foam-covered hand inexpertly across her collarbone. "Asked about your brother – Finian, not Fergus. Seems like he just wants a Cousland shaped notch on his bedpost, eh?"

Flora let out a nondescript grunt; one of the only sounds that she was able to make without moving her lips. Alistair splashed some soapy water across her breasts, then coughed and looked slightly embarrassed.

"Ignore that," he muttered, as Flora's eyes dropped downwards. "Sorry _._ I'm trying not to notice how bloody gorgeous you are."

Since it hurt too much to smile, Flora blew a soap foam bubble at her brother-warden; the filmy liquid splattering across his handsome, stubbled jaw. Alistair grinned at her, kneeling forward to press his lips against her wet cheek. Reaching forward, he swivelled his mother's Chantry locket around Flora's neck until it rested against the hollow of her throat.

"I promise to stay on this side of the bathtub," he murmured, referencing the multiple occasions when they had ended up in the water together.

After bathing, Alistair went rummaging through Arl Bryland's dresser; finally managing to locate a plain linen nightshirt. Tying fresh bandages around Flora's palms before tightening the strapping around her knee, he assisted her across the rushes to the narrow pallet bed.

"Unlike Surana, Leonas is clearly planning on no distractions during his time in camp," Alistair murmured, pulling back the blanket. "Sweetheart, you lie down. I'll sleep on the floor."

Flora shook her head plaintively, reaching impotent hands towards him.

Alistair ended up lying on the narrow bed, with Flora sprawled on his chest. He ran his palm up and down her back, rubbing from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine; comforted by the solid warmth of her body. Despite her smaller proportions, his sister-warden had never felt  _fragile_ – she had always seemed to be sturdy and robust. The limp fingers curled against the pallet mattress were small, but hid a deceptive strength.

"I love you," he murmured against the top of her head. "So much, Lo. Is there anything else that I can do to make you feel better?"

It was fortunate that Flora could not think of anything, for it was doubtful that she could properly enunciate it through her swollen and sore mouth. She let out a grunt in the negative, resting her cheek against his collarbone and yawning.

Alistair stayed awake for as long as he was able, listening to the soft breathing of his sister-warden. Reassured by her steady, even heartbeat against his chest; he finally let his own eyes drift close. The noise of the encampment faded into the background as he joined her in sleep, arms wound around her waist in a substitute for the customary  _fish-rope._

"I'm the luckiest man in Thedas," he whispered in her ear, one calloused thumb absentmindedly tracing the outline of the freckled  _Peraquialus_ across her shoulder-blades. "I know at least five people who would give anything to be where I am right now."

Flora pressed an affectionate cheek against his chest, tongue too swollen to speak coherently.

"'O," she denied in a croak and Alistair smiled to himself, stroking the back of her head.

" _Yes,"_ he countered, gently. "My love. Are you sure there's nothing I can get you?"

Flora gave a little head shake, and Alistair nodded, leaning back against the pillows.

"Maker's Breath," he commented, wryly. "Leonas favours a firm mattress. This is like lying on a  _rock."_

Fortunately, neither Archdemon nor ill-intentioned denizens of the Fade troubled Flora for the duration of her nap; the spirits ensuring her an uninterrupted rest. The Royal Guard stationed outside the tent kept nearby noise to a minimum, instructing passers-by to keep a wide berth. The encampment hummed with nervous anticipation; the news that a scout had returned bearing fresh details on the enemy had spread like wildfire.

The Wardens woke at midday, simultaneously startled from sleep by a servant dropping a tray of empty flagons. The silverware went rolling across the rush matting and the servant cringed in terror, clearly expecting a furious reprimand from the bed.

However, both Flora and Alistair had spent much of their adolescence sleeping in dormitories, where abrupt awakenings were not uncommon. Alistair yawned, stretching one arm above his head while keeping the other curled around his sister-warden's back.

"A thousand apologies, Your Highness," bleated the servant, frantically scuttling to collect the scattered silverware while bowing repeatedly. "Please, forgive me."

"No harm done," replied Alistair amiably as Flora slithered off him, sitting on the edge of the mattress. "How are your hands today, my dear?"

Flora turned to face him, trying to move her mouth as little as possible. The junctures of her mouth were red and sore, lips swollen as though they had been stung by an insect. When Alistair unwrapped the bandages, the angry scarlet burns on her palms had faded to a deep pink; the new flesh taut and shiny.

"You heal quickly," he observed and Flora nodded, accustomed to the natural rejuvenative properties of her own body.

Since neither Warden had brought any spare clothes, they had to rummage through Arl Bryland's own dresser to find some suitable garb for the day. Alistair had borrowed Leonas' clothing on several occasions during their stay at South Reach. The two men had the same muscular frame, but Bryland stood several inches shorter.

Flora, meanwhile, had grown up clad in hand-me-downs from the older boys in Herring – skirts and dresses would have been utterly impractical for the work she undertook daily. Her Herring-father had raised Flora to perform all the tasks that he would expect from a son, and she had dutifully complied with his every instruction. Trousers and tunics were far more practical for hauling in nets and tarring boat-hulls than were dresses.

Therefore, she had no issue with pilfering Leonas' clothing, lifting her arms to allow Alistair to pull an ochre tunic over her head. The sleeves fell down to cover her bandaged hands, and the hemline reached almost to her knees. Her brother-warden loaned Flora his belt to save her from embarrassment with the overlarge breeches.

There followed several stressful minutes where Alistair attempted to wrestle her hair into submission, a chore which Leliana had performed the previous morning. At first, he attempted an ambitious braid; soon after, Flora poked him to cease merely tying her hair into knots.

Alistair then tried to pull her hair into a simple ponytail, only to constantly lose his grip on the thick ropes of scarlet, letting them fall around her ears. Flora sat there patiently, injured hands limp in her lap, as he cursed and muttered above her head.

"This is impossible. How do you do this every day?"

"Good: you're up at last. What's going on here?"

Wynne's curious voice drifted from the tent entrance. The senior enchanter was impeccably clad in maroon robes, and not a single hair dared to escape the silvered braid wound around her head.

"I'm wrestling this into submission," clarified Alistair, holding up two thick ropes of his sister-warden's hair. "Or  _trying_  to."

Wynne clicked her tongue chidingly, striding forward with a determined expression scrawled across her lined features. Plucking the leather tie from Alistair's fingers, she expertly wound Flora's hair into an eye-wateringly tight bun.

"Right, let's go."

Leonas Bryland, the Guerrin brothers, Finian and the respective leaders of each army were gathered in the main command tent. They stood clustered about the map table, conversing in low tones. When the sentry posted at the tent entrance announced the arrival of the Wardens, they broke apart hastily; those who owed fealty to Alistair dutifully inclining their heads.

"Alistair, Florence. Come and join us," Eamon instructed, stepping to one side to make room for them at the map table.

A new swathe of parchment had been stretched out over the polished surface, the curling yellow marked with meticulous legends. It appeared to be a map of north-eastern Ferelden, with the Brecilian Forest in the south and the arling of Amaranthine in the north. Four black counters – representing the dwarves, elves, Circle and Royal armies – were placed before Denerim.

A single counter had been placed midway on the West Road, just below South Reach. Both Alistair and Flora found themselves staring at the small scarlet disc, knowing instinctively what it meant.

"They've been using the old tunnels," Aeducan explained in a quiet voice, tracing out the invisible lines on the map with a thick finger. "The Deep Roads in the eastern part of Ferelden are ill-maintained and partially collapsed, so I imagine the going has been slow."

"But they have emerged on the surface temporarily to – gather supplies," Eamon murmured; and his vagueness was not enough to disguise the true meaning of the words.

_They come up to the surface to feed, and to lay waste to everything about them._

"At the current rate of movement, I'd estimate that they were no more than a fortnight away," the dwarven commander continued; a soldier who was most experienced in the movement patterns of Darkspawn.

Flora and Alistair shared a glance, each one feeling their heart beating a little more rapidly against their chest.

"A fortnight," Alistair repeated, jaw set. "Fergus will have returned with the last thousand men from Highever before then. How are the defences progressing? The reinforcement of the city wall?"

The dwarven commander began to elaborate on the near-completion of the earthworks. Alistair listened, nodding occasionally; too preoccupied even to be distracted by the presence of Telathin Surana. The arcane warrior, standing at Irving's side, had smiled widely at Flora as the Wardens entered.

Flora was also unaware of the dark-haired elf's attention, her gaze swivelling to Leonas. The newly appointed general was listening to all that was being discussed, a shadow settled across his weary features.

With the Wardens briefed, those present began to take their leave; Surana returning to the mages, Aeducan to his engineers and Mahariel to her scouts. Alistair remained at the map table, eyes hard and blazing as they fixated on the small red counter lying innocuously on the parchment.

Flora had sidled over to Leonas, who was still standing silently to one side. Her usual methods of comfort – touch and speech- were unavailable to her, so she put her arm through his instead. When the Arl of South Reach blinked down at her, she tried to channel as much sympathy into her wide, pale gaze as she could.

Leonas let out an imperceptible sigh, his eyes returning once more to the small inked legend of  _South Reach_ ; a hair to the north of the ominous red counter.

"Most people have been evacuated," he muttered, eyes dim and faded. "But there are always a few who refuse to leave."

Flora swallowed, the gesture painful against her throat.

"Sorry," she mouthed, a ghost of the word emerging from between her sore lips.

Leonas shook his head minutely. The pain of losing his ancestral seat was carved visibly across his features; it had aged him a decade overnight.

"It's a shame, lass," he murmured, patting her awkwardly on the elbow. "All the work you put into restoring my wife's flower arbour, for naught."

Flora, who was envisioning the horde swarming through the steep, narrow streets towards the castle, gave an involuntary shiver.

"But I can't worry about one town," Leonas continued roughly, eyes moving across the rest of the map. "I have the whole of  _Ferelden_  to be concerned with."

There was a pause, the arl's face set taut and sad. Flora pressed her wrist against Leonas' arm, hoping that the gesture would convey some measure of her sympathy.

Leonas glanced down at his dead friend's daughter and sighed imperceptibly, putting a hand on Flora's elbow in a paternal gesture.

"Buildings can be rebuilt. Fields re-sown. Most of South Reach's people are within Denerim now. I hope that at least some of them will return if we-  _after_ we end the Blight."

Flora nodded earnestly, nudging her elbow against his arm once again.

Alistair turned away from Eamon, having just put his signature to a dozen official documents. He strode across the rush matting, face shadowed with regret as he glanced at the small, damning crimson counter.

"I swear, Leonas," he murmured, gripping the arl by the elbows. "Once this is dealt with, I'll personally assist with the restoration of your seat. I'll make it a priority, on the Maker's Sword. You've been good to Flora and I."

Leonas inclined his head, with a gruff grunt of gratitude. Flora tried her best to communicate her approval through peering solemnly at her brother-warden; he knew her face well enough to read its nonverbal intonation perfectly.

Eamon called Leonas over and the two men began to converse in low tones, making the occasional gesture towards the map table. Alistair gazed down at his slight sister-warden, smiling reflexively at her familiar pensive expression.

"I'm not needed until briefing this evening. What would you like to do, sweetheart?"

Flora nudged him with her elbow, then pointed at her stomach with her best plaintive expression.

"Good idea, my dear," Alistair replied, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Let's go and break our fast."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Oh noooo, South Reach is in the process of being destroyed! That's actually taken from game- although you never visit South Reach, it's mentioned on the wiki that it falls to the Darkspawn. It's actually quite sad, I spent a lot of chapters there, haha


	318. Drown Your Sorrows

Unfortunately, when the Wardens reached the encampment mess area, Flora was faced with the terrible reality that she might not even be able to  _eat_. Her tongue was swollen and numb, and her lips too painful to part fully. Her own magic had now not only incapacitated her hands, but her mouth as well.

The cooks had sprung to attention with Alistair's arrival, rushing to organise cooking pots and breakfast supplies. Within a half-candle, the smell of eggs and roasting sausage drifted across the mess area. Alistair was practically salivating as the proud cooks finally bore their trays over to the table.

"This looks delicious, thank you. Don't worry, Flo, I'll hold your fork."

Flora shook her head, a look of horror dawning as she sat on the bench beside him.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Alistair asked in alarm, bemused by the sudden sheen of tears in his sister-warden's eyes.

She waved her limp hand before her mouth, anxiously. Alistair gaped at her for a moment, truth dawning. He gazed down at the plate of eggs, unsure how to proceed.

"Let's try cutting this up into tiny little pieces," he said after a pause, using his fork to scramble the eggs. "You have to eat, lovely."

Eventually, once he had reduced the eggs to a formless mush, Flora was able to ingest them between slightly-parted lips. Alistair was as good as his word, only raising his own fork to his mouth once she had taken a swallow.

"Right," he muttered, as soon they had finished. "It's up to you, my dear, but I'm half-inclined to go back up to the palace. I don't want rumours to spread around the troops that you've been injured."

Flora nodded glumly, seeing the rationale behind his suggestion.

Just as they were about to depart for the stables, Irving materialised from a nearby tent. Despite violet bruises shadowed in the hollows of his cheeks, the First Enchanter's eyes were bright and curious.

"If I may have a moment of your time," he murmured, bowing his head respectfully towards Alistair even as his eyes settled on Flora.

They sat back down at the mess table, servants darting forward discreetly to remove the empty plates and bowls.

"May I see?" Irving enquired quietly, gesturing down at Flora's bandaged hands. After she nodded, the First Enchanter reached out and gently unwrapped one of the linen strips; revealing the tender pink flesh below. He lifted the exposed palm by her wrist, eyeing the arcane burn thoughtfully.

"And you  _can't_  heal this?"

The gloomy Flora shook her head; his tone eerily reminiscent of her old Circle instructors.  _You must be able to light this candle,_ they'd said, incredulous.  _Just focus and you'll do it. Children years younger than you are capable of such._ Flora had focused until she was blue in the face, yet her wick remained stubbornly bare while those belonging to her classmates flared into brilliant life around her. Inevitably, these lessons ended up with Flora banished to a lower corridor with mop and bucket, and instructions not to leave until each flagstone was gleaming.

_The Vase,_ muttered her classmates as she'd left the room, head hanging.  _Nice to look at, but nothing of value inside._

_Might as well make her Tranquil. She's good at chores._

"Hm," replied Irving, gently releasing her wrist and leaning forward to eye the swollen redness of her mouth. "Fascinating."

Flora did not think that her self-inflicted injuries were fascinating at all. She still felt slightly uncomfortable in the presence of the man who had lurked in the periphery of her life for the four strange years she had spent at the Circle. Sensing Flora's discomfort, Alistair placed his hand surreptitiously on her thigh beneath the table, giving it a quick, reassuring squeeze.

"Anyway, it appears that your shield is able to well withstand  _percussive_  force," continued the First Enchanter, pale eyes settling on hers. "Based on your encounter with the siege weaponry. It would be logical to next test its resistance to  _elemental_  magic."

Flora looked down at her lap, not quickly enough to hide the trepidation flashing across her face. Alistair, who knew that his sister-warden was not able to physically speak up for herself, leapt to her defence.

"Now, hang on a minute," he interjected, indignantly. "All this testing seems to be coming a little too late, don't you think? It's not Flora's fault that nobody spotted her talent while she was in the Circle. If she hadn't been made to  _sweep floors_ for years, you could've established the strength of her shield a long time ago."

Flora nudged her knee gratefully against his, and Alistair continued, impassioned.

"She's already hurt her hands  _and_  her mouth. I don't want her to injure herself any more, with the horde only weeks away."

Irving inclined his head respectfully, letting a calculated pause echo in the air between them.

"Then why not use your staff to channel the energy?" he suggested, with customary thoughtfulness. "I notice you barely seem to use it, but it would take less of a toll on your hands."

Flora blinked: her staff had barely seen the light of day since they had first arrived in Denerim. It had been tucked first beneath the bed in the Pearl, and then rested against a suit of arms within Eamon's estate. Currently, it was back beneath a larger and more impressive bed in the Royal chamber.

"It would be a useful thing to establish what kind of  _temperature_ your shield is capable of resisting, "insisted Irving, pressing the advantage. "Especially if the Darkspawn commander has taken the form of a  _dragon."_

Both Alistair and Flora flinched, recalling the vast, scaled creature that had carved an arc in the sulphuric air above their heads, amidst the foul miasma of the Deep Roads.

With the unwelcome memory of the Archdemon at the forefront of her mind, Flora gave a small nod, her soft, grey eyes catching the First Enchanter's attention.

"Alright," murmured Irving, inclining his head. "We'll wait a few days, then. Give your wounds more time to heal. Thank you, Flora.  _Your Highness."_

Alistair let out a grunt, giving his sister-warden's knee another small squeeze.

"So, my love," he said, kissing her squarely on the cheek. "I'm just going to make one more  _smile-and-wave_  circuit around the main part of the camp; then we can go back up to the castle."

Flora nodded again, trying to communicate her appreciation as best she could through her eyes.

By the time that they made it back up to the Royal Palace, the sun was just beginning to set behind the hills of the western Bannorn. Ochre light flooded the city of Denerim, lending an odd beauty even to the back alleys and humbler dwellings. The limestone façade of the castle glowed as though it was being warmed by some vast unseen campfire; the soft light of sunset blurring the brutality of its fortress-like design.

With his usual uncanny ability to predict their imminent arrival, Guillaume greeted them both within the main entrance hall. The hearths had been piled high with fresh cedar-wood, the fresh scent mingling with sun-warmed air streaming through the high windows.

"Would you like some food brought up to your chamber?" the steward enquired discreetly, and Alistair gave a little nod.

"Could you bring vegetable stew, for Flo?" he requested, recalling the difficulty that she had had with the eggs earlier. "And something strong and _alcoholic_  for me."

Flora peered disapprovingly at her brother-warden from the tail of her eye; Alistair noticed and let out a little laugh.

"The Archdemon is going to be here in a fortnight," he murmured, sliding an arm around her waist. "I need a stiff drink."

They ran into Leliana and Zevran near the painting of the wounded  _halla._ The elf was demonstrating his feline balance, trotting up and down the narrow balustrade above the lower hallway.

"Do they teach you  _these_  skills as part of the great game in Orlais?" he enquired gleefully as Leliana snorted, watching with grudging admiration. "Is this part of a bard's training? It  _should_ be,  _cara._ What if you had to climb your way into someone's bedchamber?"

"A bard is trained to  _talk_ one's way into the bedchamber," Leliana retorted, smiling at the Wardens as they approached. "Without having to perform such unnatural contortions."

Alistair gawped at them both from several steps below, eyes wide.

"I need a  _drink,"_  he repeated to nobody in particular, heading off at renewed speed towards the royal bedchamber.

Leliana and Zevran blinked at Flora, who gave a shrug and followed in her brother-warden's wake.

"What's up with  _him, mi sirenita?"_ Zevran asked, hopping dexterously down from the balustrade. Both bard and rogue fell into step beside Flora, curious eyes settling on the prince's broad-shouldered back as he strode down the passage before them.

Flora waved her hands in place of a reply, receiving startled glances from both of her companions.

"Why can't you speak,  _carina?_ Oh," breathed Zevran, at last noticing the sore and swollen lips. "Has your mouth been used a little too  _enthusiastically,_  my Rialto lily?"

This was unusually explicit, even for the elf, and Leliana shot him a dirty look. Flora, who had not picked up on the lewdness of Zevran's comment, gave a grumpy little shrug. Unlike Alistair, she was not unduly concerned about the Archdemon's arrival in two weeks. With her northerner's practicality, Flora saw no point in desiring delay – their army was summoned, the city defences on the verge of completion – and now, she just wanted to get it all over with.

"Oh, of course," breathed Leliana, realisation dawning. "The scout with Blight-sickness. You healed him?"

Flora nodded as they passed into the royal bedchamber, flailing a limp hand towards her mouth. Alistair was already beside the dresser, pouring himself a flagon of Fereldan ale with a trembling hand.

Zevran clucked his tongue in disapproval, turning to face Flora while the servants discreetly closed the doors behind them.

"You need to be more cautious with this mouth,  _nena,"_ he instructed sternly, patting her cheek with deft, clever fingers. "It is a very lovely mouth, and should be taken care of."

Flora gazed at him, the corners of her lips twisting minutely upwards; the elf winked at her in return.

"Anyone else want a drink?" Alistair called, already immersed in his first flagon. "The Archdemon will be here with its army in two weeks, so you might as well take your pleasure now. It's going to be all business from tomorrow."

"Do you have wine?" enquired Leliana, spotting a bottle and heading across to the dresser. "Ooh, is that the vintage port from Nevarra? I've been  _wondering_ when you were going to open that!"

Ever courteous in his own humble, unassuming way, Alistair put down his drink to serve the lay-sister. Zevran let out a little cackle, scampering towards them with a gleeful look in his eyes.

"Are we getting  _drunk? Cara,_ such a shame that you cannot partake!"

Flora gave a disapproving sniff; full of the censoriousness of a sober man's daughter. Being physically incapable of experiencing the lightheaded brevity imparted by alcohol, she did not understand why it was so often used as a form of release.

The others eagerly crowded around the bottle, Zevran and Leliana exchanging stories of favoured vineyards in Antiva and Orlais respectively. The Nevarran wine was potent, strong enough to flush the cheeks and lend brightness to the eyes after a single glass.

Flora, who had managed to manhandle  _Exotic Fish of Thedas_ onto the bed before her with her elbows, shot her three companions increasingly disapproving looks as the evening went on. The contents of the bottle were rapidly diminishing, in converse to the volume of their laughter and conversation. After several ineffectual attempts to turn the pages with her teeth, she eventually gave up and went to join them beside the hearth.

Zevran was propped up against the fireplace at a distinctly lopsided angle, while Alistair slumped in an armchair with Leliana perched on its upholstered arm. The empty bottle of Neverran wine rested on the flagstones between them, alongside several overturned flagons.

"Lo," groaned Alistair, as Flora stooped to correct the upended silverware. "Come here, darling."

He reached out and pulled her onto his lap, drawing her close enough that Flora could inhale the alcoholic fumes on his breath. Despite her initial disapproval, she was gratified to see her brother-warden temporarily relieved of some of the worries he bore on a daily basis.

Alistair smiled hopefully at her and she gazed gravely back, prompting another groan.

"That face _… hic!"_  he breathed, running his thumb clumsily across her cheekbone. " _It'sh_ the fairest in Ferelden. Tell me I'm wrong!"

"You'll find no disagreement from these quarters," murmured Zevran, who could hold his drink better than the relatively inexperienced prince. "Lay-sister Leliana, do you not have a lecture to prepare for tomorrow's Chantry service?"

"I'm not delivering the sermon," retorted Leliana, stifling a hiccup. "And when was the last time  _you_  made your confession, Zevran? The Maker is always eager for His subjects to unburden themselves of their cares."

The elf grinned, pretending to count on his fingers as Alistair rubbed his stubbled face affectionately against Flora's neck.

"It's been two months since you encouraged me to recant in the South Reach Chantry. I've built up quite a liturgy of sins since then, I'm afraid. Can I make my confession to you?"

Both Flora and Alistair grimaced involuntarily at the mention of poor, doomed South Reach; neither of them wanting to envision the narrow, winding streets of the town overrun by Darkspawn. Each dealt with it in their own way: Alistair pressing his lips to Flora's wrist to feel the warmth of her pulse, while she thrust the thought firmly to the back of her mind.

"I'm not an  _ordained_  sister," replied Leliana, a flush blossoming on her cheeks. "You ought to speak to someone within the Chantry tomorrow."

"No, no, I feel the need to unburden myself. I've indulged in  _lusty_ thoughts," the elf continued, cackling. "Involving  _many_  different people."

"How  _unsurprising_ ," drawled Leliana, shifting her position slightly against the armchair and almost falling into the hearth.  _"Ooh!"_

The bard had once possessed the ability to hold her liquor with an iron resolve; but they had not partaken in much drinking for the duration of their travels, and her tolerance was not quite what it used to be.

"Let me help you,  _amor,"_ Zevran piped up hastily, abandoning his confession to assist Leliana to her feet. "I think we ought to lie down for a moment, hm?"

"With  _you? No,_ no… I've made that mistake  _far_ too often," mumbled Leliana, accepting the elf's arm as he steered her over towards the fur-covered bed.

Zevran plastered a wry smile across his face, a fraction too slow to disguise the preceding flicker of hurt. As Leliana sprawled down on the bed, he reached down to tuck the furs and blankets over her robe-clad body.

Meanwhile, Alistair was dozing with his face pressed against Flora's throat as she perched on his lap. The growing stubble on his jaw tickled her skin and she shifted her position, not wanting to hurt her mouth by laughing. This woke Alistair up with a grunt, bleary eyed and yawning.

"Oh," he groaned, seeing Zevran perch himself on the small three-legged stool beside the hearth. "Wha- what  _time ish_ it-? Wha's goin'  _on?"_

"An hour past the change in watch," Zevran replied, taking a long draw from Alistair's abandoned ale bottle. "And I was in the middle of confessing my sins."

Alistair grimaced, shifting slightly against the padded upholstery with a loose arm around Flora's waist.

"I  _needto_  make my…  _confesshion_ ," he said, the words running together and smeared with wine. "It'sh been  _too_ long. It's Sunday tomorrow – I ought to go to Chantry  _shervice."_

"I wonder if Leliana would count  _you_ as a mistake she needed to confess?" the elf replied with an unusual bout of melancholy, letting the bottle clatter back into the hearth.

"Eh?"

"If it had been you and she engaging in sporadic  _trysts_ throughout our journeying."

Alistair looked thoroughly confused, stifling a yawn against his hand.

"Me and Leliana? Huh?"

"But of course not, you are a  _prince,"_ continued Zevran, with one wry eyebrow rising. "And I just a mere elf with little worth save for what I can scrape for myself."

The kind-hearted Flora, who had overheard Leliana's comment, extended her arm. Carefully, she used the inside of her wrist to smooth down a stray wisp of blond hair against the elf's temple.

"That's the  _best_  kind of worth," she croaked hoarsely, deciding that the sentiment was worth the pain of expressing it.

Zevran lifted his dark Antivan eyes to bore hard into her own pale irises. Flora gazed back at him placidly, and then tried to stifle a yawn for fear of over-extending her mouth.

The Crow reached out in a mirror of her gesture, a wry smile twisting the corner of his lips as he brushed a thumb against her chin.

"Ah, I had better not overstep my bounds," he whispered, darting a quick little glance towards the dozing Alistair. "I would not want to suffer the wrath of an angry prince, though I admit, it  _is_ tempting. _"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: This is basically Flora's worst nightmare – not being able to EAT! This actually bothers her far more than the pain, lol.
> 
> She also would be no fun at a party with her scowling disapproval of alcohol, haha! That's just a legacy of her Herring upbringing, where the people are pretty Puritan in nature.


	319. Intoxicated

The bell for the second watch of the night rang distant in the royal corridor. Within the king's bedchamber Alistair yawned, leaning his head back against the armchair with a sloppy wave of the hand.

"If any other man put  _hish_ hand on Lo, I'd break every finger," he murmured drowsily, eyes half-closing. "But…"

There was an elongated pause, during which Flora lifted her gaze to the plasterwork thistles carved into the moulding of the ceiling. She began to count them inside her head, hoping to reach thirty without hesitation.

" _S_ _í?"_ breathed Zevran, the word tangling in his throat.

Alistair gave a sleepy shrug, peering down to see where the ale had gone.

"Don't know," he muttered, preoccupied with the whereabouts of the bottle. "Different with you, I s'pose. Despite the fact that you're the… most  _lecherous_ person I've ever met, I- I  _trusht_  you with her. Dunno  _why."_

"These are dangerous times,  _mi príncipe_ ," replied Zevran, quietly. "One needs all the friends they can get."

"And you're a  _good_  friend," Alistair insisted, leaning forward with a clumsy hand and patting the elf on the elbow. "Despite- despite being an  _ash-assh- asshshan-_ contract killer."

The prince's hand dropped away as his head settled against the side of the armchair, eyes closing. Flora was unable to stop herself from yawning widely, and then grimaced as the movement stung her sore lips. She nudged Alistair with her elbow impatiently, slithering off his knee and going to fetch her nightshirt. The striped flannel had been neatly folded on the cushion beside the snoring bard.

With some difficulty, Flora managed to slide her wrist through the material and carry it over to where her brother-warden was still slumped in the chair.

"Alright…  _shweetheart,"_ mumbled Alistair, eyes still half-closed. "Let'sh get… these clothes off you. One moment…  _hic!_ "

He reached out, fingers tugging clumsily at Flora's tunic. A button dropped to the hearth and she yelped in alarm; cringing as Alistair grabbed a fistful of material and yanked in what he believed to be the right direction. Zevran winced, peering up at the Wardens from where he was still perched on the small stool.

It turned out to  _not_ be the right direction. Flora ended up with one arm stuck above her head and the other at ninety degrees, the tunic caught over her face. She stood rigidly on the flagstones, too scared to move in case she fell into the hearth.

" _Shorry,_ Flor," mumbled Alistair, hiccupping and guilty-faced. " _Fingersh_ \- don't seem to be working quite… as they should be. Zev, help her?"

The elf rose silently to his feet. He stood only a handful of inches taller than Flora herself, though narrower-hipped and sinewy.

"Keep still,  _mi sirenita,"_ he murmured under his breath, reaching out to lift the oversized woollen tunic over her head. "There we go. Who does this belong to? Eamon? Teagan? Ah, Leonas."

Flora had shaken her head twice and then nodded, solemnly.

"This Nevarran stuff  _ish lethal_ ," complained Alistair, dragging a sweaty palm over his face and yawning. "I'mgoin' to- regret  _thish_ in the morning. Ah, well."

Now clad in a periwinkle-blue silk bodice and smalls – another donation from Leliana – Flora was conscious of her brother-warden's drowsy gaze. As nonchalantly as possible, she swivelled around so that she was facing Zevran, intent on hiding the distinct curve of her abdomen.

Expecting to see a leer plastered across the elf's face, Flora was startled to see what almost appeared to be  _trepidation_ brewing in Zevran's dark stare. His brow was furrowed ever-so-slightly, and there was a slight tremor in his hand as he reached towards the blue silk ribbon that held the bodice closed.

Flora took a step backwards, feeling irrationally guilty. Alistair barely noticed her stepping on his toe, letting out another hiccup.

" _Sorry,"_ she croaked, trying to convey apologies for her temporary incompetency.

The Crow immediately shook his head, frustration flickering across coal-black pupils as he reached out to stroke her cheek.

"No, no," he protested quietly, the words emerging through gritted teeth. "It is I,  _carina._ I don't know what's the matter with me; I have been unfastening bodices since I was but a lad. Come, let me."

In truth, Zevran knew full well the cause of his trembling hand and elevated heartbeat. Flora, who also had a vague notion as to the elf's nervousness, went pink and gazed anxiously at her feet.

Taking a deep breath and visibly girding himself, the elf reached out and began to work at the ribbons with deft fingers; loosening the bodice until it came apart with a quiet whisper of silk. Keeping his eyes fixed on her solemn face, Zevran stretched out an arm for the nightshirt. Alistair let out a loud snore within the armchair, his head tilted against the padded fabric.

Flora raised her arms dutifully, letting the elf slide the flannel garment over her head. Swallowing visibly, Zevran reached down and divested her first of smalls, and then of socks. When he returned upright, a faint sheen of sweat glimmered on his forehead.

" _Hm_ ," he murmured in a slightly strangled tone, then cleared his throat. "Did you notice I managed not to make a single lecherous comment? I hope you're impressed,  _mi florita."_

Nodding, a hopeful Flora flailed a limp hand hopefully towards her loose hair. Fortunately, the elf was used to restraining his own platinum locks, and it took only a few minutes for him to weave her hair into a thick fishtail braid. Alistair woke up partway through, made a slurred comment about how Zevran was far more skilled at  _that sort of thing_ , and then promptly fell back into ale-fuelled dozing.

"There we go,  _nena._ All ready for bed."

Flora leaned forward and pecked him gratefully on the cheek, a light brush of the lips that did not trouble her sore mouth. With an affectionate glance towards Alistair, she made towards the bed. Zevran exhaled unsteadily, watching her pad her way across the cold flagstones.

Leliana was sprawled across one side of the furs, somehow managing to appear elegant even in sleep. Flora tucked her legs beneath the blankets, sliding down against the cushions until she was prostrate. The bard mumbled something incoherent, turning her face into the pillow. Flora used her elbow to guide the blanket up over Leliana's bare shoulder, yawning. Fortunately, neither throbbing palms nor sore mouth were sufficient to ward off sleep; and within a few moments, she had slipped through the Veil and immersed herself in the strange dreamworld of the Fade.

The night meandered on, the constellations making slow, glittering arcs across the heavens as the moon hung low over the estuary. Ferelden's capital slept uneasily, as it had done for months; ever since the first refugees had arrived in the city with tales of  _monsters_  erupting from the earth. Somehow, the news of the horde being only a fortnight away had spread amongst the troops, and the encampment hummed with nervous tension.

Midway through the moon's leisurely stroll across the sky, Flora woke to warm, ale-tinged breath against her face. She yawned; blinking to clear the sleep from her eyes as the bedchamber slowly came into focus. A stream of filtered moonlight crept in through the gap in the curtains, cutting a swathe through the shadowed room. The hearth had died down to embers, but there was just enough light to espy a snoring Zevran sprawled in the nearby armchair. Leliana was nowhere to be seen, the blankets beside Flora rested crumpled and empty.

Yet Flora could only spare a moment to ponder the bard's whereabouts; her attention stolen by her desirous brother-warden. Alistair had crawled into bed beside her, resting the bulk of his weight on his elbows as he pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat. He smelt like ale and soap, with the distinctive male undercurrent that Flora had come to know so well.

Flora gazed up at the simple, alcohol-tinged adoration in her brother-warden's eyes, bright enough to warm the chiselled planes and angles of his deceptively arrogant face. Feeling a swell of affection in her belly, she reached up to place her bandaged palm against his cheek; the wound now healed enough to allow this gentle pressure. Alistair continued to stare intently at her, his pupils wide and black with lust; Flora slid her fingers further back to feel the thick, corded muscle of his shoulder blades.

_Can we lie together even with my mouth and hands not working properly? Hmm, doubt it._

Just then, her brother-warden let out a loud snore and rolled over, turning his back on her and clutching a pillow. Flora snorted to herself, adjusting the blankets over them both.

"Not tonight then, it seems _,"_  murmured Zevran from across the room, a wistful smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Sweet dreams,  _nena_."

"'Night 'night," she whispered back, letting her eyelids sink. "Don't let the weever fish bite."

Sunday morning dawned bright and clear, the gulls singing their clarion call as they swooped around the crenelated towers of the Royal Palace. The estuary waters were devoid of ships, save for one determined vessel carrying yet another boatload of refugees away from a city and country that most now perceived to be doomed. The Chantry bells rang throughout the waterways and squares of Denerim; an imperative, demanding summons that only added to the growing tension within the city. The city folk now oscillated between fear and resignation, many spending all night in the tavern and then stumbling to their local chapels in time for morning prayers.

In such troubled times, people looked to their leaders for calm and temperance. Thus, Eamon had decided that Alistair should attend the service in the Grand Chantry, riding through the streets on horseback and serving to reassure the fretful crowd.

Unfortunately, their prince had woken rather the worse for wear. The sunlight from briskly parted curtains tattooed itself on the inside of Alistair's eyelids; he let out a groan and raised an arm to his face.

"Maker's Breath," he wheezed, opening a single eye to peer blearily across the bedchamber. "I feel like death warmed up."

Zevran, in fresh leathers and with white-blond hair streaming impeccably down his back, was perched beside the window.

"Morning, my prince," he chirped brightly, the material of the curtain still clenched in his hand. "Behold, the fearful aftermath of a Nevarran wine hangover. How is the head?"

Alistair groaned, pushing himself feebly upright. The chamber swirled momentarily around him and he fought back a sudden swell of nausea.

"Feels like a pair of dwarfs are going at it hammer and tongs inside my skull," he replied bluntly, furred tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. "Where's Flo?"

"Here," Flora replied, making no effort to keep the disapproval from her voice.

She made her way towards her brother-warden, clutching a tankard in one hand and an apple in the other. Despite both of Flora's palms still being bandaged, they had clearly healed sufficient to allow her some grasp. Her voice, too, sounded almost back to normal; any residual hoarseness hard to distinguish from her usual northern dialect.

"Lo," breathed Alistair, eyeing her blearily up and down. His sister-warden was freshly bathed, bare-legged and booted in a knee-length navy tunic, with hair tied back in a matching ribbon. "You look beautiful. I feel  _horrible."_

Flora, who had been raised amidst defiantly teetotal fishermen, shot her brother-warden a little  _I told you so_ look. Sitting down on the bed, she handed him the flagon.

"Here," she whispered, considerate of his throbbing head. "It's water. And an apple to clean your teeth."

Alistair took several long gulps, emerging from behind the flagon slightly more human in appearance. He then drew a long and unsteady inhalation, eyes swivelling around the chamber.

"I'm  _never_ drinking again," he announced to both Flora and the grinning elf. "What happened last night? Wasn't Leliana here at one point?"

Zevran sauntered across the chamber towards the fruit bowl, plucking up a bunch of grapes between deft fingers.

"You drank an entire bottle of Nevarran wine," he announced, barely able to hide the glee from his voice. "And then asked me to undress your sister-warden, since your fingers were  _far_ too unsteady."

" I  _did?!"_ breathed Alistair, grimacing down at Flora as she sat on the mattress beside him. "Sorry, sweetheart."

Flora looked supremely unbothered; as one raised first in a tiny village and then in a cloistered tower, privacy was an unknown concept to her.

"Did the water help?" she asked, reaching down to tighten the leather strapping around her knee. "Arl Eamon says that we're leaving for the Chantry soon."

Alistair let out another desolate grunt, appearing slightly green about the gills.

"I feel about two hundred years old," he breathed hoarsely, twisting his head to take in the leather and fur-edged ensemble laid out before the dresser. "Flo, I'm going to take a vow of abstinence, like the people of Herring."

"They don't take a vow of abstinence," replied Flora solemnly, taking him at his word. "But a  _drunk_ fisherman is a  _drowned_ fisherman."

Alistair lowered his head to his hands, letting out a muffled groan. Flora felt sorry enough for her dejected brother-warden that she reached out, lifting his chin with her fingers before pressing her lips to his.

Her mouth was still somewhat swollen, the passing of rejuvenative energy stinging her tongue as it rose from her throat. Alistair exhaled unsteadily, lifting a hand to cup her cheek as he felt vigour pass through the channels of his body. At some point, the  _cure_  turned into a  _kiss_  and his fingers went to tangle in her hair.

Finally the prince withdrew from Flora, eyes bright and some colour returned to his formerly sallow cheeks. She touched her fingertips to her mouth, checking that the expenditure of energy had not aggravated her healing lips.

"Thank you, darling," Alistair murmured, the throbbing blessedly gone from the inside of his skull. "The love of my life."

He leaned forward and kissed Flora gently on the cheek. She blushed, gazing down at her lap with sudden shyness.

Infused with new vigour, Alistair strode around the room to retrieve his clothing. At the last moment he retrieved the golden coronet and placed it on his head, startled at how light it felt after weeks of wear.

"Right," he said briskly, lifting his chin as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. "Ready to go?"

Flora's curious face appeared alongside Alistair's own, eyeing his stubbled jaw.

"Are you growing your beard out to look more mature?" she asked, reaching up to run a finger over the fresh growth.

Alistair nodded, adjusting the angle of the coronet slightly as it rested on his skull.

"All the other nobles seem to sport  _authoritative facial hair,"_  he explained, as the clean-shaven Zevran let out a snort. "Eamon, Fergus, Arl Bryland. The Landsmeet was a  _sea_ of beards and moustaches, did you not notice?"

Flora beamed, delighted at the mental image of a  _sea of beards._

"I wish _I_  could grow a beard and look older," she replied, wistfully. "Sten asked me if I was twelve the other day, and I don't think he was joking."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Author Note: Lol poor Zevran! I love him as a character - not even because of the sexy Antonio Banderos thing, but because of how much he sticks up for the underdog.
> 
> I liked this chapter, it was a lot of fun to write. It's pretty much the last light-hearted chapter for a while, haha. Riordan's got some bad news for the Wardens that he's going to share after the Chantry service...

**Author's Note:**

> Cover art by SlayersAngel on tumblr. Thank you for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Poor, Lost Lothering - a Dragon Age: Origins poem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16544147) by [NintendoWiierdo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NintendoWiierdo/pseuds/NintendoWiierdo)




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